… the dog at the heart of all 1950s erotica.
“nasty boys/ don’t mean a thing …”
— Janet Jackson (1986)
I love how “pervert” is still genderless,
and how anyone can play. Other’s porn
seldom is open-minded. Who’d say “yes”
to things that they’re not hard wired for? You scorn
so much and still claim to be broad-minded.
Curious. I’ve smoked Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.
finger-fucked Sexton in her sad bed, slid
my tongue over Lorca’s cock. Rumi’s ass
hung like the moon. Shams’ too. Still, you can’t guess
who I am with the word “pervert.” Riddle
me this: why are you so frigid-rigid
with all your desires? You who profess
to be nasty? You say that you’re lustful …
but you won’t touch me, bite me, drink my blood.
your husband’s tombstone
between all the weeds I steal
our very first kiss
before dawn: nightfall
and my dead lover’s cock shall
rise, mount the hard ghost
grass stains on your knees,
your back, the palms of your hands,
inside you … the dead
spring’s last missing moon
this damning erotic life
the one that we choose