Tag Archives: faith

complex

29 Wednesday Jul 2020

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Sometimes it’s simple; the way your nipples
grow hard at the thought of soul-damning sex

with my cock in your throat. Face flushed, nostrils
flared; still you choke. Other times it’s complex.

When I cum on your face gods run amok,
turn odd, lecherous as any bar fly ––

Faith is as messy as this facial-fuck
that left you blinking in bloodshot, pinkeye

surprise. There’s other metaphors but they
don’t please; like in your patriarchal

faith: “the Sons of Heaven begat Daughters
of Man.” If all acts lead to the source pray

with me. There is awe when we both tremble
and cum; like fools, like divine messengers.

faith

14 Friday Dec 2018

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Glutton, your mom warns. Good girls do not dare
to breathe or move or listen when the moon

calls out. Each night you kneel and beg in prayer,
luna-lune, for toe-curling fucks: typhoon

in strength, cosmic in scope, untold power
in your clit. You kneel by your dark window,

foreplay, leaning into the witching hour.
Foreplay as in what moons discard: their glow

fit to be worn by unicorn-tamers.
Don’t call this smut, call it faith: that someone

somewhere craves you as much as the moon craves
you. Faith that one day soon all your lovers

will come home. If that makes you a glutton,
so be it. It’s your faith that keeps you brave.

your last orgasm [2]

09 Wednesday Jan 2013

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Heaven means little when there are bloated
hands, a skirt undone, blotches of blood caked
across the face. There is nothing splendid
about heaven if any dull, half-baked
prude can get there simply on faith. The pus
oozing from the earth, the pus in my veins,
some say sin, are the same. The Horned Huntress
calls for me. She Who Cannot Be Named reigns
here, a living heaven, a flash, something
divine. Your last orgasm; speak molten
omens dripping down your thigh, soothsaying
your cum for things to come. See what you’ve done.
All for a faith that needs no toil, no vow.
All for a heaven that’s right here, right now.

kafka and rough sex and faith

21 Friday Jan 2011

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“Man, that’s what I call a New York joint … you
can pick your teeth with a New York joint.”
— Jim Morrison
I start my mornings with vodka, a New
York joint and plenty of eggs. It’s the yolks
I love, like cum on the pillow, mildew
in the bath: a little proof that invokes
ghosts of a good time. Thus the day begins.
Some days all we got is Kafka and rough
sex and faith. Of the Seven Deadly Sins
I have tried the sweet five and that’s enough.
I’m too wired for Sloth. Anger only half
interests me. But Lust and Pride? Just believe
me, dear, that’s the stuff dreams are made out of.
I’ve blown Baudelaire, made Sylvia Plath
cum. I love fucking ghosts, lovers who leave
mist cum-stains: all ectoplasm and mauve.