Tag Archives: it’s all erotic poetry in the end

upheaval

20 Tuesday Oct 2020

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I too know about singing while the earth

plummets, shifting through its tectonic rage,

 

spewing wisdom. Infernal afterbirth.

I too know about ritual. This age

 

of ours has no libido; I’ve read rites,

retained words, worked charms. I’ve wanted to be

 

more than just your, “brother.” Rolling your tights

to your knees, parting your burqa as we

 

part your lips. In the Song of Songs: “You’re dark,

sister from Lebanon,/ and beautiful.”

 

There are ten-thousand ways to cherish you

and your husband calls them all vile. One spark.

 

One quake. One song. Lust is an upheaval.

Divine chaos. That’s why it’s so taboo.

infernal

11 Friday Sep 2020

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Go to the sink. Eating a pink melon
always makes a mess. All that’s ripe and sweet.

All that drips juicy. You’re such a glutton
for sweet goop. Slide the knife into this meat.

Pop a chunk in your mouth. Taste me melting.
I come toothsome, complex. Like saccharin,

after the first lick you know that something
infernal rests on your tongue. Honeyed sin

in the syrup. I make knife blades messy
when you want more than sweet broth to dribble

down your chin. I’ll leave you somewhere between
sugar high and glucose blackout. Gooey

blade stuck in the Devil’s sweetmeat middle.
Here’s one more excuse to lick that knife clean.

anys syn

27 Saturday Jun 2020

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Fauns are always spirits of seduction,
my Aunt explained. Lucy was only eight,

just like you. She had read me Anaïs Nin,
explained what pansexual meant. They’d mate

with all manner of beasts. Of course Lucy
knew this, why else would she follow him home

just for tea? Henry and June, Gay Paree
and the way in which my Aunt’s lips would roam

made me flustered. Anys Syn’s old school jive
would love to chime in –– You stop me: what? What!?

Eight? Fuck that. You’ve got no Aunt. You just brag
in verse that you’re cursed with a high sex drive.

Asshole! I stare at you. You’d asked for smut.
I shrug, light the hash pipe and take a drag.

][][

Notes: Anaïs Nin was a Cuban-French American writer who wrote numerous diaries and erotica. Henry and June detailed her affairs with the author Henry Miller and his wife, June. Lucy and the faun, Mr. Tumnus, are characters from, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, by CS Lewis.

yarn

26 Friday Jun 2020

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Here’s a yarn; Best Friends Fuck Squad. We love sin
thick as nectar. You let lose screams as steam

hangs the air. This is how fables begin.
To kiss me is to perish in wet dream.

Detour through my body leaves you in shock,
in shox, inshoxication. You fLUSTer,

beg for deSIRe, for poppyCOCK’s cock.
You splish-splash rubba baby phat bugger …

bumper … thing. You sweet wet, sticky face thing.
We spin tales of Epic Sex fails. “Want to

be spanked with my hands bound. Look!” On one odd
finger thick cum glazes. “Look! I’m soaking.”

But you’re there. I’m here. Not much we can do,
despite our myth of this Best Friends Fuck Squad.

roughshod

26 Friday Jun 2020

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I won’t reconstruct how utterly fucked
that was. Futile to try again. I said,

“Help me cope. Bring itchy rope, a switch, duct
tape and rock salt.” But I fled when I bled,

when I bent and a queer smear bloomed across
my shirt. The door was almost closed. You peered

through a crack. Hunched on a chair, the chaos
of my scars had come undone. I get smeared

with blood a lot, mostly my own. Just once
I’d bared my back. “Fuck me up. Go roughshod.”

I said. “Calm me down.” That was my mistake.
It changed everything. Pain is a science.

Science is divine. But you said, “my god!”
when you saw how I cut out my own ache.

crud

03 Friday Apr 2020

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As this virus defies us, last night,
alone, I inhaled dust, specks of fungi,

toxins, traces of you in the moonlight ––
gorged on my engorged flesh. Last night, with my

boxers down around my knees, my debased
body wound tight, my hand encircling

my cock: such sweet flesh, what you’ll never taste
again, what you called my one, “redeeming

quality.” At least I have one. Impaled
on my pale flesh I can still taste the blood

when you bit my fat lip and made me mewl.
That was fun. But this? Last night I exhaled

air and much more. Odd, I thought that the crud
that’d take me down would be far more carnal.

fangled

12 Sunday Jan 2020

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“Neat,” I tweak. Rolling your nipple between
fingers and thumb. You bleat out weak-squeak noise

during recess. — In the girl’s bathroom. — In
the 3rd stall. Shorts pulled down; your thick tomboy’s

thighs clamped around what passes as my wrist,
spreading out inside you. For two whole weeks

you’d come for me, emerging with a mist
of dead boy’s cum and a newfangled freak’s

need for more finger fucking. — I’m your ghost
of a wallflower every time I, “eights,”

you. A thousand years of bliss stir in you.
None of your classmates have felt this, can boast

dead boys love them. Just you, when grief mutates
to need in the bathroom. Call this rescue.

heyday

17 Friday May 2019

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No, I tell you. Our myth. Our love. Each night
after all, after heyday, after change

(sun spent into flowers) and dimday’s bright
chorus (swallows and bats), after our strange

chorale (split-ears, stump-fucks: let the chaste scoff),
we’ll go on all fours (think: rouge, ink, fishnets).

We’ll ball through mist. For some we’re a turn-off.
They turn us off, click-click, like TV sets —

Others want what we have. Hot hours drop. Cool
throated stir. Moonshine and hollyhock blunts.

Grass stains in the dark. Our spluttering mewl.
You can’t turn us off. We’re what the chaste hunt.

We’ve cocked seething coals, cunted our love myth,
cauterized with discord, with dark world, with—

infernal fountain

01 Friday Mar 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet, Spanish, Translation

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The street kids all laughed at the noise we made,
hurried over at the first lop-bam-boom,

first toe-curling wail. Infidel who prayed
to false female gods, your mom declared. Womb

talk by a man? Tsk, she spat. She’s correct,
but it’s more than just talk. Window open,

slick with kisses, afternoon sweat, respect
for bald lust, for the infernal fountain

of your cunt. Call my promised land Lilith
and your clit. Your mom freaks at, “¡me haces

mojada!” At your skirt pulled up, midriff
exposed. At what I call prayer that gushes

sublime between her adored First Daughter
and the infidel who knows no better.

NOTE:
“Me haces mojada,” translates from Spanish as, “you make me wet.”

genesis

07 Friday Dec 2018

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Manic madness is not divine madness.
It is exhaustion. It’s the short circuit

that keeps me up at night. This sleeplessness
leaves me clumsy in a world that loathes smut,

sublime and honest. “A woman denied/
and the hills are alive with celibate

wives,” so sings the song. You grind down, astride
my chest. Even through your frayed jeans you wet.

“What’s it like?” you ask. Lunacy. Your woke
pubic bone. “Never?” “No, but I want to.”

I want, too. Prove the slut-shamers wrong. Stroke
you through your jeans. Finger-fuck this taboo.

I love heat, genesis lust, all that comes
with needs, eagerness. I love all that cums.