Tag Archives: orgasm

ravenous

03 Friday Nov 2017

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The Book of Misfits mentions you. So does
The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels

of Cunnilingus. Love, you have itches
never scratched. You’re shy and call them scruples

when it comes to exploring the carnal
parts of knowledge. But here you are, your soul

incandescent, finger at work, knuckle
buried. Let the, “petite mort,” makes us whole;

it’s a little death then resurrection.
Only the most ravenous are welcome

in these books and you, love, are copious,
dripping, some would claim, with needs that no one

has met. Do not say that it’s strange to cum
for me, just embrace this divine strangeness.

edge of my skin [2]

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

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Dec 17, 2013 (4)

Dec 17, 2013 (3)

Dec 17, 2013 (2)

I still remember your touch, after all
of this time every time I close my eyes

I go back again to that night; the small
softness of your fingers, all those dumb lies

I said to keep you as you grazed my skin
with your lips as our tongues touched. How could I

have kept you safe from my zealots? Cretin
you should have called me, not lover. Defy

us, we who burn witches and call it truth.
We who preach hate and call it love. Wake, wake,

love, in this aftermath, although entwined
around you, our Eden ends. Faith, like youth,

knows all. How can I claim that my heart breaks
when I let — when I’m a child, vain and blind?

edge of my skin

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

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Remembering that night makes desire
shake once again. I play it over in

my mind — the thrill of memory sets fire
to my nerves — I’m on the edge of my skin

aching to be set free with your mouth, hand,
tongue all that makes me feel that we did this

before, we’ll do this again. I expand
down your throat. When you part your grave-fresh thighs

I kiss all that I can find. Science still
can’t teach us if orgasms aren’t or are

human sublimity that we call faith.
I know that you came through the door to kill

me, I know that I love you: thief, bizarre
ghost girl, libido, love, barrow wraith.

blowjobs to stangers

28 Monday Oct 2013

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Strange. There’s a small army of us who give
blowjobs to strangers. Like Sucka MCs

or a ten year old with a homemade shiv,
you can’t tell just by looking as we breeze

by you on the street, in your office, out
on the playground. All our worlds are complex,

and so are we. Maybe on a stakeout
at a gloryhole, bathrooms and blind sex,

then you’ll tell—-when you hit a contralto,
like in movies—-each time you orgasm.

A tad crude, but to the point. Then you’ll tell
who is who. All us boys and girls who know

your taste and laugh at you because you cum
and call yourself an erotic rebel.

sister vagabond

18 Sunday Aug 2013

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Who made this big O? Who milked all this cream
then got off? Which shaman brought the secret
of the orgasm back? Who brought the dream
of how to speak to the gods home? Read smut,
those hoarse orgasmic screams make this worship
look like child’s play. But I’ve been down on you
all night and you’ve yet to fling yourself back-
forth in the tall duffled grass. Sure, I knew
that not all prayers are heard. Between loadstones
and ghost loads both point to something beyond
grasp, but only one causes you to touch
the true divine. After gushing cum moans,
return and tell me, sister vagabond,
about what you once laughed off as nonsense.

besos en los labios

20 Monday May 2013

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frida kahlo and kitty

frida kahlo

frida kahlo nude

Besos en los labios, y tus dedos del pie contracción nerviosa.
Besos en tu clítoris, pezones se endurecen.
Mi dedo en tu culo, escalofríos por el alma.
Sino que cuando dices mi nombre, eso es el ruiseñor que en la selva cantando.
.
Kiss on the lips, and your toes twitch.
Kiss your clitoris, and your nipples harden.
My finger in your ass chills the soul.
But when you say my name, it is a nightingale singing in the jungle.
.
Համբուրում է շուրթերին, եւ ձեր ոտք ունեցող մարդ ջղաձգություն.
Համբույր ձեր կլիտօրիս, եւ ձեր խուլ կարծրացնում.
Իմ մատը ձեր էշի, սարսուռ հոգու.
Բայց երբ դուք ասում եք, իմ անունը, դա է սոխակ երգում է ջունգլիներում.

the road to enlightenment has many paths

08 Monday Apr 2013

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“… loveroot, silk thread, crotch and vine.”
— Walt Whitman

I’m not interested in who suffered more,
just those who mastered pain’s blood alphabet.
Trust joy. If what you long for is a door
that will lead you to love do not forget
that the door is here. What other purpose
could the orgasm have but to let me
talk to gods? At the moment of climax
when I leave behind ego and body
I call that act enlightenment – no hate,
attachment or pain – only bliss. Only
pilgrims working hard at their nightly prayers,
at blood’s loveroot. Don’t trust those who dictate
the path to wisdom. They are not holy
like you and all of your sticky fingers.

 

 

 

 

unfit

16 Saturday Feb 2013

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They say that the cruel one must now depart
at dawn. Come back to bed, love. I’ve been cruel
but not like that. I am shallow. My heart
knows that it will be judged by the jackal
headed god Anubis one day. “Unfit;”
I am sure that will be what I am told.
“Unfit” gets you consumed by vile Ammit,
the soul-eater. Tomorrow I’ll be cold
as a crypt. Tonight, though, I burn. Stay here.
They say you can’t get to heaven depraved.
What’s a bruise? a bite? I’ll mark your flesh mine.
And then what comes between us I will smear
across your face. I don’t care to be saved.
Damnation is also an act divine.

* * *

Note:

Anibus is the jackal-headed god associated with mummification and the afterlife in ancient Egyptian religion.

Ammit is a funerary deity, a female demon in ancient Egypt; part lion, part hippopotamus and part crocodile. Her titles included, “Devourer of the Dead,” “Eater of Hearts” and “Great of Death.” Her job was eating souls judged by Anibus as corrupt.

aftershocks

02 Saturday Feb 2013

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Beneath the surface nothing waits. Measure
these things in “magnitude.” Rubbing, grinding
something, like Tectonic plates, shift; tremor
in your left thigh spreads outward, consuming
you all. You love this sort of destruction.
There can be no life without some small death.
Later, gasping, entwined in the ruin
of the bedsheets, you try to catch your breath
on wet ground. All these puddles that have gushed
under pressure show that nothing will wait.
All it takes is a fingertip, one brushed
nipple, for aftershocks. Magnitude eight.
Sure, this is sadistic. But you trust me,
so I’ll see that you survive, just barely.