Tag Archives: poem

mustachio

11 Friday Jan 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Just now we shall have bit of snug bit
of sniff: get my nose in it, in you. Breast

bondage, tit torture: with wax, teeth and spit,
with cords holding you still. I am a guest

here. Ill and lewd we walked the spit of land
between the Eel River and ocean. Gulls

and sea lions basked. Beyond the low farmland:
redwoods. Once, buried up to my knuckles

in you, we hid near tide pools, the billow’s
roar, your hiss, your husband dozed, his bong cashed.

Under your shirt: last night I marked my greed
and need. Just now I lap your lips, your toes

curl, sand caked. I’m a bad friend, all mustached
in your pubes. We both count on that, indeed.

pique

08 Tuesday Jan 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Visions of an inferno. Queer fire dwells
out there. Fire of the fallen is still fire

that loves you; down to your genes, to your cells.
I do not question what I call desire.

It’s the twist of vulgar gender that piques
me. The drive of geezerbirds and chickboys.

All that bright rich sky in a storm that shrieks
leaden control. Rebel angels knew joys

that their coup d’état brought. To rise. To romp
in flesh that we’re given. To love secrets

that fill the soul, fill up an inferno.
Let’s be messy children who love to stomp,

sing and burn; let’s be the flame that poets
dream of. This fire: make it love, not sorrow.

suck face

07 Monday Jan 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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I dream I drown. I vanish with a splash,
somewhere. What love does not osculate? play

smack lip? My face: two black eyes and a gash
cleft by an axe. An indifferent doomsday;

you will never kiss flesh lost to the sea,
never kiss me and we say that a kiss

is where all romance roosts. My velvety
tip of tongue shall be lost. My faith in bliss,

sacred like the tide, shall be lost as well.
Hell shall be tulip sauce, sounds of suck face

elsewhere. My grave mistake shall be no grave
dirt for you to weep over, to bless. Hell

shall be knowing that your kiss would bring grace
but still being lost in this surge and wave.

kiddywinks

04 Friday Jan 2019

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Voluptuous under flannel. Daggers,
stones and diesels; filling all that you wear

with joy. On the prowl. On the side. Lovers
of love, this is the truth about that dare:

dick-slap our faces. You, Keiko and Drew
crouched on the floor, upturn grins all aglow.

Vodka, ganja, Truth or Dare left Day Two
of our acey-deucey, bifocal blow

out a blur. Blouses on the bed. Born of?
Born for? None of that matters. The soul gleams

beloved. Kiddywinks and saints of Stonewall
nurture us: love is love is love is love

even when standing above you. With jeans
loose I blushed then let fall for one and all.

new year’s new day

01 Tuesday Jan 2019

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Quenched yet parched. Cold had heated its perfume
so that my cat screamed. The haunt appeared clad

in hot winds. Juicy bones in my bedroom.
“You’re bad for wanting me to do this!” Bad?

Sulfur was in its smooches. Negligee
from a Sears catalog. You don’t know bad,

waif love. This time of year my runaway
blows mean loss and more loss. All this nomad

flesh means never enough. I’m the mortal
that the dead warned you of. Divas of notched

sable fur ask: what’s so bad about carnal?
New Year’s first day: debauched debauched debauched.

Haunt, I love you so. First make an obscene
sucking noise, then I suck all your bones clean.

new year

31 Monday Dec 2018

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Into your crass I came; hungry, not starved.
Cold heat within me was hard proof that you

were the sweetest thing under this roof. Carved
from the same root we are: satyr’s seed, blue

dahlia, maple sweet. It was at the inn
while in your end that our fire without rest

burned with merriment. Praise this sin while in
you. Praise your owl cry for more. Let each blessed

stroke cut us off from all other teenage
wastelands, beloved. Storm lights in our window,

burdens left by war gods, your breast cancer
— none of it matters. We let love rampage

in us. We praise the freak, love’s wild weirdo,
death’s new year — we’re ripe with hints of slaughter.

gore

30 Sunday Dec 2018

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Bust of palm spent. Thrust against your back, bent
in your ass. Slap-on jeans drawn down. Bourgeois

passions. Old tongue. In Hayeren I meant:
Vo’chinch. I meant: Nothing. Comme ci. Comme ca.

Maybe good. Maybe bad. So so. Drained. Gushed.
That pause. I could stop. We could stop. Say: slow.

O ho. Or: more. Or say: gore left me flushed.
Gore left you hushed, waiting for the deathblow

from a fuck to give off more than obscene
relief. Is it enough? you ask. My chill.

Your heat. Perhaps. Enough to make us cum
in fire, ash. Don’t begrudge carnage between

us. Don’t cuss hard love. It’s still love: the thrill
of your dizzy tizzy, your ill tantrum.

][][

NOTE:
Hayeren is the term that Armenians use for their own language and, “Vo’chinch,” is an expression that literally means, “nothing,” but is used in the same way that the French use, “comme ci comme ca” — neither good nor bad, it just is.

4-sight

28 Friday Dec 2018

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There was no ark, no broken seal. The dead
clock this world but not like how I was taught.

“Oi git overstrung, freaked oyt, too,” I zed.
“Oi’m fired up. Oi’m fucked up. Oi’m overwrought.

But Oi’m perfect, otherwise.” Other … wise.
4-sight. Savoir faire. It’s there: that finite

tense that we both sensed. That manic demise
that no laws, lit or holy writ can right.

We don’t know and the dead don’t claim the truth.
The dead just are — absurd as negative

numbers, absurd as love. Call their wisdom
the same when my knees bend, cheeks bulge, uncouth

jaw pops with your climax, with what you give;
no arks, no laws, no writ. Just soul. Just cum.

mercy

27 Thursday Dec 2018

Posted by in Armenia, Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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Christmas Eve’s “No First Drink” Recovery
Meeting. The reek of Pall Mall in the air.

Don’t talk now. Don’t stand out. Not of Gyumri.
Not of dead orphans. Not of the nightmare

that haunts you from Nagorno-Karabakh.
Everyone here carries their own horrors.

Right now just listen, just be present. Black
humor, Lilith’s mercy, depraved lovers

kept you, if not lucid, at least sober …
but not tonight. You woke. You sit and grieve,

nod and listen. You love these survivors.
You love everyone but yourself. No prayer

will heal what you conceal under your sleeve,
under your burn scar, your broken knuckle.

ghastly

26 Wednesday Dec 2018

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After your mom goes to bed you slip out
of the trailer so that we can nuzzle

and pet in the red dirt. Lower-lip pout —
O-lip moan. Kisses and pheromones. Dull

ache of cock pressed against the camel toe
in your cotton. Creosote and sage. Kiss

with my tongue in your mouth. Rust moon’s glow.
“Middle school,” you hiss, “was never like this.”

All that stands between us is a condom
and the cloth of your Pinkie Pie knickers;

a left-over from your ghastly, “lost year.”
Not like this. Not now. Pain gives us freedom.

Not like that. This. Kiss me more. The sky blurs
as we bleed, crossing through this queer frontier.