Tags
drunk as fuck, this bed,
clotted with another’s life
crusts, stains, motel room
11 Sunday Jun 2017
Tags
drunk as fuck, this bed,
clotted with another’s life
crusts, stains, motel room
11 Sunday Jun 2017
Tags
cold and dank, Madness, poem, Poetry, Skatalites, sonnet, stray cat, Toots and the Maytals, trails
Morning heat is drying out the ragged
bits of snail trails on my front stoop. The gin
at last kicks in. I was throwing up blood
last night, leaving me cold and dank, my skin
waxy. I love how silver fades away
in heat. I sit on my stoop, run a thumb
over the trail. Lick it clean. An old stray
curls at my feet; her purring a rhythm,
one that I follow. My neighbor calls out,
heading for work. This is how everything
should end. I’m lost in the Skatalites, Toots
and the Maytals, Madness. We all burnout.
We all fade. Snail trails. A stray cat purring.
Some of us are stars; some only tributes.
10 Saturday Jun 2017
Tags
hand sweats, Las Vegas, my pubes itch, poem, Poetry, sonnet, summer heat, the air bathwater warm, thighs splay
The heat rises. It’s nothing like spring storms.
Nothing stirs. Whose fur hangs dank? Who drowses
and sleeps half the day away? Heat deforms,
corrupts us. The sweat in my pubes itches.
I scratch and scratch until tufts come away:
soggy cum, soggy spit and tight black curls.
You sprawl nearby me. The way your thighs splay
makes me blush though our naked boy’s and girl’s
secrets mean little in this heat. We pass
a spliff back and forth. We drain our whiskey
and pour out more. Cicadas drone. The glass
in your hand sweats. Everything is raspy.
Tonight we’ll go out in the summer storm
with heat-lightning, the air bathwater warm.
26 Friday May 2017
Tags
BBW, bhang, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, hashish, kif, lactophilia, milking, poem, sonnet
You with the double-hung belly. You made
a sound like, “sissk,” each time I drained you dry.
We’ve played Asmodeus and the Milkmaid
far too often. For a week we were high
as fuck eating euphoriants — (bhang-bhang
and hash rolled in jam) which gave your breast milk
the odd taste of sweet kif, gin and ginseng —
while I sucked stains from inside your bra’s silk
after each of Harley’s feedings. Each romp
remained perverse; my head buried between
your thighs, fingers on your nipples, milking,
tripping balls, the bed shaking, you calling
out to the gods prayers devout and obscene
as you came; soaking my face like a swamp.
19 Friday May 2017
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You, prayer,
you, blasphemy,
you, razor in the prayer
of my silence
19 Friday May 2017
Ghosts rise and drink. Before the sulfuric heat
of the muggy gray sky (which never rains)
untwines itself from the dawn my heartbeat
murmurs and my hand shakes. Each new bloodstain
from the kitchen knife oozes down my arm
only to scab over. My body plays
host to a host of ills that plague and swarm
throughout me. I’m simply the obscene maze
that all things must flee from — Mama Lilith;
I’m shit-faced and you’re here with my meltdown.
Your twitch, my cut, all this must bleed. As host
to this chaos I’m your kith drunk on myth,
your kin sodden on gin — I won’t come down;
nothing comes down; not host-demon, not ghost.
19 Friday May 2017
Tags
baffled and rapt, poem, Poetry, rapt, secret alphabet, sonnet
Perhaps while straddled. Perhaps in the gloom
of your nightgown; all that whiteness against
your breast. Perhaps in the small folds, the bloom
of heat where my skin pressed. Perhaps I tensed
when I should have relaxed. Perhaps we lapped
something queer from a gourd or a clay pot
that left us, in turns, both baffled and rapt.
Perhaps when it was time what you thought
you could do you couldn’t and simply choked.
Perhaps none of these. Whatever has brought
me here, love, doesn’t matter. Why regret?
Why so sad? Your cigarette has been smoked.
My wine drunk. Let’s share all that we’ve been taught.
Your pen. My ink. Our secret alphabet.
19 Friday May 2017
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Tags
You think I’ll be the dark sky so that you can be the star? I’ll swallow you whole.
04 Saturday Feb 2017
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“How many licks” – Lil Kim
I need a new word. The ancient mothers had tongue,
but I’ve lost how to read. The Chinese call it, “Tian yin.”
The Greeks, “Aidoioleixia.” The Welsh, “Gweinlyfu.”
The Tamil, “Vay neṟikkoṇam.” The Nepali,
“Yoni mukhamaithuna.” But for the rest of the world
it is simply “Cunnilingus,” or “Kunilengus,” or
“Cunnilingio.” It sounds like a medical term. The fruit from
the Tree of Diana would never taste like how that word sounds.
The Mystery is there, on the tip of our tongues, I can
almost hear the proper words, like trying to decipher
the chaos as the Goddess of the Hunt brings down the old boar;
at the climax we all make noise that sounds like sacrament.
][
“… how summer learns to end.” – etherlighter
Mother Lilith, progenitor, what breeds
deeper disquiet in the human heart
than this celibacy that only bleeds
the soul of ecstasy, sets us apart
from the Divine? Debauchery, speaking
in tongues, music: they hold truths and secrets
that the piety of silence, lacking
epiphany, can’t find. When you say, “sluts
and whores,” you speak of prophets. We all die,
Lilith, but not all of us have to numb
our souls first. First Mother, First Wife;
let the world burn, even Augustine’s lie.
Orgasm: it’s the closest that we’ll come
to the Divine in this short, little life.
][
Babylon, man-child,
grow up, there is
more to riding off
on a foamy white
horse, a jism of
release, never to
return, the patriarch
will fall for he is
blind, somewhere
in Rome hidden
from view rests
Saint Hripsime’s chemise,
made of sackcloth,
which rubbed her
right there when
she walked, for even
martyrs are full
of desire, much
like in Boccaccio’s
Decameron, in
the first story of the
third day when Masetto
becomes a gardener,
who “tills the soil
and makes barren
plots fertile,” discreet
easing of the pangs of
lust among the bold
sisters and abbess
and though Hripsime
was a virgin Pier
Paolo Pasolini showed
us how Christ treats
those who put horns
on his crown, they are
the true
children of heaven.
[submitted by ghostsista]
18 Wednesday Jan 2017
Posted in quote unquote
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fruit left uneaten
pulpy slices juice-curled hair
burden of wanting