Tags
1970s erotica, Brigit, Celtic mythology, Macha, poem, Poetry, threefold, threesome
threefold trinity
20 Tuesday Aug 2013
Tag Archives: poem
the ghost of frank o’hara
20 Tuesday Aug 2013
The ghost of Frank O’Hara leaves early
huge with desire. He sees through you, ogles
your ass while on the Metro; this fleshy
world! It’s what the living do that dazzles!
Only in poetry are ghosts obsessed
about panties. In novels it is briefs.
Plays call for jockeys. Textbooks might suggest
underwear. This language, ghosts claim, motifs
about buttocks and thongs. “We died before
thongs!” If you see a ghost gaping at you
in the changing room, say: “Bad Ghost!” I’m sure
it’s tough being behind the times, tattoos
and rings and whatnot being in right now
except for Frank who is always hip somehow.
sister vagabond
18 Sunday Aug 2013
Tags
cunnilingus, erotic, orgasm, poem, Poetry, sister vagabond, sonnet, speaking in tongues, The Big O
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.
2 hours
16 Friday Aug 2013
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
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Tonight. Nightly. Husbands penetrate their wives with boredom and cock. This is the same boredom in every city. In every countries. Tonight, from your hips to your feet, I want to make that long trip. With wet fingers with saliva. For two hours I will banish your husband. For two hours I’ll make your rose of fire damp. I’ll make your volcano erupt, and drown inside your goldmine. Tonight. Nightly. Husbands snore face down while wives in the dark dream about fucking.
.
Esta noite. Todas as noites. Os maridos penetram suas esposas com tédio e pênis. O mesmo tédio em cada cidade. Em todos os países. Esta noite, das tuas ancas aos teus pés, quero fazer uma longa viagem. Com dedos molhados de saliva. Por duas horas eu vou banir o seu marido. Por duas horas eu vou fazer tua rosa de fogo humedecido. Eu vou fazer tua irromper vulcão, e afogar dentro de sua mina de ouro. Esta noite. Todas as noites. Os maridos ressonam de borco enquanto as esposas no escuro sonham com o fucking.
the fine art of belly slicing
16 Friday Aug 2013
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
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Tags
art, Bushido, Chivalric Code, do got the guts?, Japan, katana, poem, seppuku
in one artful stroke
she demonstrated
to all the loutish
and barren old men
that she had more guts
and honor than all
their empty boasts
combined cutting
through first
her muscles and then
into baby fat …
.
.
NOTE:
Here in the West it is easy to romanticize other cultures, especially ones separated by distance and time that we believe had higher moral codes than we do today. It’s the ignorant belief that “things were better in the good old days.” Take 14th century France’s so-called Chivalric Code, in theory a set of principles we generally associated with the iron-clad medieval knight. Except that history has shown to us that there was very little that was noble about that warrior class, most of whom were butchers and mercenaries who were considered by European peasants they exploited worse than the Black Plague that had just struck. As Barbara Tuchman pointed out in her excellent A Distant Mirror (1978): “Barbarism, however, no matter how much medieval Christianity insisted it was a sin, is a motor of mankind, no more eradicable from France’s knightly Order of the Garter than sex.”
Japan’s warriors, the samurai, were no different. They had their own code, Bushido, which is typically thought to have stressed blind loyalty to one’s lord and honor unto death. What samurai movie doesn’t have the scene where at least one grim warrior, sitting crossed legged on the floor, his kimono open, sword in hand as he prepares to plunge the blade into his stomach, in order to keep his honor? I might not know a lot about history but the idea of seppuku remained with me for a very long time.
The image I present here is of an Onna-bugeisha, a female samurai (there is debate whether or not this class of warrior women actually existed or functioned in the way today’s stories present them, for a person like me who loves the romanticized ideal I will say yes and yes to both questions). The whole concept that someone would willfully cut open their own belly and pull their own intestines out with their hands as a way of “saving face” is so alien a concept that it horrifies me to the point of fascination. I will say right now: I do not romanticize suicide, but I seem unable to turn my eyes away, either. One of my favorite authors,Yukio Mishima, killed himself in this manner a few months after I was born. It is a very long shadow to live in and at times I can hear it calling.
lilith from the book of splendor
15 Thursday Aug 2013
Posted in Feminism, Uncategorized
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“… thou Lilith of the desert, thou hag, thou ghoul … naked art thou sent forth, unclad, with hair disheveled, and streaming down your back.” — part of a recovered Babylonian prayer to cast evil spirits out of one’s house.
I.
Out of sorts types of glamor of a good
death is a glamor of a good lay in
the wilderness where we once laid, for you
said it was tremendous to be that lost
gayly knowing that all that remains just
so, step out of my shallow depression.
II.
I took some vine and vined it through the glow
of her concealed, she was concealed at high
noon; you could see through her. Her glow was not
swamp flame, more blue iris, more moon flame if
the moon burned between her two dark shoulders.
III.
Spinsterhood, they called it. Torturous Tongue,
Woman’s Shame, Impure. They called it a lot
of queer and odd words. I dreamed of her owl
feet, her cat eyes and her four breasts. I dreamed
of that alien word for ecstasy.
IV.
Who could find me? She brought me a bastard’s
knife from out of the goldenrod, brought me
to a hut. She said, “arise,” and I did.
She said, “enter,” and I did deep inside
was a room full of tiny snakes all burned
to soft, small, nameless ash. Stir the coals then
V.
lie down in the field. Cut a door into
yourself and sprinkle the ash in. When it
opens a crow will caw out, over and
over. Outside jackal and hyena
will stop fighting and watch. Outside satyr
will stop singing and watch. All that moves, all
that flies, all that creeps. The sun returning
to this glamor death in the wilderness
where we laid all down now you must see that
all that remains here is a depression.
.
.
NOTE:
The Babylonian prayer I used in the beginning of the poem comes the book The Holy and the Profane (Gaster, 27)
genesis of lilith
15 Thursday Aug 2013
The dull elk, all beast-eyed and slow, mounting
some sort of grotesque heifer, each nipple
as long as your thumb. She was their offspring,
or close to it. Dim-witted and docile.
Breeder. Eve. They say, “Lilith seduced her.
Lilith knew no shame.” In a world where man
was a limp failure, wouldn’t you? Lover
Of All The Flesh, She Of The Two-Heart Clan,
Girl With Locust Wings. Men who never knew
love will tell you the damnedest lies. Lilith
betrayed Eve — went down on Eve — sucked Adam’s
cum out — gagged it all down, then off she flew —
Bollocks. There is no bisexual myth
only the tale of the world’s first threesome.
lilith of the talmud
15 Thursday Aug 2013
aftermath
15 Thursday Aug 2013
Posted in Poetry
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Tags
aftermath, got the guts?, Morocco, poem, Poetry, seppuku, when she comes
When she comes I’ll go find my hungry blade
from Morocco. When she comes, using all
the bright noise from her song just to buy me,
when she snaps her fiddle strings at long last,
when all those strings are broken and she comes
like a cartoon blow job, sloppily drawn,
unconvincing and all down the face, then
I will know that I do not belong here
with you. I will step through the font of this
unwritten poem full of amazement,
wondering why I didn’t reach for my
curved blade sooner? If there is real safety
with others I have not found it; exiles
have no home, orphans no family, though
they are both precious to the earth. It’s how
we spend our time that I find intriguing.
Eternity is a problem only
for the easily distracted. Give me
daisies, the silence of daisies. Give me
my knife so that I might bleed all over
the silence. So that when she comes I will
tell her that our aftermath has left me
curvy and hissing. There is no question,
just a bitter tea made from wild foxglove
and wormwood When she comes I don’t want to
go looking for my Moroccan stick-knife.
I will bear my belly, I have the guts
for it, though I ask of you do not feel
sad or cry or try to argue with me.
She is coming and I want enough time
to spill everything all over this page.
cock’s crow
15 Thursday Aug 2013
Tags
cock's crow, Dark One, I listen, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the cicadas have won
Dark One, I listen. A dun summer moon
rises, a gap, shun the sky, that space. Space
as the sun slips down into a wet June,
this son with a soul is always wet. Grace
was once a gun or a moth, that of air
but not in the air. Now none and nothing.
What son has a soul? and what sort of prayer
is this? The lascivious nun’s burning
faith. But not like faith. Switch to one shadow
and run halfway home. Daughters run. Daughters
know that the moon-dawn can still stun. Listen,
Dark One. I am a child of the cock’s crow.
The sky scares me for it is always her’s.
What’s left is noise. The cicadas have won.
memories of my ghost sista 