Tag Archives: Poetry

santorum

15 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by in Erotic, hentai, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on santorum

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

I like the wet, the sweaty, the ones dank
and moist after a workout. You come home

from the gym; it’s 9 and I’m drunk. I yank
your shorts down; spread you wide. With tongue I roam

around your core. “No, it’s dirty,” you bleat —
pressed against the wall, fingers scratching paint.

I’m not a scholar; you’re not an athlete;
but we make do. “Auntie Peg” — holy saint

of the fifth base, fecking and gaped starfish —
“Let me clean the kitchen.” Neither of us

are strong but I fill you with a fat slish
until all else becomes superfluous.

You are ill and I’m a freakin’ drunk —
you and I are bareback: post-rage, post-punk.

][][
note:
If you’re trying to write gender-neutral erotica anal sex makes a logical path, especially in a world that does not reward gender-neutral, but we make do. Auntie Peg is both a reference to Juliet Anderson, who passed away in 2010 and also to the act of using a strap-on on a male partner.

apocryphal thing

04 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on apocryphal thing

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Fruit flies drift around my glass-pipe. Cheeba
spirits — perhaps? A friend sends me ink flow

pix, thick thighs, spandex and short-shorts, extra
around the belly. I love my friend, though

we’re a world apart. Ghosts are everywhere,
like love. Dr. Teeth told us to, “Begin,

Believe, Begat.” But to start an affair
is an apocryphal thing with a friend.

Everything will change. I brush away specks.
On the laptop, Ganjasaurus Rex, plays.

I feel that heavy cold spot when I’m not
doing right but that need for friends, love, sex

leaves me low. To be appeased with just praise;
to have someone who might quell my distraught.

year of the conch shell

30 Wednesday Aug 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on year of the conch shell

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

The Year of the Cock makes gender-neutral
a tad hard, be it soft flesh or strap-on —

but we strive. If, during our long anal
fucking, I cup your balls, pull your tampon

string, or rub that scarred place that you can’t feel,
then we’re still creatures of fire in a world

that loathes burning. If, after each gasp, squeal
and, “¡Ai! mi Diosa!” If, while we’re curled,

nuzzled, while the sweat and cum cools, then yes,
this year might remain awful — we can lose

so much — yet, we’re here right now, divinely.
There’s no Year of the Conch Shell, though we bless

the same deep crinkled lips. These are taboos
that we must break—these acts that make us free.

ARS POETICA

30 Sunday Jul 2017

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet, Uncategorized

≈ Comments Off on ARS POETICA

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

Others see silvered far-flung loneliness.
Shadowed boom of surf. The waste of breakers

pulling back. The voices that they hear: chaos,
malice, an alien ear. These others

took in the mirror to find the divine.
I look in the long sweep of waves. Rolling

lash of dark water against the hull. Brine
on my lips. Endless gray wet. There’s nothing

for the landsmen obsessed with sin and shame
down here; the men who say that they have known

that their divine is here to mollify
them with what is unknowable. No name.

No shape that you’ll recognize as your own
except in shadows as great fish swim by.

gash and harvest

04 Tuesday Jul 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on gash and harvest

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

At first thrust you gasped; cello’s tight sinew
snapping as you opened up, your haunches

splayed, your fingers in the grass, then you drew
your head back, whiplash, and begged with curses,

“¡fóllame el culo!” You made an awed
pucker at either end, a mewl and grunt

into a whine, as the curved bow seesawed
inside you. I named gods (manic, urgent)

who lived for this. What else was there? Later
we curled, sucked from the hookah. Opium

imbued the air. We could’ve been a prayer
to an old life, old death. Cum and conjure.

Gash and harvest. Suture and orgasm.
Instead we’re what the gods left out: horror.

][][
note:
In Spanish, “Fóllame el culo,” translates into, “Fuck my ass.” Of all the instruments that I will never learn how to play the cello is what I set my words to.

consume the rest

18 Sunday Jun 2017

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on consume the rest

Tags

, , , , , ,

Boats at rest amid old sea gods who sleep.
I have walked among them down the jetties

watching how their chains vanish in the deep,
how each holds the hint of possibilities;

call that escape. The sky salmons dark pink.
How does one wake a god in this twilight?

Tonight I’ll stand and stare. I’ll sit and drink
until I’m drunk for the waves and moonlight

and the boat that I will never find. I knock
my glass to the floor; get told to go home.

There is no home; just standing in shadows
watching dark consume water, jetty, dock.

I can read the wind, the tide, the sea foam
and they all say: sorrows, sorrows, sorrows.

except need

16 Friday Jun 2017

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on except need

Tags

, , , , , , ,

A beat oozes from somewhere deep below
me. It’s the rattle of the fan. The squeaks

that the floor makes. The day’s heat, all day-glo,
neon green, waves filtering up in streaks,

halos. I feel it when I press my cheek
against the warped wood; a beat totally

alien to my own heart. A wild shriek
of drums when drums shriek. What debauchery

isn’t kinship to such noise? That riot
of want that has no language except need.

I hear it, barely. All that you call smut
I call prayer. All that is green and honeyed.

All prayer is need. I bend down to the floor.
I need more than this queer beat. I need more.

stand

14 Wednesday Jun 2017

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on stand

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Give me the narcotics; all this morning
these gin tonics don’t do much. Someone, please,

said the fly to the spider with its sting
and long leer. When did I become a tease

to all that tried to help me? Why am I
the one who can’t take friendships easily?

Outside the mud swallow and magpie
fly by my window. There’s something haughty

about my last stand. This is all in flux,
everything smears, everything is a mess

across my face and yet somehow I must
keep calm. It’s a stand; yet roses, lilacs

and the ash can’t help me with my distress.
I don’t want intoxication … just trust.

scent

14 Wednesday Jun 2017

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on scent

Tags

, , , , , ,

I love the cats who mark you as their own.
My John Monroe, with no lower lip, drools

down my cheek as I hold him. Pigeon’s moan
is a dove’s coo. Nubbins hisses and mewls

in joy, his one eye, tattered ears, pressing
against my arm each time I stoke his bent

neck. Show me a love that’s not a blessing;
a love not supreme — I carry that scent

everywhere. On the days when this human
world is mean and when my friends turn away

and those that I call family despair
and when I am left depressed and maudlin

and I don’t have the strength to even pray —
there’s love. I carry that scent everywhere.

][][
note:
I volunteer at a no-kill cat shelter, Crash’s Landing, where most of my cat photos come from. The cats I mention are all waiting for someone who’ll want to give them their forever-homes.