Tag Archives: Poetry

dreaming in saline solution

21 Friday Mar 2014

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Soon when you’re good I’ll show you my Y, gray
shaped scar that cut my chest and clavicles,

sternum and heart, all in half. That which lay
in me was once on display. My devils

made no attempt to be subtle. The art
of the cross-stitch hurt but kept my ugly

bosom together. My guts, pulled apart,
slept on the dissection table. To be

as anatomically correct as this
was a horror-show. Man’s ideal monster

can’t be built, but we try. My Pygmalion
lover saw to that. Listen to the hiss-

whir of dark science that made me neither
god nor demon. I’m not even human.

onna bugeisha: daughter mine

19 Wednesday Mar 2014

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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March 19, 2014 (12)

March 19, 2014 (11)

March 19, 2014 (13)

Around the body, puddled, as you breathe,
I feel your heart beating softer, slower,

drying begins from heated bodies. We
play in puddles, this sweet-scented moisture

that glows, cools, as the friction-induced beads
of sweat evaporates. Sunlight slavers

upon hard muscles, what falls, slashed through, bleeds
through these dappled down drapes —- gypsum lovers,

soft, lithe —- our aftermath. The story we’re
leaving for new generations. Daughter,

learn the sword, battle plans, the dialect
of war, for then you’ll protect the queer,

daft and fabulous. A godling savior
no man has ever been: divine, perfect.

dead thing

19 Wednesday Mar 2014

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The boy, at least as I drew him, was blind,
translucent, in gray oil against a pout;

more like a slash than frown, the bitter kind.
The girl, in my sketch, faded in and out,

pulled hair, and kicked my ass for suggesting
the things my pencil drew. What can I say?

Under full moon I’ve watched the dead kissing
and things that were only shadows, dim, gray,

made the beast with two backs, took shape down here.
Am I to blame for showing you what I

saw? Yes, perhaps. Of course. Tonight, the clouds
will hang just so. Dead thing; I’ll kiss that smear

from your lips. Second coming, indeed. Die
once more. I’ll leave you in cum-sticky shrouds.

sex without fear

18 Tuesday Mar 2014

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Mother and son listened to the muffled
voices from the room next door. The babel

of vice in a love hotel. The ribald
grunt of bed-springs breaking. The carnal

sob that comes from a job well done. He played
with her hard nipple, toyed with her swollen

lips. She held his head until he obeyed,
her long curved fingers making a fountain

for him to drown in. Her mouth at his ear,
sliding down his naked skin, cupping him,

her mouth taking in his engorged boy-cock
down to its root. What is sex without fear?

Later, they sighed, sticky with their jism
and bliss. This is what we call “pillow talk.”

minha língua

16 Sunday Mar 2014

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March 16, 2014 (2)

Drinking angels.
Saliva. My tongue.
My language. My words.

Lick my wings with your verb.
Until you feel the orgasm flower within my shoulders.

Slowly lick my clit, said the angel.
The pulse of your tongue touches it.
You devil, the angel said.
You leave me nearly dead horny.

][][

Bebem os anjos.
A saliva. Minha língua.
Minha lingua. Meus palavras.

Lambe-me as asas com a teu verbo.
Até que você sente a flor orgasmo dentro da meus ombros.

Devagar lambesse o meu clitóris, disse o anjo.
O dos teus pulsos isso língua toca.
Você diabo, disse o anjo.
Você me deixa de tesão quase morto.

do gosto da vida libidinosa

14 Friday Mar 2014

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My skin and the wind
sings your verses
to the moon. Your body
on mine. Your willingness
to taste. Desire
to do crazy things before,
during and after. Your
tongue to know me.
My mouth to suck you.
Under the influence
of the moon
Under the taste of
libidinous life.

][][

Minha pele e o vento
canta teus versos
para a Lua. Teu corpo
no meu. Teu vontade
de sentir o gosto. Desejo
de fazer loucuras antes,
durante e depois. Da tua
língua a me conhecer.
Minha boca a te sugar.
Sob a influência
da Lua.
Sob a do gosto da
vida libidinosa.

BUT THE MACHINERY OF HALLUCINATION …

06 Thursday Mar 2014

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“and ’tis known a pretty piece of flesh am I.”
— Shakespeare

… is just simple brass trapezoids, organs
attached to organs, atoms to atoms.

The thermometer’s quicksilver lengthens.
Wheels whirr. Steam steams. These retrograde systems,

archaic even, concentric streamlined
gadgets, working elements that Dante

called hell, all of this, everything I find
inside myself, this heart beating away

in the dark, will one day melt into air.
Stop. Cease. Listen. Hear it? The cynic’s star

laughs, makes signs of the hobo and the bum.
What a piece of work caught between despair

and joy. I count the beats, play the guitar
and wait. I’m air. I’m song. I am rhythm.

epigrams xi.99

23 Sunday Feb 2014

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Feb 23, 2014 (1)

Feb 23, 2014 (2)

 

De cathedra quotiens surgis — jam saepe notavi — pedicant miserae, Lesbia, te tunicae … sic constringuntur gemina Symplegade culi et nimias intrant Cyaneasque natis.

“I’ve noticed when you get up from the couch you’ve been assfucked, Lesbia, by your wretched skirts. Your skirts are caught between your massive cheeks as big as two Gibraltars — it’ll be a tight fit.”

— Martial, «Epigrams XI.99»

root bound

23 Sunday Feb 2014

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Midnight sweetly suck soft peaks hard ridges
a cute twitching ear. Clandestine, candle-

less acts each panting partner’s pubic fuzz
old-growth jungle in darkness the cruel

sticky fun things that we who in stillness,
nocturnal fragrance, tongues in the sun, gag

down our dear flora moon’s rootbound tresses.
Holding captive junk, black ink, midnight skag,

eyelids close — our hats tipped forward, low slung
guns, or pecs or whatever you call it.

Just think: I will never sleep with you, you’ll
never know such love, or taste such a tongue.

And yet you go on — thinking all this shit
is good. And it is. It is just awful.