Tag Archives: Poetry

count each scar

16 Thursday Jan 2014

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Water-witches follow the sea’s rough path,
cross to the wave’s door, ride the brackish mare

tide-ways home. I loved a witch. In my bath
she would let me wash her back, braid her hair,

count each scar. I think of her on the shore,
calling the drowned to come home. Souls like fish

swallowed up. I can’t find the witch’s door,
just snow upon waves; moths that vanish

as she did. My sister, I must make friends
with the waves, as you did. You returned

to me riding their backs like a blue flame
until the drowned called for you. Who pretends

they can sing up storms? I can’t. Lost and burned
I’m a child in the fog, calling your name.

as if it were a given

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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halo blue light, moon through trees the dead lay
curled in the grass softly teasing the rain

light drops upon its naked skin the fey
delight the wood nymph pleasures each drop pain

each drop, a warming, bringing it nearer
to the mist, the clouds, the shadow glimmers

upon its back and legs, heat, a lover’s
heat, one even dead flesh can remember

whipping now, stinging its back, burning holes
in its ruined blue face as the dead dive

in and the living talk about rebirth
as if it were a given that’s the soul’s

vanity, hoping that it will survive
as its laid down in the dreams of the earth

deleting

07 Tuesday Jan 2014

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“if I could I’d burn all of Western literature to set it free …”

Here’s the thing, the problem I struggle with,
the whole kit and kaboodle, here’s how I’ll

go down: one day I’ll get bored, my neolith
art will no longer please. Every exile

knows that immortality is absurd.
It’s that last act: burning books, deleting

computer files, making sure that no word
remains — that is art. Would you keep writing

if you knew no one would read it? Zen tells
us to hit “erase” after each poem.

Enlightenment claims nothing shall remain
behind. Fuck zen. Give me chaos and hell’s

short-term memory. I want to become
nothing, let blank pages be my domain.

before the storm

07 Tuesday Jan 2014

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Before the thunderstorm arrives
Ampropits’ arraj galis
Ամպրոպից առաջ գալիս

Rub your tongue across her swollen clitoris
K’sum dzer lezun amboghj ir tslik urrats
Քսում ձեր լեզուն ամբողջ իր ծլիկ ուռած

Watch as she begins to arch her spine
Ditel yen k’ani vor na sksum e shrjadardz ir voghnashari
Դիտել են քանի որ նա սկսում է շրջադարձ իր ողնաշարի

and her thighs begin to tremble
yev nra azdreri sksum yen doghal
եւ նրա ազդրերի սկսում են դողալ

Inhale the rain in the air
Nershnch’yel e andzrev odum
Ներշնչել է անձրեւ օդում

][][

notes:

The best way to determine if a foreign language dictionary is of any use is to see if it has the word “clitoris” in it, a standard medical term. If it doesn’t then there is a good chance there will be a whole mess of other words it won’t have either. If language is simply a tool that allows us to communicate then there is no such thing as a “dirty” word, there are only uptight people who fear the truth behind words. One day someone needs to make an erotic Armenian dictionary. The nearest I could find in Armenian for clitoris is “tslik” (ծլիկ ), though I am sure there are other words, too, that I just can’t find.

clit in a riot

05 Sunday Jan 2014

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Ja 05, 2014 (2)

 

 

 

 

 

“Squirm” is one of the most unerotic
words we have. It’s sweaty, but not sweat-fuck

sweat. It speaks of discipline, but not slick
ash cane strokes on up-turned ass, each lilac

kiss-bloom causing you to gasp. The only
thing I can think of that might make squirm sound

naughty involves callused fingers, puffy
lips, tracing the curve of your venus mound,

curling, parting, finding home. It involves
knuckles, first one, then, pushing, a fat second.

Children squirm when touched, as will you. Eyes shut,
with: yes … right … there … Oh … God. What will dissolve

in bliss if rubbed? What’ll leave you dazed, dampened,
gasping, thighs shaking, clit in a riot?

shameless

05 Sunday Jan 2014

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Pretty thing, ask any beta-bottom
boy, when you are ordered to be shameless,

there is excitement in being taken,
there is safety in being powerless,

there is a thrill in being tested.
Pleasure isn’t always painful, but it

should be. Loyalty comes in cum and blood
and a soft voice telling you to submit,

on the other end of the phone, to show
proof of your transgressions. Some say to love

is to suffer, but only if it’s done
right. Yes, pretty thing, go find one who knows

you inside and out, who towers above
you and will teach you how pain can be fun.

mercy’s bane

03 Friday Jan 2014

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Like that, I’ll take your pain upon myself,
so that you no longer hurt—an exchange,

release, this little act that you, yourself,
can’t do. That isn’t love, but it’ll do. Strange

possession—hot breath on my neck, strong hands
in my hair, cuffs biting my skin, my neck

pulled taught. You call this control? Pain demands
strength that you don’t possess. All your needs: flick

the whip, bend to your will, be mercy’s bane.
Mercy’s bane? Show me a Dom who laughing

at did not fluster—they’re far too fragile
without power. I love the games of vain

people, they’re so easy to break; proving
that they have yet to learn the word cruel.

what at last

02 Thursday Jan 2014

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What you call manic depression has been
with me for so long sharp jags and deep highs

and that feeling that all that I do — sin
you called it: pink lips, yellow moons, blue thighs

and green clovers — leaves me buried, my head
in my hands. Those blackest of nights. Red hell

leaves me curled up so. You would think this dread
would go away if I just didn’t tell

you, if I filled these lines with want, need, lust.
Whatever you think erotica needs

to be. Whatever. Touch my shoulder. Call
my name. Rouse me from this decay, this dust,

this touch of nightmare. I’m what the worms seed,
the sky’s end, what at last broke the rag doll.

most adults are dull degenerates

02 Thursday Jan 2014

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It’s that time of year, the long winter squalls
set in. From my front porch I cannot see

Russia, but the Arctic Light, like you, crawls
towards me. I love that you’re so motley,

forlorn, devil’s brat in cast-off choirboy
skin. Let me take you behind the temple

and draw down the sky, your little schoolboy
shorts, all the joy my right hand can bring. Dull

degenerates, most adults are, reading
the worst in every word I write. Let them

purposely misunderstand this, malice
fills their hearts. But for you, little sex thing,

little toy, I’ll make you cum in mayhem,
like heaven’s aurora borealis.

][][

nothing stands between us here/ and I won’t be denied
—Sarah McLachlan, possession