Today I drink and so do you. These words
enter you, they touch the dark light inside.
You’ve had lovers before. Some were bastards,
some not. They’re all gone. None stayed. None replied
when you called. But that’s not what you regret.
Your cunt milked him as he thrust both his thumbs
deep in your ass, cried out. You felt a jet
of his semen balloon out the condom,
shooting against your cervix. Today we
drink and pause over past lovers; all those
who did not stay. Today we are going
to get so fucking drunk. You are like me.
We have no real friends. We’re no one’s heroes.
This is not love — just a dark light — ghosting.
I would love to make the Devil weep, if only I truly believed such a rogue existed; but how can something so tailored to 13th Century Europe’s concepts of ‘sin’ be anything more than the fever-dreams of sexually repressed, unwashed old men with bad teeth and syphilis?
You’ve made a fetish doll from me. From spit
and stains, from my hair and nails. When you said:
— “I want the moon on my tongue, now give it
up to me” — You knew that, when pricked, I bled
pale light; that when, hung, suspended, drugged to
my toes, you could taste how to fly on my
skin. You say it’s about conjure, that you
can drain me, just like that. But I defy
that limp rag. You can suck patchwork veins
all day long and you still won’t get it. Moon
light is a distortion of what we want
inside. All the stolen pubes and cum stains
in the world won’t save you, it’s why you’ll soon
come back to me: hungry, hollowed eyed, gaunt.
I can’t sleep. I’ve listened to you all night.
Over and over, softly through the floor.
This must be your art, your craft. Sodomite.
Pervert. Poet. And while I could say more
there are a thousand reasons why I should
stop here — I’ve wasted so much whiskey on
myself, I’ve bled, I’ve gnawed on green wormwood.
And you — with your, “Afternoon of a Fawn,”
and your beastly hands and cruel antlers —
You sing low. That noise, that slapping nuisance,
fills the night with voyeuristic heartache.
All art is illicit, it seeks pleasures —
In your pause, in your last note, that silence,
coming from below, keeps the world awake.
The drowned girl said, “be rougher, I don’t mind.”
In the old tongue — a tongue that I couldn’t
speak well. The lake water had made me blind
so I clung to her wide hips as her cunt
covered my mouth, my chin. In the night tide
the small waves inched over us. I could feel
her bent forward, pressing down, as she tried
to gag me -drown- while her wild mane went eel-
like, all hither and yon. I’ve walked Sevan’s coast,
the drowned outnumbers the living. Thirty
years-old; wild hair rose up, like — dark like, kelp —
a voice that called from the lake. Carmine’s ghost
calling, “Yeranut’yun.” — Bliss. The way she
pulled back and said, “you naughty little welp.”
In Armenian, the word for bliss is, “yer’an’ut’yun,” (երանություն).
Here’s release. You and me, we’re not like them.
They pulled away. You sniffed my open palm
as you touched your lips. My fingers, my thumb,
even my wrist were soaked. The low buzz-bomb
growl of my vibrator filled the backseat
of your mom’s car. The upholstery had crude
scars and new finger-funk stains, while slush-sleet
coated the windows — Acheflow — We pursued
whatever we could do between the breaks.
Your prom was a bust; your college transcripts
denied. You were a ball of stress. All fraught
until a toy made you squirt up earthquakes
into my palm. They blanched while your hips
buckled wide in the Gaspar parking lot.
Morning fog. Open window. Her muscled
arms. Spooned in silence. Soft boy flesh waking.
One roll and she mounted, sliding from dulled
sleep into howling wetness. Tightening,
vice-like, a groan, nails marking his shoulder,
husky, low. Fog patches filling the gapes
of the bay. Child of the reef, your lover
caught you out of your drowned-skin. What escapes
lust when a muscle-woman puts her mind
to it? Not even myth. Her thighs buckled,
her heels dug into the mattress. She ground
down. Bit hard. Drew salt. Laughed as she reclined
back; let him breathe while sea-water dribbled
between her thighs dribbled down dribbled down.
Ill kept, bad investment, this aftermath
when we drift off to sleep. Some want two sips
I need a whole damn ocean, a bloodbath.
I know about quenching. How the bullwhip’s
handle, when pressed just so, can stem your whole
deluge. I’ll leave it there. To wet my lips
and then moisten my mouth, rupture your soul.
I run my fingers through you, though what drips.
I call it soul — something that I can touch.
Slake. We all have appetites and there’s bliss
when at last full. It’s what copper suggests
on the tongue from peeling fruit. Insomuch
as my tongue can peel your fruit from this kiss,
this pulp, this sweat pooling between your breasts.
“Delight in the video” — I don’t play
too many lover’s games. All that vanity
turned sour some time ago. Yet I obey
simple commands, and at times willingly.
It’s what you do in public. Curious
that you’ll take it far enough to almost
get caught each time, almost. It’s that boldness
that no one else sees in you. Like a ghost
you mark where you’ve been with dripping,
sticky fingerprints — After the vodka
tonics you type, “Hit Play.” The video
starts. Where are you? Pay toilet? Sitting
down, you smile — staring into the camera.
“This is for you,” you say, “watch: nice and slow.”