of my hand …
It’s the wail from your
jean’s shadow, that blue
ridged gorge-line that
wanders down the fever
of your crotch’s camel toe;
that which drew
me, deep knuckles, to your
With two callous thumbs;
it’s how this shall start;
with thumbs oak-roots thick.
They make a queer wedge;
to plow, to furrow, to
spread you apart
until your lips fold back
and blur your edges.
Continental plates buckle
when these thumbs
press deep down into
cum-musk, into stain,
into hullabaloo’s stratum.
up your flabbergasted O
Clerks bang on the door. You
try to explain
as I pull my hands away,
Rutting and bleeding and on hands and
the crack of my palm on your rump while
bruising fire fills you. You grimace.
of rough fucking disgusts you, which is
we are doing it. This is about you —
There are rude delights that bring you
Because you don’t want it. Because you
Because, with a safe-word, you like
and mucks and glops down your face.
than gross? We’ve tried. You’re still
not deeply quenched;
though you trust the freedom that
brings you. You growl and spread
shuddering at each stroke. I feel you
cresting, on the verge of a vast
Lovers do not take lovers back. Leaves
forest floors drifts. What I hold now
what I held then. There are gaps
cannot close. The cum on my chin. The
on your spring dress. The blood-rites
All that excites; all that has been
I drink with pills and once more I’m
I can salve hurt ghosts and love the
I’m their shadow of frisson, quiver,
The dead demand. Not even Mama Frigg
could hold them back; but let me be,
all that can calm libidos gone macabre.
The dead line up the shots. Swig after
then I draw them close, I hold the lost
In Norse mythology Frigg is the goddess
of married women and frustrated masturbation. She has since evolved
into British slang as any form of masturbation; see, the Sex Pistols’
“’Friggin’ In The Riggin’” from, “The Great Rock and
Roll Swindle” (1980).
Hyde: Okay-dokey, you first.
Claire: Why me?
Hyde: Fantastic arse.
— Jekyll (2007)
It starts with the faithful and their
I feel you gripping tight, slipping,
again as I pull back; of course you
it’s your sphincter’s response to me
“Jack-hammerin’.” Think: piston-action.
Whatever. I hate those metaphors. Loss
comes in every form. We cling close,
by love, as if we could stave off chaos
with a mere fuck, as if your
could lead us back to our gods. Faith
drives the search for freedom. You
groan, I slide
deeper, muscles gripping, holding.
Faith must be as hard-core as feral
filthy, potent and not to be denied.
This joy that we suffer, when nights
against the pane. Startled, legs all
you twist the knob, then pull your
to one side. Suddenly you’re lost. A
of heat builds up. As if to say —
As if to say — even the darkest month
must have limits. And the first spasm
directs you down, into the labyrinth
that we suffer through, following a
that speaks in buzz, all plastic,
powered. Circle, plunge. Circle,
plunge. The toy
in your hand turns you mystic,
And through the maze you come, in
arching up, cresting out, suffering —
Morning fog. Open window. Her muscled
arms. Spooned in silence. Soft boy
One roll and she mounted, sliding from
sleep into howling wetness. Tightening,
vice-like, a groan, nails marking his
husky, low. Fog patches filling the
of the bay. Child of the reef, your
caught you out of your drowned-skin.
lust when a muscle-woman puts her mind
to it? Not even myth. Her thighs
her heels dug into the mattress. She
down. Bit hard. Drew salt. Laughed as
back; let him breathe while sea-water
between her thighs dribbled down
Take my fist. Split it down through the middle,
then pry the pieces apart. Here’s the jaws
and each cilia tooth. Tongue that jackal
flies can’t resist. All these fingers: mere claws
now, mere pincers. Lady Nepenthes, Queen
of the Pitcher Plants, dreams of my scalloped
edges rimmed with sticky dew. It’s obscene
all the bodies my flesh has enveloped,
swallowed, digested. But hunger, my friend,
hunger always wins. It’s what Venus taught
me. What my own fist knew before you took
the bone-cleaver to it. Did that offend?
When my fingers closed around what I caught
and the moth, dear thing, trembled and shook —