Tangled in the backseat, parked near the bridge,
I am in awe with the curve of your ass.
Under your jeans your telltale scar-tissue,
mortar-shell fragments, your brawny muscles
and the curved stump ending above the knee.
I’m a drunken beast on hands and elbows.
You’re all splorpy-wet from savage foreplay.
“Prends-moi par derrière. Jouis dans mon cul.”
Pressing your forehead against the window’s
glass you shudder at the depravity
of gore, being gored, once more light mangles
itself behind our lids — I would tell you
that I love you as our breath fogs the glass
but I don’t know those words in your language.
In French, “Prends-moi par derrière. Jouis dans mon cul,” roughly translates as, “Take me from behind. Cum in my ass.”
Later you will tsk, rub away a speck
of dried cum. Today the floor needs mopping,
the sheets laundry. You sat in the bathtub
for hours scrubbing. Last night you were filthy.
I knew you wanted more; only took what
I could offer, I received your wetness
trailing down my chin. I could only twist
against rope that bound my ankle and wrist
I don’t protest — I just stared, your lewdness
glistened wide, your clit a pomegranate
seed on my tongue — you stood above me
fingers twined throughout my hair as you rubbed
yourself faster and harder murmuring
into my neck flooding all down my neck.
You like your fuck puppets cute and pig-tailed.
Boys call you, “Papi.” Girls, “Mommy.” I sweat
fugly. I slur. I’m grotesque: — yet, so few
ghosts stay to write your name in cum across
their drowned bellies like I do. There’s no cure.
I grind it in you slow and hot: — You’re ill
for days after. You’re ill enough to bleed.
Sick the way fire needs carbon. The sick need
the rope has for knots. “Make it tighter still,
leave a mark, something to look at when you’re
gone.” — just under the skin, aching for loss.
Bend me, break me, if you must. I give you
my bones, my vulgar flesh that you crave. Let
me be your drug, where all others have failed.
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.