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what lovely bones
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bogus
Q: Do you ever find yourself ruminating? What do you ruminate about?
I feel sober … delirious … a crass
imperious, like a needless meltdown
or a skirt with buttons sewn down the ass,
leaving queer imprints each time i sit down.
Don't frown. I have floppy sweat, sweaty flop
and this deeply odd dimple. Here are two
blinkable eyes drowning in my mop top.
High dreams, click bait, a smoking glitter glue
gun. Don't laugh, this glamour is serious,
like the foundling you're fondling. Hell's
bells in the palm of your hand. Don't question
this fog's piss. I've turned totally bogus,
as the kids say. Fog? Dementia that swells
in me, hot as any glue from a gun.
As I’ve noted elsewhere my father has dementia and I, being the oldest child in the whole extended family, am perhaps showing early signs of it too. I say, “early signs,” as if I were operating with some sort of money-back-guarantee of reaching a million miles before needing to be sold for scrap in exchange for something slightly better.
This is what I think about, perhaps at times a bit too much. Self-pity is an odd toxic beast. Some folks say that dementia is a blessing since it causes the patient to forget that they’re slowly losing everything about themselves. I don’t spend a lot of time on-line these days, not because I don’t care but because there are times that I’ve forgotten that I have a blog and that revelation is sorta a total bummer.
If, at some point, I stop posting here for good it will probably mean that I’ve lost the path to get back home; midway, as Dante would put it, through those deep dark woods where no search party will ever be able to find me.
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plagues
You say you want to be seduced. I want
that, too. Not me. You. I want to seduce
you: with song, with soul, with the feral haunts
of your thwarted passions. I know the juice
you keep bottled between your legs, DJ.
Let us incantate: Kafé – Kasita –
non Kafela. “All these beats will obey
what these grooves/ demand. Bloody, raw
and in command.” Shall we dance, my spitfire?
Shall I taste all that runs between your legs?
This is my glamour's glimmer. My coy please.
My pomp's circumstances and rude desire.
We are what we play. For you lust plagues.
For me one irksome and vexing cock tease.
][][
Notes.
It starts with Bowie's “I am a D.J., I am what I play.”
#lust plague#sonnet#poem#poetry#spilled ink#erotic poetry#I am a D.J.#I am what I play.#conversations with imaginary sisters#cunnilingus
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bareback
Like this. The abyss yawned wide with jelly
honey smeared around the rim. Such event
horizons spawned from your thirst for nerdy,
fey boys. I've never been much except bent,
as in, curious. You called it your black
hole. “Je veux te sentir en moi.” Back when
strange new worlds meant more than just bareback
sex in the backseat. Since I wasn't, “Men
who Suck,” I was safe, even if you weren't.
All you adults and your Midlife crises
still faze me ⟺ middle school was spent in moans
⟺ slaphappy moans ⟺ one more pretty thing “learnt”
in singularities ⟺ “Like this” ⟺ how to please
supernovas and erogenous zones.
Note.
“Je veux te sentir en moi” translates into, “I want to feel you inside me.”
#bareback#sonnet#erotic poetry#poetry#poem#spilled ink#anal sex#black holes#age difference#french translation#sodomy
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#camp humor is campy#ah#the 1950s#dumpster fire#You don't understand#I coulda had class#I coulda been a contender#I coulda been somebody#instead of a bum#which is what I am#let's face it#yup
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"Your father is insane! Ask what happened to your other brother, the one no one talks about!"
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TEXT:
"Do you know where little girls go who don't like putting their clothes on?"
"Yes, on the stage."
... from Humor Camp, vol. 5 (1961)
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TEXT:
"That isn't what I meant, Sister Sally, by going out to find some sinners."
... from, Laughters, v.14 (1931)
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... from, Follies, vol. 10 (1933)
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TEXT:
BOOKS Suppressed books NOW $3.50.
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Art from, Spice O' Life (April 1926)
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Another curious selection of photos from days gone by, this from a so-called, "lad's" magazine, Beauty Parade (1950), featuring Leslie Banning, star of many a "hoss opera."
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Hot Dog (1923) was a curious magazine. Billed as a, "regular fellows monthly," it featured "Famous Physical Culture Beauties," as one caption put it, in 1920s swimwear, striking poses and hanging out down at the beach.
For the most part the models appear to be actual athletes; this in an era when the boudoir photography of the Jazz Age was all the rage, full of coy nudity and bad puns, aimed at a more heterosexual clientele, shall we say.
#vintage swimwear#1920s photography#a magazine called hot dog#reblog#other people's erotica#let the ozone strike your skin
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tía
“Surrealism is only shocking to those who are shocked by dreams,” André Breton.
Scads of old wounds, tía. Scads. El viento
muere/ en mi herida. “The wind dies/ in
my wound.” And in the blood, tía, its slow
flow, a queer smear. Horror under the skin.
Horror that keeps itching. Alejandra,
tía, I'll still be your your fag hag that keeps
you from the night that gnaws and, mendiga,
begs in your blood. Infernal stone that weeps.
Sugar crusts. The crunch and chew of language.
An itch. A witch. I cannot stop, auntie,
I call you all: Necromancer of words
and wounds. This scar? Where I pulled my innards
out. Where I washed my old wound in the sea
and used your name as its heinous bandage.
Notes.
If Federico Garcia Lorca would be my uncle, then please let Alejandra Pizarnik be my aunt. These two poets taught me more about the craft than anyone else. And yes, I use the term craft as in the dark Dionysian powers of the psyche and soul. Pizarnik wrote in fragments, as the language she used drove her insane. Artistically, she is sister to Paul Celan, who wrote in German and committed suicide by drowning in the Seine. Language as virus. Language as plague. The poem of hers I use is, “El viento muere en mi herida./ La noche mendiga mi sangre.”
#tía#sonnet#quote unquote#poem#poetry#conversations with imaginary sisters#Spanish poetry#alejandra pizarnik#ars poetica
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bestial
Shan't know, I suppose. So I'll go … I'm gone …
watch me, “went.” To find that blessed spot. Even
that sounds like a joke. Flesh Gordon. Sex Spawn.
Deep throat Nine. Whimsy, chaos & semen.
Even Leia's, “Into the Garbage Chute,
Fly boy,” made you snicker; though sodomy
remains a tribal language. That & brute
passion, which is also a force. Your knees
around my neck. Your nails digging fjords
down my back. I tongue-fuck that spot & you
groan like the ravenous Bugblatter Beast
that you are. That spot? You hit the high chords
each time. Messy mirth is always taboo;
messy, whimsy, chaos with lips well-greased.
Note.
The Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal is a fictional monstrosity from, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. File it under: Other People's Pillow Talk.
#bestial#sonnet#poem#poetry#erotic poetry#spilled ink#cunnilingus#fallatio#Bugblatter Beast#hit the high chords
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[X marks the spot: the only lending library on Culebra.]
Q: Would you ever give a lost Tarot deck a good home?
Every year I travel to the tiny island of Culebra, off the coast of Puerto Rico, to frolic in the ocean and explore coral reefs. It's so small that there is only one stop sign and most of the residents tootle around in golf carts. There are no cruise ships, no mega-hotels, no nightlife, no drunken entertainment. It's humble. It's beautiful. It always feels like home when I return.
There use to be a public library but for complicated reasons that have nothing to do with this post it was closed down a few years ago. Regardless, every year I bring an assortment of books that I find fascinating and leave them in the little free library that someone erected in the downtown of the island's village, Dewey. Last year it was all about one of my favorite poets, Alejandra Pizarnik. This year I'm bring Barbara Smith's Home Girls anthology, the poetry of Pat Parker and Celia A. Sorhaindo's collection, Guabancex, named after the Taino goddess of hurricanes.
I'm also bringing something slightly different, a Sea Witch Tarot deck and its grimoire that I wrote in 2023.
The book isn't just an user guide for Tarot, it's much of my writing on the theme of Sea Witchcraft. I include tidal charts, spells, history, poetry, maps and translations as well as the art that went into the deck.
I have no idea who on Culebra needs this but that's not really the point. I have faith that these gifts will make their way into the right hands provided that I'm open and listening. Who knows what will happen? It will be, as they say, a grand adventure.
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Q: Did you find out that Satan was talking to you on the Ouija board?
A: I mean, sure, there are miserable people out there who’ve made it their mission to ensure that life is as horrible as possible for the rest of us … but they don’t use a toy sold by Parker Brothers to get their marching orders.
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Serenata was weekly Spanish-language romance comic book series published in 1959 in Barcelona.
Each issue had lyrics to various pop songs of the day as well as the artist's bio in the back.
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