Vision

A particle of sand could be a world
to beings smaller than atoms
smaller than a though
it could be floating like plankton in an ocean of air
it could be a universe that lives inside a universe
a center which may possibly be not the center

Many worlds may pass before our very eyes
and we ourselves may also exist on a floating speck of dust
waiting for God/dess to cough and expel that which we call home
and hurl us into black, silent space

It is all very much like the air we inhale
creating and destroying worlds that we may never know to exist
just in one moment of being
in one innocent act of survival.

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Ancient Melody

So strange the soft melody seeming
too soft for anyone else to hear
a strain so beautiful I wish I could share

Forward it rolls like tiny waves in a pool
that never quite reach the edge
an unending torture for cilia
pulsating ribbons reaching towards
a more solid stream yet gaining nothing
but whispering strands beyond my audible vision

A flute whispers in my ear
wrapping a lament around my head
it is an ode of ancient origin
in a tongue we no longer speak or hear
a language flickering to a rhythm best
resembling that inside my loins
the words with which I would gladly utter
an old conjure to sooth the glowing magma boiling
in a bottomless pool of menstrual blood.

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prayer

Yesterday I felt a prayer run up my spine and pierce my brain
I felt the snake uncurl from its long rest and open its eyes
shaking its rattle in my cunt and breathe out a long wet hiss

I opened my unblinded snake eye and beheld my Mother
with her naked pulsing nipples pushed out by her long black breasts
her head crowned by the Sun and Moon
her eyes of Dragon’s Blood and Lapis
her hands bent like the claws of vultures
clasping
writhing red and black striped serpents
bringing
both
to my outstretched hands.

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Begin

something is not quite here
not on the surface
not quite tasty on the tongue
like a temple orange not yet sliced open
with its bitter fleshy skin still smelling ripe

the flesh of your thick cock fills with blood
raging through your dark gray slacks
rising and straining against your firm right thigh
like the lava that pumps through your veined hands
while my body hovers over your long prone frame
not quite settling in to mount you
but yet you penetrate my interior
determined to feel flesh parting

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Presence of You

You are too much to digest with one swallow
you, with your easy smile and lazy saunter
mask unrelenting intensities of your presence
here in this square, cold room and
I cannot digest it all in one swallow.

Sitting across from you
I though I would have something flippant to say
but when you finished speaking
all my plans
to make you actually look at me while
my eyes still rested on your face
disappeared
because I could not quite dare to see
the rising tide I once caught in your eyes
that rush of you inside a wave
that could surely drown me
so I turned away in a tremble
settling in the encircling vibration of
your voice.

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subject of desire

 

what is desire if denial of desire
becomes in of itself an obsession?
do not tell him you want to come
so I am told
for you
I cannot be acknowledged to exist
as a desiring subject
where virginal vaginas are objects of worship
prized
stolen
bought
broken
destroyed
I defy the lie that would imprison my pussy my soul to madness
I revel in the deviance of woman pleasuring her/myself

when I say I desire to touch you
do you feel my fingers only on your cock
or do you notice sheer light crossing between us
as I reach for your hand?
I smell the rich amber and cedar of your scent
as I roll your sweet flesh
around my tongue
catching hair like threads on my lips

I am told
do not tell him you come hard and often
that you are insatiable and uncontrollable even as he
fucks every hole
grinds me into liquid
and yet I push you further inside me
and you think you may both drown
not enough time to think or project
not enough time to believe anything else but pleasure
not enough guilt to walk away
not enough mercy to know when clear becomes red
not enough control to hear the safe word

he sees though the torn curtain hanging in the doorway
legs spread eyes closed
masturbation will make you blind to all considerations
but that which makes the cunt flood and spill
woman hands desire both the self and him
becoming voyeur to one’s own exhibitionism
the whoring of writing
the whoring of writers
being nowhere all this time
except buried in my own womb
drinking my own menstrual blood
licking up my own juice
tying to hold on to my last big orgasm
my own pleasure being selfish
you/I are/am so angry at/about my/your
dependency on a moment
we both struggle to see
before the breaking of morning
when you/I know in these few seconds left
love is possible.

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The Power of Looking Back

 

I suspect that you look at me
out of mere curiosity or pleasure
that you are hoping
that I will see you looking
that I will look back at you
and turn away before your eyes meet my face once again.

Yes, I am quite certain of it now
you want this to happen
though we have yet to speak
your eyes linger much too long
for me to conclude that it is nothing, at all
and so I malinger on a fantasy of what
that look could possibly mean
and now the look is a gaze
and the gaze becomes a stare
and soon I am compelled to stare back
and with a brazen gesture I was never taught
I lick the crevice on my full bottom lip and smile at you

knowing
knowing
the power of looking
back.

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