"pubis" poems
Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant's body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.
I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and nigh swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.
But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of the ***** Oh your voice, slow and sad!
Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.
129k
Into the wonderment of your autumnal mind.
Where the skin of your grief sheds its leaves.
Is the song of your sea bound into colourful light?
The Shepherd breaches the flock of your dreams,
And the pastures breathe a sigh of relief,
As your tears of morning dew
Glisten the parched landscape.
Does your bouquet of *****
Lay wistfully in the wilderness?
The skies of blue that reside in your eyes
Serenades the coming of the tide,
Harvesting the fruit of our labour of love.
Is this a wind of smile that turns into a voyage of valiancy?
A flock of thoughts liberated with a cry of exclamation
As your fears of autumn blue
Are exiled into the rapacious wind.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
He was one of those guys who marry money.
And you can grok that in any sense you desire.
But be forewarned, my friend,
I am well-versed in a multitude of
Marry-For-Money manifestations.
Take, for example, marrying the Boss' daughter.
Come with me, for illustration's sake,
Join me in one such dis-functional household:
George & Martha's place on campus--
A classic Tudor-revival home,
Ivied & plushly-appointed,
A coveted faculty perk
Which goes along with the gig.
And the gag, for that matter.
I speak, of course, of Edward Albee's
Two perversely miserable humans,
Married to each other, to wit:
George & Martha, leading lives of
Pubis-scratching desperation, in
"Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"
She's the only daughter--
Daddy's precious jewel--
Only girl-child of the President
Of a small, rural college.
He's the middle-aged professor
With no great pedagogic or research prowess.
His working-class perspective,
Viewing the quiet academic life to be
A significant step up in genteel existence.
Except--and there's the rub:
Mere existence is a far cry from
Living the good life Dan Draper &
The rest of Satan's Mad Men minions
Taught him to take for granted.
So George & Martha,
In terms of core values,
Have little in common;
More like opposites, in fact:
His starvation diet as a child &
Her helping out Mom at the
Food Bank on Saturday mornings.
It's those formative razzmatazz years,
He lacked the behavior blueprint,
The overwhelming fatigue of acting.
He's perpetually memorizing lines,
Practicing ****** expressions &
Physical gestures & phrases.
Guard up, another Oscar-worthy performance,
Burton is superb & Elizabeth Taylor
Showing us precisely why she is &
Will continue to be revered as an actress.
George knows she has his number.
The thing about the play is the
Intense malice the couple feel for each other.
For the audience, an experience in stage drama
Best classified as an intensely painful morality play.
A good thing to remember: Live Theater
Adds value to a community.
Give generously, please!
But I digress.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
In the orange cream dying sun's half light
swaddled by blankets wrapped in ***** clothes
I open my lips wanting your taste
eye to eye, mons ***** warm fragrance
To offer myself and soul over completely
When we were young did you ever think
we'd drown in the ocean of flesh between legs?
She smiled brightly, made noises
overjoyed much more than confused,
though that's not the story now, is it?
In an instant passion rises up with steam
gone again before I wipe the mirror and
brush my teeth, and once again I see
blackened debris, they're rotting out
from misspoke verbs
All that's sweet now is the imagining
of diabetic what once was
Two closed eyes reach back with a breathy sigh
withheld truths and well meant half lies,
cannot inspire lift again that left me,
but that doesn't stop the faithful
Has the tide this whole time been sending
waves of false hope, on which I'm floating?
Daydreaming, heating oil, she wants dinner,
and I hunger for satisfaction in new pictures
A hand for a finger, a tongue from both mouths
comforting by grabbing hungrily
until heads get thrown back, abs tighten
when pressed to relax, on the rack
stretched but both floating
Why does she want to drink my blood?
I don't ask just imbibe in return
Those days are long gone
Times when the worst thoughts could not undo
whatever flicker remains in the waning brazier's ember
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of pubis-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dogtag,
Or a dog, a colossal beast of a pet,
A humongus Harlequin Dane dog to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes.
Our boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.
We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo,” they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?
You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
simply trying to remember a certain coat that took me like a mouth.
a coat my soul left me for.
I have been to the tub I would sit waterless in-
typewriter like a girl on my lap; the vaporous acorns of bliss winter squirrels, ash,
in the desperate curls of pubis. I have been
to the gym, its court of passed and passed back fire, its auditorium unfilled
as a church in spain. I have been to my knees.
to the egg of bird, the grief of cow, and to the lengthy absence
of train’s tunnel. I have been
with boy, with baseball, with book- smoking late on this fence
with these my trinities
soon to strike
for the house of my anna
cheerless and bare, not russian, not there.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 1:45 PM UTC
It's supposed to be
98 and cloudless today.
By the time I roll in,
and park my car,
Roman's walking up to me,
his gold tooth a
full yellow smile in the sun.
“Hey meyer,
I need you to
Pull the box truck around,
We’ve got some plants we’ve gotta load,
Then we’ve got a landscape job
About an hour from here.”
“Are we gonna be back here
Today?”
“Probably not
until
late.”
The box truck
Is a holdover from the old owners
Of Ken’s Nursery,
It’s still got
Ken’s Nursery in large comic sans
On it’s rust-streaked sides.
The wheel wells are rusted
brown as salt deposits
On the shores of sulfuric oceans,
and little ringlets of decay
rock as the truck bounces;
It’s old springs
Giving back after all these years.
Today we have:
Forty-two veriagated ferns.
Ten dragon lilies.
10 cannas,
But cannas have to have a male and female to flower,
So 20 cannas collectively,
And we’ve gotta mulch.
By the time we’ve loaded all the plants;
stuffed the mulch in with the Bobcat,
And thrown in our picks and shovels,
My shirt is soaked through.
98 degrees and cloudless.
Roman walks to his car
and takes off his shirt
To reveal a pink belly
full of folding skin
and matted black upwelling *****
Singing with sweat-diamonds
In the unperturbed vision of the sun.
My shirt is soaked already too.
But even as I loaded the truck,
I thought about Melissa.
When I get home,
She probably won’t be there.
When the female is separated from the male canna,
Nothing dies, the two live happily ever after.
But the canna does not flower,
And doesn’t remember enough
To miss it.
Just continues quietly with a black bulb
The color of a skink’s underbelly.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
the wax doll mirrored herself in a puddle
she felt a scent of moist earth
upon her barren belly trees were blossoming
full of wild bees
after the magician’s performance she raised on tiptoes
dancing with her arms over her head
for life and for death
she kept the moonrise in the palms of her hands
and the song like a dagger between her teeth
she melted gradually
through her naked breast through her naked body
other swords passing
colder and colder
****** icicles growing in her heart
the real woman lay down in the grass
with a white butterfly sleeping on her *****
like a sailboat over the sea
she did not know
how much she resembled her wax replica
same little mermaid dancing all night long
piano fortepiano
al fine
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
A no-strings-attached thing is easy to arrange
It sounds exciting too, seems very straightforward
But sometimes you get caught up in things you don’t expect
Before you know it, you start caring
You develop feelings
You learn things about the other person
Her middle name, her favourite music, food
Her pet peeves, ambitions
You learn her innermost thoughts
Her insecurities, her ****** proclivities,
The little birthmark just above her mons *****
The one that she says looks like a map of the Dominican Republic
You lie in bed with her all day
She teaches you how to swear in Farsi.
You **** her every day.
One day she sees you making out with this random ****** and she flips
You say, but we said no strings attached or did we not?
It’s not as simple as that though, it never is
But this girl, she believes in you
She’s a paragon of patience
She sits you down and tells you to listen to her carefully
She explains to you that now you are sleeping with her on the regular
Your body is somehow her body too, partly, and vice versa
Says she understands that you are not together officially
But intimacy usually comes with an implied exclusiveness.
You say, Ok, I've heard you. And I understand where you’re coming from.
Then you tell her to **** off.
Time passes
You begin to miss her.
But you’re pride won’t let you call her.
You have *** three times with two different girls in one weekend
One of those girls has a boyfriend, you **** her in a night club restroom.
The other one on the beach a day after
Then a few hours later in her bedroom.
In the morning her room is all sandy,
Going home you begin reflecting on things
You've learnt one thing for sure:
However much top-shelf ***** you get, it doesn't compare to the love of a good girl
So it doesn't matter how many lovers you have in this world
If none of them give you the world.
You swallow your pride and call her
She can’t make it, she says.
But she comes the next day in the evening.
You explain everything,
How it felt like she was tethering you to her
How you took it all too lightly.
You’re not too good at it, talking about your feelings
You say that what she’d told you that day had gone through one ear, out the other
So you had to learn it all by yourself, you had to go through it
Finally, you apologise.
You’re very sincere.
She asks you, so is this closure?
You don’t want it to be, but you don’t know if you actually deserve her
**** you don’t know if she’d even take you back.
If she does, you've still got a lot to prove.
You’ll be in luck, but you’ll be starting on nothing.
If she doesn't then you knew and blew a good thing.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
Femenina, pero sin excesos,
que fluya la luz de sus ojos
pero sin apagar los neones
de MONSANTO, luz biodegradable
pero agradable al tacto.
Libre y Natural, como un sombrero.
Mezcla sutil de lana y jacquard.
Silueta relajada a la altura del *****
como una virgen romana,
y un concierto de colores húmedos
según va cayendo la tarde
Muy casual a partir de los labios
y un lindo ABCdario entre las piernas.
Transmisión sin pausa, dejando un eco
al volver a casa, sin caer en brazos
de una sonrisa armada hasta los dientes.
El color blanco es su aliado
y los pájaros pintados en el jardín
de sus sueños, en las manos, la imprescindible
lencería de una imaginación sin prisas,
y la siempre impredecible pasión
en su fresquito pequeño, aroma a alba
con un poco de opio en los cristales.
Un look de muerte para terminar
con el ideal de hombre, todo sin dejar de ofrecer
la cara oculta de su luna, un poco descabellada
al caminar por el Mercado
dejando claro que su hogar no se marchita.
El éxito como una póliza de seguros
guardado a la altura de su láctea paradoja.
Y de vez en vez mostrar la plantación de flores
cultivadas por la maniquí secreta
que en ASIA o en los fiordos del alma, arde.
Sin dejar oír nunca un si te quiero
que no sea el fru fru de su trastienda,
seda y sede de coral ***** y una navajita
para degollar pecado como peces
sin dejar de ser sofisticada con los dedos
y una delicadez a prueba de balas.
Es lo que se va llevar en las Avenidas de este Otoño.
Y un cielo en rama para amar un poco.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
As long as it doesn't affect me;
as long as it's not immediately relevant
and something I have to immediately worry about;
as long as it doesn't **** up
my credit score
or my
shiny
new
house
then,
**** it.
And
**** you,
for bringing it to my attention.
how dare you.
this was promised to me,
it's predestined,
my two-story, three bedroom, two bath; the foreign workmanship and american artifice; the creamy halo of vinyl in the sun; the wrath of windexed windows and their hard missiles of bright, reflected sunlight; the soft lips of my children; my wife's pillowy, warm stomach and scratchy ***** our retriever that eats his own **** picking apart tiny specks of feces from the sun-pricked tips of our rug of fescue; these are the works of God, this is the land of God. You are marring this flat earth
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
¿Y si Dios fuera mujer?
pregunta Juan sin inmutarse,
vaya, vaya si Dios fuera mujer
es posible que agnósticos y ateos
no dijéramos no con la cabeza
y dijéramos sí con las entrañas.
Tal vez nos acercáramos a su divina desnudez
para besar sus pies no de bronce,
su ***** no de piedra,
sus pechos no de mármol,
sus labios no de yeso.
Si Dios fuera mujer la abrazaríamos
para arrancarla de su lontananza
y no habría que jurar
hasta que la muerte nos separe
ya que sería inmortal por antonomasia
y en vez de transmitirnos SIDA o pánico
nos contagiaría su inmortalidad.
Si Dios fuera mujer no se instalaría
lejana en el reino de los cielos,
sino que nos aguardaría en el zaguán del infierno,
con sus brazos no cerrados,
su rosa no de plástico
y su amor no de ángeles.
Ay Dios mío, Dios mío
si hasta siempre y desde siempre
fueras una mujer
qué lindo escándalo sería,
qué venturosa, espléndida, imposible,
prodigiosa blasfemia.
1.3k
La mujer que tiene los pies hermosos
nunca podrá ser fea
mansa suele subirle la belleza
por totillos pantorrillas y muslos
demorarse en el *****
que siempre ha estado más allá de todo canon
rodear el ombligo como a uno de esos timbres
que si se les presiona tocan para elisa
reivindicar los lúbricos pezones a la espera
entreabir los labios sin pronunciar saliva
y dejarse querer por los ojos espejo
la mujer que tiene los pies hermosos
sabe vagabundear por la tristeza.
1.2k
Every time she undresses,
**I see flames on her mons *****
the mystery flabbergasts;
a figment of my amorous imagination?
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
Tu te dis enrobée, ma tigresse
J 'ai beau purger les yeux
Pour tenter de voir à travers ton sari de soie blanc céladon
Je ne décèle dans tes dessous
Que ton parfum de tigresse furtive et changeante
Chevauchant ton dragon de jade
Dans une jungle inhabitée.
Sauvage
Volontaire
Désinhibée
C'est ainsi qu'on te décrit à chaque illumination
C 'est ainsi qu'évidemment tu te sens
Avec Tigresse
Parfum Extraordinaire ... by Fabergé
Autour de ta taille j 'ai cru voir
Une chaîne d'argent massif où pend une fiole de jade
En forme de dent de tigre .
A l 'intérieur que sais je ?
J 'imagine de l 'eau bénite
Une capsule de cyanide ?
Ou des résidus de jus de jade
Au cas où
En cas de besoin
Sur la route ?
Sur ton *****
J'ai entr'aperçu
Un tatouage :
Un porc-épic qui feule
Hérissant et jetant ses épines
Avec comme devise
Qui s'y frotte s'y pique !
Je meurs d'envie
Que tu m'intronises dans ton ordre secret
Je meurs d'envie
D'être adoubé chevalier de l'ordre du porc-épic
Je meurs d'envie
Que, nue, tu te présentes,
Ma tigresse quatre en une ,
Dans l'un ou l 'autre
De tes plus simples appareils :
Tigresse en nourrice,
Tigresse errante,
Tigresse dans sa tanière,
Tigresse en laisse
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 2:26 AM UTC
I’m drowning in all the irony
Thrift store clerks with beards of
iron wool *****
and tattoos of the monsters under my bed
It goes coffee shop coffee shop camera store
bicycle vendor, corner store, coffee shop
parking deck, gas station, thrift shop
I have a pocket full of compliments
and a face full of stolen sunglasses and dental floss
and if I walk long enough
down broad, main, or grace
then maybe I can find the secret
the secret of how not drown
in all of the girls with their yoga pants and plaids
Can I learn to swim
when I’m already this far out?
I saw a homeless man eating a dead magpie
it was ******* weird
I was walking down one too many toward the intersection
of marijuana and spirits
already spinning myself a web of a night of discomfort
but the neon lights shone upon me
making me think it was the cops
so I ran and ran and ran until my shoes flapped worn
only to fall and skin my knee on the punchline
It’s hard to live in Atlantis
without a passport
or gills.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
Would you favor me?
Lounge in the chaise by the window
that tapers light inward,
so when you lie back,
without your clothing,
your face, shoulders, arms, nippled ******* belly, and *****
are bathed in natural and trailing light
defining your exquisite form
while shadowing your manifold into eternal mystery.
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
From the cranium
to the metatarsals.
I dare you to be careful.
Or drown me in ******
He went from the femur
upwards my symphysis *****
Looking beyond the cutis.
Or does he wish to view the pure.
Slightly touching with the phalanges
pressure building from the carpal.
Hiding the face under a parcel.
Or is the phase under changes.
Cramps in the tarsals
going up to the tibia.
For him it's a game of trivia.
Or is he fighting marshals.
He bites down into the clavicle
pain and pleasure going to the scapula.
He breaths vernacular.
He and I are flammable.
Bones to break.
What a piece of cake.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
If I could impregnate myself with my tears
My children would be innumerable and divine
Delicate as the lilacs at my feet
And as giving as my mothers hands
My children and I would dance wildly to the sound of the shaking leaves
And laugh until we cried at the absurdity of the decaying frames of the eternal surrounding infrastructures
I would gather our collective tears and water my children
Careful to sift the salt and reserve just enough for future implantation
My babies would nest in the tight curls of my crown and I would rock them to sleep in the gentle curve of my lashes
Blinking slowly and steadily to ease the restlessness of their being
If I could birth my children from my ear
I’d rest my head on a pillow and never leave
I’d rest my head flat on the soft surface
Turning my head only slightly to the left to give a final shake
Releasing my babies from their sack
I’d let them snuggle against my cheek as I sang to them the songs of the old Gods
And the new
I’d warm them with heat of my breath and nourish them with the saliva of my tongue
I’d listen intently to their soft whispers inquiring about the beams of light seeping through the cracks of the walls
And
The vines sprouting through the floor boards and climbing pillars on the bed
If I could birth my children from the scrapings from under my fingernails
I’d tear at my flesh until there was nothing left but raw nerve and blood
I’d dress them in gowns made from the weaved patches of hair growing across my mons *****
And I’d make them sun hats from the shattered pieces of my toe nails
If I could sink into the soil and grow my babies from my decay
I’d sprout a row of sunflowers
And the many seeds in its ***** would be my youngins
They’d fall away one by one
Matured
And run off uninhibited into the spring
Little pieces of me
Drowning in the sunshine
Free
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
all the pronouns and predicates
subjugating ******** preferences
grammar is god’s way of punishing us
protecting us from ourselves
in spite of the elves who wish to see us fail
see us impaled upon their tiny spears
dripping form from our ears
i hear their voice
yes i really do
underneath the moss
and in utero
her womb breathes
fresh air
her mouth is warm
her ***** pulses with song
and light
i faintly touch the downy mound
and let venus rise before the dawn
in turn she admires
the way i choose to expire before her
the silence and the razor’s edge
your best friends are your teachers
they never let you see them
they keep you in the mood
wanting more more more
more more more more more
more more more more more more
more
more more more more more
more
more more more more more
more
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
i watch you counting yourself out
courting little pets of body-parts
putting pennies on the trinket shelf
talking with wending wordage
about those gruff fellows
who've been pig-holing about your dwelling
that day you manage a back window
and escape
masquerade yourself as a gentleman
but they sniff at your aromas
these men in crude season
they circle you hinge-hipping
as you fleet the roads and fields
and evade into the dappling woods
"come on out we have you surrounded"
(you say they say)
you stay crossed legged a monk among trees
(these pleasing defenders)
you take off your dress and string it
from one of these trees
you dole yourself out
little pets for the undergrowth
you offer a curled shrew
from the space your kneecap once
occupied
you droop your warm left breast
and drop a beast from that cove
(a plump vole clambers fresh and
disorientated)
you plug one arm into loose soil
and the fingers snake root
separation at the elbow
and branches sprig out
both your thighs animate as fox cubs
your ***** leaves from between
and slinks under some ivy
your hair fiddles loose and travels off
in currents of breeze
before flitting into little finches
your back crumples with fungal looseness
your head weighs low
and the jaw lumps off
shuffling undecided on its form
your forehead bows to kiss the earth
and your face scatters a gaiety of insects and spores
all arts patterned about
your pile continues in this mattering manner
collapsing efficiently
you've canonized in nature
now you’re abroad mature and freed
to tell your friend this story
a spirit without brag of these neat powers
one with mother glory
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 3:39 PM UTC
Sobre las mesas, botellas decapitadas de "champagne" con corbatas blancas de payaso, baldes de níquel que trasuntan enflaquecidos brazos y espaldas de "cocottes".
El bandoneón canta con esperezos de gusano baboso, contradice el pelo rojo de la alfombra, imanta los pezones, los ***** y la ***** de los zapatos.
Machos que se quiebran en un corte ritual, la cabeza hundida entre los hombros, la jeta hinchada de palabras soeces.
Hembras con las ancas nerviosas, un poquitito de espuma en las axilas, y los ojos demasiado aceitados.
De pronto se oye un fracaso de cristales. Las mesas dan un corcovo y pegan cuatro patadas en el aire. Un enorme espejo se derrumba con las columnas y la gente que tenía dentro; mientras entre un oleaje de brazos y de espaldas estallan las trompadas, como una rueda de cohetes de bengala.
Junto con el vigilante, entra la aurora vestida de violeta.
449
alternately titled: breast ****** fallacy hi-jinxed!
In her “60 Minutes” interview aired
Sunday (March 26th, 2018),
the **** star known within red district
as Stormy Daniels bared
her "naked lady" version
swearing oath of honesty,
she emphatically **** cleared
on a stack of video nasties,
and ****** 'zines
now she can live rest of life
guilt free offloading
hush money endeared
a posteriori into infinitely
jesting bordello loop
with calmly enchanting bug eyed,
drooling media hounds,
whose nostrils flared
squelching the trumpeting Don,
who maliciously glared
for traitorously breaching
“genital man's agreement”),
playing the (sock it to him role
of goody two shoes)
christened Stephanie Clifford)
shaggy long haired
pseudo Mayflower madam averred
to right justice in sought after
****** free nation,
where the turkey
ought tubby national bird
mandating free codicil
to second amendment as of furred
thus, that *** hide from right to bear arms
premature sea r man ***********
of Peter ought to be heard
where sudden sound
sans ***** seams burst
**** strapped unseen bulging Johnson's
onslaught hail of expletives cursed
out the mouth of salty sailor spewing Prez,
hook halled for a recess first
and foremost before
questioning resumed
automatically immersed
within ****** tabloid pulp pit
***** sing Bacchanalian refused to quit
particularly when groin
set zipper (flimsy – obviously,
NOT put thru linkedin
locked down rigorous paces
realized, when pry vet eylit
of trouser snake split)
yielding singular (nada so sterling)
gamut gallimaufry variegated erector set
with singular bulbous
ram rod rocket like trivet.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC
Lookit me.
This street is mine.
My walk.
My swing.
Lookit this
***** on the *****
(Yes!)
Lookit that,
******* on the chest.
(Say what?!)
Privilege? I'm filled with love my
mother made sure I can't escape.
I won't use the public bathroom, then.
I love you.
I won't meet your eyes with mine, because I
I love you.
I won't try to find the return address, as
I love too much to quantify my chances.
Privilege? I'm glad you're so concerned
with the politics of my personhood.
What I wouldn't give to share a romantic moment.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 4:37 PM UTC
Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos,
te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega.
Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava
y hace saltar el hijo del fondo de la tierra.
Fui solo como un túnel. De mí huían los pájaros
y en mí la noche entraba su invasión poderosa.
Para sobrevivirme te forjé como un arma,
como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en mi honda.
Pero cae la hora de la venganza, y te amo.
Cuerpo de piel, de musgo, de leche ávida y firme.
Ah los vasos del pecho! Ah los ojos de ausencia!
Ah las rosas del ***** Ah tu voz lenta y triste!
Cuerpo de mujer mía, persistiré en tu gracia.
Mi sed, mi ansia sin límite, mi camino indeciso!
Oscuros cauces donde la sed eterna sigue,
y la fatiga sigue, y el dolor infinito.
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