December 8, 2015


The first naked man I ever saw
under the context of desire,
left me stunned
by the immediacy of his fleh
Without his swimming shorts,
there was nothing to idealize
Meeting my eyes
without apology
Organic forms come to mind
but a pink flower
shriveled with thirst
is not half as menacing
as him standing before me
touching himself

Kat Burd


Fisting is like getting that last Pringle at the bottom of a Pringles tube.

in the morning

December 8, 2015


You’re the reason I get up in the morning.
That, and I need to pee.

Darynda Jones
Seventh Grave and No Body

Patsy Sees a Ghost

December 8, 2015


I’m crossing the river where it narrows,
carefully, it being Sunday
and I’m past the root end of the log
when I look up,
and there’s a haunt sitting
on the blossom end.
I can see trumpet vine and blackberries
through her white dress.
Gnats hang in the air.
The river runs, red-brown and deep.
The haunt sings
and it’s my music, the blood song
of my heart and bones
and my skull dancing in the road.
And Chloe, she knows my name.
She says Oh Patsy, take care,
or you will surely fall
and the thick river
will pull you too to shroudy weeds
and you’ll be gone,
gone as the moment you looked up
and saw the trumpet vine and
berrries, hot and ready
through my white dress,
gone as all the years since I died,
and waited here for you.

Lola Haskins

(From Desire Lines: New and Selected Poems by Lola Haskins.)

Christmas gift for her

December 8, 2015


Reading this morning

December 8, 2015


It could happen…

December 8, 2015




I recall certain moments, let us call them icebergs in paradise, when after having had my fill of her – after fabulous, insane exertions that left me limp and azure-barred – I would gather her in my arms with, at last, a mute moan of human tenderness (her skin glistening in the neon light coming from the paved court through the slits in the blind, her soot-black lashes matted, her grave gray eyes more vacant than ever – for all the world a little patient still in the confusion of a drug after a major operation) – and the tenderness would deepen to shame and despair, and I would lull and rock my lone light Lolita in my marble arms, and moan in her warm hair, and caress her at random and mutely ask her blessing, and at the peak of this human agonized selfless tenderness (with my soul actually hanging around her naked body and ready to repent), all at once, ironically, horribly, lust would swell again–and ‘oh, no,’ Lolita would say with a sigh to heaven, and the next moment the tenderness and the azure–all would be shattered.”

Vladimir Nabokov