pleasure is pain

December 2, 2018

On the altar of the devil up is down, pleasure is pain, darkness is light, slavery is freedom, and madness is sanity –

Reasonable Ground

December 2, 2018

With all our ups and downs, at what point
does our inclination lead to our decline?

For failed object permanence, please press one. For jealousy,
press three. For polyamorists: press any number, gently.

Let us drink, let us pool our cupped palms:
all my sexual traumas, your chain-smoked monogamies.

I have been missing your voice
like bleached bones dream of flesh.

We are both anxious cancers just waiting to happen.
We may as well probe one another for overgrowths as we converge.

Rebecca Salazar


drinking rain

December 2, 2018

So I propose a toast to that woman with her head out the window drinking rain. The most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time –


Eat me

December 2, 2018

I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow.

Hélène Cixous
The Love of the Wolf

Stripped me bare

December 2, 2018

You’re a thief, darling. You took. Oh, look. Stripped me bare, darling. Syllable after syllable. Mahal. Ghazal. Liebling. You’ve Englished me out. Tore the veil. Lost the found. Sing with me, softly. Hush, sound. I’m your poiema, Poem. Let love abound.

Michellan Sarile-Alagao
from Maps of Tenderness

Oh God, fuck me

December 2, 2018

Fuck me, oh God, with ordinary things
the things you love best in the world –

like trees in spring, exposing themselves,
flashing leaf buds so firm and swollen

I want to take them in my mouth.
Speaking of trees, fuck me with birds

say, an enormous raucous crow,
proud as a man with his hands down his pants,

and then a sparrow, intimately brown,
discreet and cautious as a concubine.

Fuck me with my kitchen faucet, dripping
like a nymphomaniac,

all night slowly filling and filling,
then overflowing the bowls in the sink-

and with the downstairs neighbour’s vacuum,
that great sucking noisy dragon

making the dirty come clean.
Fuck me with breakfast, with English muffins

the spirit of the dough aroused
by browning, thrilled by buttering.

Fuck me with orange juice,
its concentrated sweetness,

which makes the mouth as happy as summer,
leaves sweet flecks of foam like spit

along the inside of the glass.
Fuck me with coffee, strong and hot,

and then with cream poured into coffee,
blossoming like mushroom clouds,

opening like parachutes.
Fuck me with the ticking

clock, which is the ticking
bomb, which is the ticking heart –

the heart we heard in the first months,
in the original nakedness,

before we were squalling and born.
Fuck me with the unwashed spoon

proud with its coffee stain –
the faint swirl of a useful life

pooled into its center, round as a world.

Ruth L Schwartz