It’s snowing outside. Looks

like Venus in a movie—like the
planetoid from Alien,

the comic book
adaptation by Dark Horse

in the late eighties. You
know what I mean.

All blue and lavender. All
black and mauve.

Imagine this world
is the world

we were born
into. All
soft and careless.

All flesh, all organs. All
eyes and

ears and
mouths absorbing

the same atmospheric gases
as the monsters

who will one day come,

the weaknesses of our compound
and so swiftly

exuberantly consume us.

Francisco Salas Pérez

She kisses my cock

September 1, 2019

She kisses my cock:
chaste little kisses
that stir the blood;
bare purity in those parted lips,
enveloping shadows,
sweet and slow and wandering:
the kisses of a saint,
providing sweet sensation
and a solemn thrill,
kiss, kissing my cock
until I’m finally still.

Timed Out

September 1, 2019

What was your mother’s maiden name?
To answer that, I’d need a keyboard
with a different alphabet.

What was the name of your elementary school?
Before or after I transferred?
(Probably not a good idea
to answer a security question
with a question.)

The name of your first pet?
Maybe Blue Boy, the parakeet,
quickly nuzzled aside in my affections
by Whitey, the stray dog who came to stay.
My dog died when I was 16. Bad timing.
Before Blue Boy, I remember
getting Newberry’s goldfish
and naming them Hansel and Gretel
only to find them floating the next day.
Perhaps I’ll remember the names of the turtles
also from the five-and-dime, always scrabbling
to escape from their plastic pond and palm tree.
I won’t be able to retrieve
my identity based on that question.

Who was your best friend in childhood?
That’s easy – Debby Green.
Anthropologists should study
our long-buried culture, so rich,
starting with ‘Abrahams’,
our first game, spinning pennies
to see whose would dance the longest.
Looking through her parents’ Horizon magazines,
scouring the lush historical battle illustrations
for horses and seeing which side,
black steeds or white, was victorious.
On days fit for playing outside,
we dug insect graveyards.
But she was careless in a game of Abrahams,
knocked over my Eames house of cards,
my most spectacular construction ever.
I couldn’t forgive her that day,

or years later,
when she went on a protest march
the day after she wrapped her car around a light pole
with me in the passenger seat,
and ended up in the arms of a boy
we both wanted.

Forty years later,
a high school classmate
electronically reunited our class.
Debby’s name appeared on the list of the dead.
If the computer asks me
the name of my best childhood friend,
can I be trusted to type ‘Debby’?
Should I include her last name?
Is it case-sensitive?

Where were you when you had your first kiss?
None of your business.
Anyway, it wasn’t very memorable.

Sheila Sondik

Many worlds

September 1, 2019

I don’t think the world is the way we like to think it is. I don’t think it’s one solid world, but many, thousands upon thousands of them – as many as there are people – because each person perceives the world in his or her own way; each lives in his or her own world. Sometimes they connect, for a moment, or more rarely, for a lifetime, but mostly we are alone, each living in our own world, suffering our small deaths.

Charles de Lint
Dreams Underfoot

I am naked

September 1, 2019

I am naked
Without skin and without bone
Enveloped with your desires
Clinging to my Body
You drink all my blood
Until dawn.


September 1, 2019

I have long cherished people I have lost, and that is perhaps why I write, to find and walk, for a moment, at their side. As if nothing had changed.

Slave for love

September 1, 2019

secret colours

September 1, 2019

Draw me with your fingertips, lover, face and body too. Here, on my lips paint the colour of love. Without mercy, sketch me, revise me just for you, painting, of course, the secret colours hidden inside my heart. And with those same fingertips enclose and trap my soul –


September 1, 2019

Overwhelmed with desire
my kisses become bites
on your neck and shoulders –


September 1, 2019

(A woman without man is like a fish without a bicycle.)

A woman can’t live without a man?
Ha, what logic, the logic of a ghost! Bah bah!
Throw the ball,
Don’t let orchids embrace you at all,
Don’t go to poisonous ant bushes.
Push yourself into sensuousness.
You have the bow, you have the arrow.
Do it girl, masturbate.

Taslima Nasrin


The body needs stimulation and the mind poetry. Masturbation offers a safe way to explore our bodies and encourages blood flow. The dopamine release makes us feel better and relieves tension.

Poetry and masturbation are about self-discovery. It’s why they go so well together. We can’t limit our self-awareness to fleeting thoughts. We have physical senses that are waiting to be used on ourselves, boys & girls, for our pleasure and for our poetry…