remember the kisses

May 19, 2019

I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh

Charles Bukowski

The beauty and wisdom of Tantra is that it enhances sexuality as a doorway to the “ecstatic mind of great bliss”.  Truly,  at the peak of orgasm,  we pierce through the illusion of fragmentation and separation, and glimpse the unity and interconnectedness of all beings. And through the other – our partner – we fall in love with life.

Because sex holds this great potential for opening our being to the experience of ecstasy, Tantra has for millennia taught the cultivation of sexual love as an art, as a skilful spiritual practice. Then, as now, Tantra challenges the belief promoted by most spiritual and religious paths that we must suppress or transcend out sexuality to practice meditation or awaken our Spirit.

Tantra arose in rebellion against the repressive orthodoxy of the Hindu priesthood, the Brahmins – especially against the idea that one had to be celibate to gain enlightenment. Tantra acknowledges that sex is at the root of life and that to make human sexuality and erotic union a form or worship and meditation is to practice reverence for life, leading us directly through the pleasure of the sense to spiritual liberation.

Margot Anand
Love, Sex & Enlightenment

It is only thanks to your good looks
I can take part
in the rites of love.

Mystical ecstasies,
treasons delightful
as a crimson lipstick,
a perverse rococo
of psychological involutions,
sweetness of carnal longings
that take your breath,
pits of despair
sinking to the very bottom of the world:
all this I owe to you.

How tenderly every day I should
lash you with a whip of cold water,
if you alone allow me to possess
beauty and wisdom irreplaceable.

The souls of my lovers
open to me in a moment of love
and I have them in my dominion.
I look as does a sculptor
on his work
at their faces snapped shut with eyelids,
martyred by ecstasy,
made dense by happiness.
I read as does an angel
thoughts in their skulls
I feel in my hand
a beating human heart,
I listen to the words
which are whispered by one human to another
in the frankest moments of one’s life.

I enter their souls,
I wander
by a road of delight or of horror
to lands as inconceivable
as the bottoms of the oceans.
Later on, heavy with treasures
I come slowly
to myself.

O, many riches,
many precious truths
growing immense in a metaphysical echo,
many initiations
delicate and startling
I owe to you, my thigh.

The most exquisite refinement of my soul
would not give me any of those treasures
if not for the clear, smooth charm
of an amoral little animal.

Anna Swir

translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan


The Girl who Cried God

April 11, 2019

1. You said your favourite game was
Playing God, so I let my body
Be Eden, my vagina the Tree of Knowledge.
“Ruin will happen here,” you said.
You eat the fruit.

2. You love creation and claiming
What does not belong to you.
You Christopher Columbus down the
Shores of my body searching
For India, but instead fall asleep
In the bend of my arm
Regaining your strength for the
Pillage that will turn me carcass.

3. You entered my castle and
Renamed it crack house,
Picked a mattress in the corner
And made your bed.
My body stinks of frankincense,
Formaldehyde, and myrrh.

4. Our love is a miscarriage of
Still-born words. We stopped
Trying to imitate Gods after
The maggots came and went,
The garden desolate.

5. I wrap my body around the world
Until calloused hands palm Judea.
How many times can I ask
Forgiveness for the same sin?
I say it again: forgive me Father,
I know of what I do.
I Lazarus,
I smoulder,
Ignite, then
I say it again.

Kylee Bagley

Rule Book

April 7, 2019

If I eat your face, I am insane.
If I nibble on your lip, I am in love.
Such distinctions to keep in mind.

If I give you my right hand and not the left,
I want you to lay me across the bed of the day,
sing songs into wherever I open. If

I offer you my left, I plan on shaking hands
with the rest of the world while you sip
from the cupped hands of yesterday.

If I walk past our building, look up and you are there,
the rules of distance will collapse.
If I eye the rough tongue of pavement,

bicycles will roll un-ridered down city streets
into the chaos at traffic lights, the decisions
of stop or go, turn or straight, hope or cry.

If your voice swirls in the cups of my ears,
I will collect its letters, stash them in a jar
in my chest. If you come to claim them,

we can spread them on the table, build towers,
knock them down. We can make
our own game’s rules, then cheat.

Suzanne Parker

The Crows

April 6, 2019

The woman who has grown old
And knows desire must die,
Yet turns to love again,
Hears the crows’ cry.

She is a stem long hardened,
A weed that no scythe mows.
The heart’s laughter will be to her
The crying of the crows,

Who slide in the air with the same voice
Over what yields not, and what yields,
Alike in spring, and when there is only bitter
Winter-burning in the fields.

Louise Bogan 

“Trembling, like Paris, on the brink of an obscure and formidable revolution.”

Victor Hugo

It feels like a competition. I lay between the two of them, sweltering, like Paris in
August. Gene’s lanky six foot four inches hangs off the foot of the bed, Brett’s
dancer-body liquid, compact, is curled into mine, his hard need pressed against my
thigh. I’m not sure how I ended up here, in love with a man who wants me to fuck
his best friend while he watches. Now the three of us crowd in my too-small bed. I
stare at a black and white photo of Montmartre on the ceiling. Brett trembles like
needle to the pole. Van Morrison’s on the radio, having sex in the green grass with
the brown-eyed girl. The ceiling fan rotates counterclockwise, but we’re all
sweating. I should have moved the beds together when my roommate moved out,
but it’s too late, now Gene’s spread my thighs, and pinned his best friend against
the wall, and now he says nothing while Brett watches him slam into me. I need
him to scream I love you! again and again like he did before. But Gene’s eyes are
locked with Brett’s. I see what I’m not meant to see; I am disposable, nothing more
than a deep hole. A hot rain pelts the bedroom window. Gene pours into me like
runoff. His tears look like raindrops on glass. I turn his face so he can see what he
is losing. I want him to watch his best friend as he arches his dancer’s back and
comes in my mouth, his spasms an arabesque. I pull back my hair and dip my head,
trembling, like Paris, on the brink of an obscure and formidable revolution.

Alexis Rhone Fancher 

Before –

April 3, 2019

The Adams and Eves
continually expelled
and with what tenacity
returning at night!

when the two of them
did not count
and there were no months
no births and no music
their fingers were unnumbered.

when the two of them did not count
did they feel
a prickling behind the eyes
a thirst in the throat
for something other than
the perfume of infinite flowers
and the breath of immortal animals?
In their untrembling sleep
did the tips of their tongues
seek the bud of another taste
which was mortal and sweating?

Did they envy the longing
of those to come after the Fall?

Women and men still return
to live through the night
all that uncounted time.

And with the punctuality
of the first firing squad
the expulsion is at dawn”

John Berger
And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos

The Cats Will Know

March 28, 2019

Rain will fall again
on your smooth pavement,
a light rain like
a breath or a step.
The breeze and the dawn
will flourish again
when you return,
as if beneath your step.
Between flowers and sills
the cats will know.

There will be other days,
there will be other voices.
You will smile alone.
The cats will know.
You will hear words
old and spent and useless
like costumes left over
from yesterday’s parties.

You too will make gestures.
You’ll answer with words —
face of springtime,
you too will make gestures.

The cats will know,
face of springtime;
and the light rain
and the hyacinth dawn
that wrench the heart of him
who hopes no more for you —
they are the sad smile
you smile by yourself.

There will be other days,
other voices and renewals.
Face of springtime,
we will suffer at daybreak.

Cesare Pavese
Trans. Geoffrey Brock.


March 19, 2019

When I fed the pigs and two of them got to scrapping over an old soft onion, I thought: that’s love. Love is eating. Love is a snarling pig snout and long tusks. Love is the colour of blood. Love is what grown folk do to each other because the law frowns on killing.

Catherynne M. Valente
Six Gun Snow White