Two girls kissing

February 4, 2018

Two girls kissing and it’s not a sin
If there are girls who like girls in Hell, how bad can it be?
I wish I were brave enough
to pray with any certainty
but G-d
if you’re out
thank you for making her mouth so soft
thank you for leaving me here to wonder at the marvel of her hair in the sunlight,
the mystery between her breasts beckoning to me
with the gravity of a galaxy,
a miracle –
Her heartbeat blesses my palm
warm as a prayer
and I know
there is holiness on her lips I drink it like the third cup of wine
there is nothing to forgive oh G-d
Blessed art thou who makes no mistakes
You made me to love her
I close my eyes and

Two girls kissing and it’s not a crime
You can cuff my wrists until the steel draws blood
and I’ll pretend I don’t know
how the metal feels
biting down on raw frustration
I’ll pretend I never liked the angry copper tang,
the crimson tribute to my mother’s tears
You don’t get to know a damn thing
You can beat me with every truncheon and excuse you’ve got
’til I’m dizzy and bruised and half as scared as you
and I’ll hit back this time
with any part of me that moves –
I guess I never learned my lesson
but I can’t be the bigger person if I’m dead
You can throw me down on the concrete precinct floor
and rape me like it’s 1967
and walk away zipping up your pants like fifty years don’t mean a thing
And I will do what we have always done
Scream into the night
until my crazy dyke bitch lungs burn like revolution
and spit in your face
and hurt where I am hurting
And ask her to kiss it better

Two girls kissing and it’s not a disease
You reek of bleach and I know
there should be bloodstains on your white coat
Your needle doesn’t scare me Doc I’m just a broken record
for most girls kissed on a single sunny Saturday
bathe me in hope and confetti let the white walls breathe this chemical romance
won’t fix my leaky kitchen-faucet brain
I am not trapped in my body because it is wrong I am trapped
in my body because you run electric currents through my brain
and tell me this is for the best
Go ahead and cut me open what do you think I am a mylar balloon? no
I won’t break you can play I Spy with my insides and we’ll all get nostalgic
Unzip my genes and tell me why my eyes are blue
so you can touch me with your latex minions and the whole apparatus in a room
with no windows I will grit my teeth
and disappear into my headache
where my veins are full of nebula and I am kissing her

Two girls kissing and it’s not a disaster
read my palm the life line approaches fate like an asymptote
and does not touch – a stranger on a train
with a suitcase full of potential we could go off the rails
at any moment do you see what I am saying
I am not a tragedy
you’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming into your parables
CAUTION girls who kiss girls you are mortal
just like everybody else
and whose fucking fault is that?
Kiss me karma like a pistol on the temple
I’m not going anywhere my dirty feet grow roots in the thawed and stolen earth
you know what
if I die kissing her let her fingertips write my epitaph
Here lies a happy woman

Two girls kissing and it’s not an invitation
what about us made you think we wanted company?
So maybe a girl kisses girls and boys because she wants to
so maybe a girl kisses boys because she doesn’t know any better
and her skin is just another thing that doesn’t belong to her
Not today we are doing just fine with my hands on her hips
her glorious fermata pressed against my thigh
in the darkness
How horribly human you are with your grubby little fingers
you want to touch her and me and everything and you don’t even feel
it’s a shame I pity you
getting drunk on symphonies that don’t belong to you and you can’t even
taste them
The world bends itself beneath you and you don’t even
keep on stumbling out the door and down the sidewalk I don’t give a shit
she is kissing me I am kissing her
what about us made you think we needed help?

Two girls kissing and it’s not a commodity
you buy a girl like a café americano and she tells herself
My body is a cup of coffee
so she doesn’t have to live inside it
while you fuck her
you call her cunt and slut and Barbie girl
stripped waxed plucked shaved beaten
into submission that’s what they want to see
they want to see her suffer until she tells herself
not to struggle anymore it’s not worth it
I want to watch you with another girl they say
My consent is worth another hundred bucks she says
my consent or my next meal what the hell kind of choice
is that
so they kiss each other like sharp teeth and opiate addiction while
the camera
masturbates into a checking account
it’s not fair it’s not
it’s sicker than I could ever be I want to scream
Leave them alone we are not your desperate plastic fantasies
not your victims
who kiss each other like dead fish
When girls kiss girls the sea draws closer to the sky
her cloudy eyes send a thousand languid kisses falling reckless and yearning to the earth

Two girls kissing and it’s not a joke
My name leaves your lips like a spitball and I feel it prickle
on the back of my neck
I am not a pair of cheap sunglasses you try on at the drugstore
just to watch your skinny eyebrows wiggle in the mirror
Every time you squeeze yourself into my Doc Martens for a laugh
there is another girl
walking barefoot and afraid
who laughs like broken glass at the joke that isn’t funny
and you wonder why she’s bleeding
and you wrap her in silence and overpriced lingerie
(this is how it’s supposed to feel)
and you tell her Iphigenia this is the best kind of love
Go ahead and laugh
she is safe now
your words are beads of sweat running off my shoulders
the muscles ache but someone must carry your guilt
Go ahead and laugh
what the hell do I care
when I’m the one who gets to kiss her?

Two girls kissing and it’s not a threat
this is a public bathroom not a battlefield
Why would I want to hurt you like I’ve been hurt?
I’m not asking you to love me
I’m asking you to let me love myself
and her
but for your sake I’ll keep my eyes on the floor chin tucked hands shaking I
my best revenge is the lipstick mark on my cheek

Two girls kissing and it’s not a phase
We were kissing girls and writing poems before you knew
how to wash your dirty laundry
We will kiss girls when we are silver-haired and senile
and covered in newsprint
we will fade with soft footsteps into a history for Someday
there will be stories about girls kissing girls like there are stories
about men killing men
on the evening news
There are girls kissing girls on planets we haven’t heard of yet
in farmhouses and penthouses on city blocks and airplanes
Take me to the center of the earth in your bedroom where it all started
and ask me about Lilith and Eve
In the beginning G-d created light
and darkness
and they kissed each other like two girls at the top of the Ferris wheel

Two girls kissing and it’s not an imitation
I am trying to be a person not a man but what’s the difference to you
girls kiss girls in cargo shorts and muscle tanks and button-downs and boxer briefs
girls kiss girls with fauxhawks dreadlocks crew cuts leg hair like a healthy forest floor
G-d grant me the strength
to love my ugly girl self
the way it deserves to be loved
girls kiss girls who look like boys whatever the hell that even means
girls kiss girls who look like girls who kiss boys they walk among you
and smile like a secret to themselves and to us
the girls who love them and ourselves
I am learning in this tremulous thawing spring
there is no wrong way to be a girl
there are a million fish in the sea and stars in the sky and girls who want to kiss
you too

Two girls kissing and it’s not an apology
the body knows fear it is written in the neurons
but shame I have outgrown
I will kiss girls on subway platforms on dance floors in backyards in bedrooms
in dreams
in closets if I must
this is my world too you know
It’s absurd and egregious the polar ice caps are melting
like our sticks-and-stones martyrs the brothers who kiss brothers
the Mediterranean hungers for another refugee Andromeda
help us
help ourselves we need answers so we grow them in makeshift flowerpots
on the windowsill you perfect succulent I will name you hope
here’s the deal I will feed you love poems and damp earth
every morning
if you grow big and strong demanding
vibrantly to be alive
I could use a reminder or two I am alive for better or for worse
open up my ribcage let the ghosts out let them sing through my bloodstream
I hear you my sisters can you feel my heart beating
to tell your stories
I hear you world telling me to hold my breath
I will not hold my breath
and wait for you to change your mind you paint me
into a kaleidoscope of atrocity
and my love is precarious geometry
Something’s gotta give and I’m giving you
the fragile pulsating love-hungry self
I keep behind hardcovers and barbed wire and scar tissue
I’m giving you the truth:
Two girls kissing
and it’s

El Grosberg
Two Girls Kissing


January 14, 2018

There are those who frown on our promiscuity. So what? Love, physically and emotionally, is fine when each lover is seriously attentive to the needs and desires of the other. Nothing else matters –

Of course, promiscuity won’t necessarily provide happiness. Looking over my shoulder into the murky abyss of time, I see a coterie of ‘disciples’ and mistresses but little ‘happiness’. Ecstasy, yes. Pain, too, if I’m honest. But true happiness only came when we were first together.

Remember us in your bedroom? Happy times. Alone together in the small hours of morning, whispering to each other. I would kiss your lips, your body, holding you close. I would make you cum over and over. I was so merciless –

And then later, together in the shower…

This is not what the door’s for – slamming
you up against, opening
your legs with my knee. And it isn’t
leaving, the thing I keep doing
with my shoes still on, or in the car
in the driveway in broad
daylight after waving
goodbye to your neighbours
again. But my body’s a bad
dog, all dumb tongue
and hunger, down
on all fours again, tied up
outside again, coming
when called but then always refusing
to stay. I know what I’m trying
to say, but it isn’t
talking, the thing that I do with my mouth
to your ear, even though
we got the orifices right. To leave
I would have to put clothes on,
and they’d have to fit better
than all of this skin. To leave
I would have to know where to begin:
like this, pressed up
against the half-open window? Like
this, with my foot on the gas? If seeing
is believing then why isn’t touching
knowing for sure? I just want my nerves
to do the work for me, I don’t want
to have to decide. There’s blood in my hands
for fight and blood in my legs
for flight and nowhere
a sign. Believe me, I’ll leave if you just
let me touch you again for the last
last time.

Ali Shapiro


December 24, 2017

Those welts blossom your skin plural, you looking
at me like nothing I need

Wendy Xu
from “Phrasis” (II)

Didn’t Sappho say her guts clutched up like this?
Before a face suddenly numinous,
her eyes watered, knees melted. Did she lactate
again, milk brought down by a girl’s kiss?
It’s documented torrents are unloosed
by such events as recently produced
not the wish, but the need, to consume, in us,
one pint of Maalox, one of Kaopectate.
My eyes and groin are permanently swollen,
I’m alternatingly brilliant and witless
– and sleepless: bed is just a swamp to roll in.
Although I’d cream my jeans touching your breast,
sweetheart, it isn’t lust; it’s all the rest
of what I want with you that scares me shitless.

Marilyn Hacker

plugged into my core

November 20, 2017

Lust was a positive high-tension cable, plugged into my core, activating a near-epileptic seizure of conviction that this was the one thing I had to do in life.

Will Self
How the Dead Live

Picking up threads of skin

November 5, 2017


5th November

A grim September Monster gobbled me up and shat me out in this cold, inhospitable November. That’s how it feels at any rate.

Brexit apparently will lead this ‘green and pleasant land’ into the black chaos of Lovecraftian doom; but before that dire fate overtakes us we must witness many MPs laid low because of their rampant misogyny. So much knee touching in the corridors of power. It’s almost as bad as the newspaper industry – and that’s saying something!

But, of course, our Parliament is a fantasy. The bizarreness of the events there, while mirroring the society surrounding it, should not surprise – pederasty, incest, all the convolutions of lust, all the varieties of betrayal are there in those dark corridors of power. The poor innocent suffering ravishment in her office after drinky-poos with the boss will, we are assured, become a thing of the past. And the heart-numbing, brain-toppling solution to this serial fiddling will be provided by the people who couldn’t be trusted to sort their own expenses! Yes, that’s right. Our jolly old MPs.

I would respectfully suggest now, that any male Member of Parliament prone to an inflation of lust when in the presence of a female / male person, simply doesn’t go there. Instead they should adopt the masturbatory obsession of Alex Portnoy. It’s safer for all concerned:

“Through a world of matted handkerchiefs and crumpled Kleenex and stained pajamas, I moved my raw and swollen penis, perpetually in dread that my loathsomeness would be discovered by someone stealing upon me just as I was in the frenzy of dropping my load. Nevertheless, I was wholly incapable of keeping my paws from my dong once it started to climb up my belly. In the middle of class I would raise a hand to be excused, rush down the corridor to the lavatory, and with ten or fifteen savage strokes, beat off standing up into a urinal. At the Saturday afternoon movie I would leave my friends to go off to the candy machine – and wind up in a distant balcony seat, squirting my seed into the empty wrapper from a Mounds bar.”

(Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth)

You get the picture? We as a nation can put up with MPs who frenziedly whack off in a bathroom. But we cannot endure their perverse, self-absorbed obsession for unwanted knee feeling, groping and whatever else goes on after a couple of vodka martinis – abuse of position or power by these lechers and political vagabonds verges on the criminal, and should be stopped immediately.

Firing squad at the ready…

And today is Guy Fawkes day. We can set fire to our raggedy-arse, petrol-soaked Guy which bears an uncanny resemblance to Jeremy Corbin – but not by design. Originally it was modeled on that hero of democratic principle, Jean-Claude Junker. Somehow our Guy’s features morphed into those of JC – probably after his criticism of Nigella’s Turkish Eggs recipe on his ‘special’ Gogglebox show…?

“When I was younger I made it a rule never to take strong drink before lunch. It is now my rule never to do so before breakfast – ”

Winston Churchill allegedly said this to king George VI. However, he probably never did – despite all the quotes on the internet and the posters produced by a hundred and one different companies attributing this statement to Churchill. Which makes it an example of Fake History, I guess…


Ideas abound. A wrecked, ravaged bed this morning. I see the shoulderblades of women, enjoy breakfast after lovemaking, Pepsi and Coke in the refrigerator, fresh brewed coffee on the table, freezing rain in the window. There exists a large lyrical love of the surface of this world within me –

But enough. I have work to do. A bed to make with clean sheets…

It took some time for me to realise that your mind was actually the scene of the crime…

All of us play with fire. But are we careful enough to keep warm, or simply careless enough to get burned…?

We fucked until she was just a breathless tremor in my arms…

Saturday morning secrets

October 21, 2017

To enjoy the foreplay, you must learn to love the thorns…

Must find a way to express this innate fire…

“What is your favourite pastime?” he asked.

“Making men nervous,” she replied.

Two’s company, six is handy…

The moist smell of her many amours clings to her, this young priestess of love…

Now is the time when lovers pant away their souls…

I will not die from this desire. Instead I will swim in it, relish it, crave it…