November 10, 2019

I need you
with me: inside me
penetrating my soul
not with romantic or melancholic airs
but with your cock and fingers
suffocating the cold
with your bodily heat
healing my anxiety –
I want to have you anywhere
and everywhere:
a lift
a park
the office
an alleyway
touching my breasts
your cock stiffening
guided by our wildest desires
touching paradise
despite our cloak of sin –
I need you


Perhaps when our bodies throb and rub
against each other, they produce a sound
inaudible to us but heard up there, in the clouds and higher,
by those who can no longer hear common sounds . . .
Or, maybe, this is how He wants to check by ear: are we still intact?
No cracks in mortal vessels? And to this end He bangs
men against women?

Vera Pavlova
Trans. Steven Seymour

Dirty Valentine

October 15, 2019

There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you.
I touch myself, I dream.
Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks.
The musicians start the overture while I hide behind the microphone,
trying to match the dubbing
to the big lips shining down from the screen.
We’re filming the movie called Planet of Love –
there’s sex of course, and ballroom dancing,
fancy clothes and waterlilies in the pond, and half the night you’re
a dependable chap, mounting the stairs in lamplight to the bath, but then
the too white teeth all night,
all over the American sky, too much to bear, this constant fingering,
your hands a river gesture, the birds in flight, the birds still singing
outside the greasy window, in the trees.
There’s a part in the movie
where you can see right through the acting,
where you can tell that I’m about to burst into tears,
right before I burst into tears
and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed
canopied with devastated clouds.
We’re shouting the scene where
I swallow your heart and you make me
spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls
right out of my mouth.
You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.
Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn’t want to see it this way,
everything eating everything in the end.
We know how the light works,
we know where the sound is coming from.
Verse. Chorus. Verse.
I’m sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.

Richard Siken

Kidnap Poem

October 5, 2019

ever been kidnapped
by a poet
if i were a poet
i’d kidnap you
put you in my phrases and meter
you to jones beach
or maybe coney island
or maybe just to my house
lyric you in lilacs
dash you in the rain
blend into the beach
to complement my see
play the lyre for you
ode you with my love song
anything to win you
wrap you in the red Black green
show you off to mama
yeah if i were a poet i’d kid
nap you

Nikki Giovanni

Some say that the “ache for home lives in all of us.“ As I am falling deeper and deeper into onanism, a lot of spaces around me are gradually becoming home: public toilets, McDonald’s under tables, hotel rooms. The itch is then guiding me to one of these homes. It also keeps building new homes for me. Homes in which I feel safe, I feel welcomed, and in a lot of pleasure. Sounds good, but this is also the worst part of the addiction.

How can someone say no to this?! How can someone who has been refused all these things all her life can destroy them when she finally got them?! HOW?! I can easily say “No!“ to onanism, as I said to sex. But I can never say “No!“ to having a home. I think that’s the issue with most addictions: in order to get “cured“, we need to destroy that “ache for home“. We need to become homeless…

I call my toys after writers, both males and females. Today I fuck myself with Celan, with Akhmatova, or Bukowski…With one of them, or with 2, with 3. Later in the day, or tomorrow I’ll change the names, I’ll have others over. I have a few toys, but I want to get so much more. I want to organize huge literary orgies in which my body and my flesh will be at their disposal. I’m already their slave…Have been so long before I became an onanist. Falling in love with their words and their worlds saved me.

When my onanist lust starts to gradually grow inside me, I feel how every cell in my body slowly transform itself into a clit, into a nipple, another cunt, another raging leaking hole… I touch my neck, my ear, my lips, and I feel burning. My arms, my neck again… I finger my fingers, I kiss my own mouth, I whisper in my own ears. I start shacking, my vision blurs, I can’t hear well anymore, I start to droll from everywhere. No matter where I am, I start to retreat from reality, to run away, to disappear. If I cannot masturbate right where I am, I’m becoming increasingly desperate and looking for home. It’s force of attraction is unbearable. My breathing gets heavier, I’m starting to sweat, to melt, to grunt. As I walk I put the belt of my purse over one of my breasts, and start to rub my nipple with it. That doesn’t help at all, but I cannot fucking stop, it’s pleasure, pleasure, pleasure…My mouth is full of saliva, my cunt is under water, I feel my clothes rubbing against my skin and my ears are ringing. I wish I’d have a horse-sized dildo right there so I can impale myself. Maybe the itch will go away. I put my purse in front of my belly so I can finger my navel. It doesn’t bring relief, but the opposite. Bad idea, though the only idea.

I know a bookstore in the city where they have real toilets, not booths. It’s my home away from home (or one of them). I’m heading there, almost crawling, as all my energy and force gets sucked by desire. It’s hot outside, and I hate it! Between me and that toilet there is a gigantic swamp, and I have to cross it. I have to survive, somehow. I’ve done it before, I have to be able to do it this time too. But with every time it gets more difficult. When the urge hits, it hits hard. At the beginning, when I was just getting into all this. I was able to go on for days and weeks with that lusty feeling inside me, without doing anything. Now, I’m completely enslaved. It controls me, my soul belongs to it.

I want to sit on the ground, right there, rip my clothes off, spread and start fisting myself. I don’t care about anything anymore, I just want to make the itch stop, I want to get delirious with pleasure, I want I want I want I want!!!! I can’t breathe…

Keep walking!, I keep telling myself Your home is not that far anymore… Your home is not that far anymore…

I finally manage to cross the proverbial swamp, the imaginary yet equally equally real rest of the city that separated me from the home I need so desperately to get inside. My cunt leaks so much I look like a peed on junky, I am a junky, an onanist junky about to enter in a coma from prolonged lack of masturbation! I need to fuck myself more that I need to breath, more than I need to…FUCK! I’m fucking dying, but I’m finally here! The bookstore with its toilet rises in front of me…Get in, NOW!

Door opening, door closing – our lives, everybody’s lives in two minimal moves. Then we die. The door closes for the last time. In between, hell with pockets of paradise. I want to die impaled in toys, still spasming with orgasms hours after I’m declared clinically gone-for-good, on the morgue’s table, under the mortician’s knife. He cannot cut me, I’m moving too much, I’m cumming to violently, I squirt everywhere yet I’m dead dead dead where the fuck am I?! Oh yes the bookstore. I’m in so much lust, I need to masturbate so badly I forgot I’m here to masturbate. The toilet is near, I can smell it with my cunt. This is how I feel a home is close, my cunt sense it, my flesh, my whole body, my skin, all my holes start dancing and I cannot say “no“, I cannot say “stop!“, I cannot say “ENOUGH!“. These are things people with brains say, but I have none. The little that’s left swims in alcohol, and is used to type the pin code at the sex store while buying yet another toy. You need some brain for that too, not much, just enough.

I enter the toilet, drooling, grunting, dying. I let the purse fell on the floor, I pull down my skirt and my soaked pants and finally touch the cunt. I almost scream, that first touch is the most insane thing that can happen, my life has no purpose other that, I have nothing to live for anymore, nothing, 0. I rub few times with drool falling in my blouse, I don’t care, I’m crying with pleasure, frustration, lust, hate, all at once. I’m home!! There’s no world left outside that toilet.

Bukowski was right (how could he not?! He was a home-seeker too): “Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.”

Some years ago I found what I love. Now, it’s already ruining my life, my body and my mind. It drains me, it clings into me, and it’s gradually annihilating me. Stages of disappearance.

One day, it will kill me…

Ghost with Bones

until you break

August 31, 2019

Yes, I’ll do this until you break – not break like a china doll roughly handled, but like the waves on a moonlit beach.


throw the man out

August 25, 2019

Cold and derisive her queer female mind stood apart, and though she lay perfectly still, her impulse was to heave her loins, and throw the man out, escape his ugly grip, and the butting over-riding of his absurd haunches.

D.H. Lawrence
Lady Chatterley’s Lover


August 23, 2019

You open your
Dress on the dusty
Bed where no one
Has slept for years
An owl moans on the roof
You say
My dear my
In the smoky light of the old
Oil lamp your shoulders
Belly breasts buttocks
Are all like peach blossoms
Huge stars far away far apart
Outside the cracked window pane
Immense immortal animals
Each one only an eye
You open your body
No end to the night
No end to the forest
House abandoned for a lifetime
In the forest in the night
No one will ever come
To the house
In the black world
In the country of eyes

Kenneth Rexrothe

He saw her

August 18, 2019

He saw her
walk on the grass,
saw her hips swaying,
heard her sing
some song,
but she unaware
that he was there,
hidden behind a tree,
without knowing
that he could see.

He saw her bathing,
saw her lying
stretched out
in cool water
like a nymph;
took note
of her nudity
before his eyes,
but she unaware
that he could see,
lay freely there.

Seeing her there
pretty naked,
he moaned inside,
his desire bubbled
like a boiling stew,
but still spied on,
for nothing to solve
his pain and lust,
nothing else
would do.

Terry Collet

…Louis used to rape me on the porch swing after Dorothy had driven into town… he was a jumbled agony of tears and lust and the seat cover fabric was a mesh of wild pink roses that Dorothy had embroidered at nights and I counted the roses and the stars in the sky…and I rented out my little pussy for no money and afterwards he always wept and tried to untangle the knot of chewing gum in my hair…

Sara Stridsberg
The Faculty of Dreams
Trans. Deborah Bragen-Turner