Grrrl Love

In those times she brings her past words

and into the theater of animal fantasy

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Lesbian dessert lust

Why a lovely woman to hold against my breast!

She also has a uterus,

Tits and the rest

Maybe two at a time I want

We’ll melt like hot butter

And roast in the summer

Baked like potatoes

Swim in marshmallows

(Written 2002)

Lesbian Eggplant

My lovely vegetable woman

I made you just for me

Of two carrots and olive eyes

Eggplant boobies and celergy stalk thighs

A morsel of meat snuck between the legs

But every other piece animal-friendly

(Written 2002)

Eat the World

Rumi says, We are sent to eat the world

And we find a million struggles the same as one

 

Foiled at the first attempt

Brought down to our knees

 

In depression desolate, destroyed

As the nature of woman – broken

Broken apart by shame and abandoned

 

Beyond the walls of the secret garden, we are

Crowded inside our heads

 

The statue of woman lonely for recognition

For queen status, for kind hands folded delicately

 

To be brought back to life with a kiss

For a taste of pie, tart on the lips and hot

For pie a la mode, with the cool sweetness on top

 

Woman in lust for the rough and rugged cutting

Souls open, legs open, our bodies receiving

The life essence coming

 

And we moaning sounds like crying

We shake,

Our tongues fat flesh knead like dough

 

Pulled from the fire ready

Jesus is knocking

Hard on the outside, sounds hollow within

Cycle of Temptation

No cookies with mold in a soiled state of mind
Charming desperation and I leave 25 notes on your phone
Text messaging comes from Satan
And my car has gas enough to drive to your apartmnent
Compartmentalize my grotesque psyche and call it what it is
Just a weird girl
Just a passing moment
And I get mad because you don’t really want me but I make it so convenient
Nothing convenient can be good
Eg. Donuts, side of the highway shop stop for cigarettes and Frito Lays,
internet porn, network sitcoms, and canned beans
Everything good is hard to get
And so is that why I want you?
And is that why I think you’re so good?
You sit up there in your third floor loft and maybe toss down a key once in a while
So lucky me if I get in and make you kiss me
It’s really all just so funny (with a stupid laugh)
But oh, those times you buy me lunch and bite me in secret places
Even if we don’t actually fuck
I’m sickly kean on being your bitch
And waiting at your feet
For you to throw me an occasional bone

Rum Tum

Drinking the night away toward your bed, your loft downtown with dense traffic sounds all through the dark that never comes with street lamps shining, reflected in the block glass and the red hue drives us home as we squeeze and push each other through the door, through to the end where we collapse and desire subsides without contentedness, just a cigarette and another glass of wine, no eye contact, no intimate moment, just the guilt of giving into the body passion desire, warped minds cannot bend against, and again we rock, yes we roll as the sheets wrap round our ankles and I am held captive, your slave this night, just like we knew it would be hours before in the bar when our eyes met in silent communion, we slip away from the crowd to become two bodies twisted together in the rhythm of damnation

Subdued

Into my quiet eternity, solemn and gravely deficient, came the sounds of children, unaware but for the now in which they moved, the constant motion of their feet, hearts, hands, they chased each other round the field, after the ball, the sounds of their own absoluteness drowning out all others and they of me, unaware

Walt Whitman followed me to the bathroom, the quiet public space with its echo, dirty floors, lack of sanitation and the stench of something old and fecal hanging on the walls, in the air – even here the verses of poetry flowed over me, closing my eyes, my breath shallow to listen

Utterly alone, as in every moment, the knowledge of youthful action – the sounds of which hung just a door’s opening away – the park, and why had I come here today? To see the sun on the grass, to smell the fresh bloom of spring as she opened up her sex to the wind, to see if I could just be or if the words would follow, asking me to speak them, to give feeling form, to birth verses

Press the pen to paper and ink angrily accepts this fate, as do I. Slave to the art, captured by the mind, not the body. How much would I have to give to find the rhythm of my heart, beating furiously? The children run and smile and laugh and play and not a one worries for tomorrow.

Was I ever such a child? No. Sadness, grief, isolation, deprivation, condemnation, degradation found me too soon and even at seven I stood by the field watching. My body tight, my hands covered or in pockets. I yearned to feel as they feel – still I yearn to detangle myself from this spot and move into the space of possibility

Where is my body electric? Where is my ecstatic self? Whitman promises a myriad of physical delights in his words and I follow the piper to the water’s edge but will not touch toe to swim. Salvation comes in the act of loving, in the lustful and delicious passion.

Give me a lover who will crush and destroy the sacred inner world and force me into the body, and beyond where my lonely soul waits with abundant joy. Send me a lover who will force  me open and penetrate to the core of existence- the being, the been, the will be of my ness. Grant me the gifts of surrender and long desired serenity.