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The Soul Wishes It Could Blow on the Wound

ISSUE:  Summer 2018


His teeth are lilies bursting from asphalt—white, many petaled opulences;
amid danger, there is also beauty. When he whips me with the riding crop
of his tongue, I curl into the earth’s first question: To desire what exactly?
                                                                                                      He has nothing
to offer but kisses & semen. Cold inamorato of my nights, he whets flesh,
thrashes above me like a black bough. As iron sharpens iron, he sharpens
me. The first time I barely had the luxury of screaming so I submitted
like any good catamite. At my master’s thrust, I was hinged to hush.


             First Offering

Like any good
catamite, I was
hinged to hush.

My hole, a rosen
halo. I flickered
a month of blood.

And what is this
masochism that I
keep coming back

& coming back
for more, no less?
The answer, simple:

To enter the wild
void of seismic desire
while still wanting 

us to arrive
at an answer


             Second Offering

                         I want us to arrive at an answer together.
                                   When he moans
             like a lilting contralto, I want to be taken
                        up there with him. My ass in the air, wet with deception.
                                   Thus, his ceaseless pivot. This other tongue
             of his which offers me no mercy— 
                                             Felled lark, that I am. My plumage,
                         disheveled. Here, in his cage reeking of precum & loud, 
                                  there is an ecstasy I still can’t seem to reach. 


             Third Offering

And so, there is 
            an ecstasy I can’t 

reach. In sleep, he sinks 
            lilies into me. 

My body, his place-
            holder for grief. 

I am struck songlet
            & aviary. 

He hit me & it felt
            like a kiss. I spit

a swarm of blood-
            phlegm on a rose-

wood stump. It leaks 
            like rubies down 

the lanced side 
            of his Christ. 

The hole in my face 
            is a burning bush—

A lush thicket 
            of common sex.



I dig deep into the soil’s sex. I draw out
a black-earth tongue. Like tenebrous ice,
it dissolves; a mercy & so a quickening.




            —considering Gabriele D’Annunzio



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