For several minutes all we do
is undress, biting. There may be light,
but one black shoe breaks the bulb off,
the other shuts the door. Music

does not outdo our louder music: your
name, mine, over and over
the bed. We are tumbling. There
may be others, elsewhere. Therapy,

memories, what our children will appear
like, all this speculates in the hall,
we are inside another room. Nature
adores us, we involve vacuum

in the act of sucking. Turns
take time through a share
of each twitch, each organ, twined
in roman numerals, reversed.

Well versed in the fall beyond sex, we slip
on the other's skin, untaxed, vegetable
matter, a multiple absence replete
with our rehearsal of the next life, carnate.

Why I Do Not Carry a Gun

It fits perfectly
into a mouth.

It contains bullets.

It is the colour
of dark leather.

It is the length
of a cock.

Because, crouching
on one leg, it can
eliminate a room
of persons. Immediately.

It can be easily concealed.

Because it feels good
in the hand.

Because I would stroke
your cheek gently
with it, often.

Because I want to.

Reds And Oranges

How does blood get in?
I ask her, preparing
a tray of them, stained
and magnificently bleeding
despite my ignorance of the means
by which she made them this way.

Putting one in my mouth, her finger
rests inside, to catch a nectar
special to this season, and I rely
on a difficult sensation, pleasing
to everything I own, to answer
the body of my question.

Enough to say, it does.

The Cone of Silence

We are hand delivered
by each other. Decline from
kissing me, until I have covered
my mouth, drawn it clean,
returned from the sink with wet hair

before my eyes: otherwise
what I have acquired
from being hungry at your cunt
will come to haunt you, lingering
on the vacancies

of our communicable skins:
your pussy is our disease, we
have resolved to obey the medical
profession, and stay our touch,
but this improbable reckless

desire is doomed to fail us, as we cling
to comforters, pillow slips, tainted gauze.

Homage To Andrew Blake

It happens somewhere
in a room filled with natural light
coming through picture windows
beyond which are round hills, swimming
pools, semi-tropical vegetation.
It must be California.

Inside, the furnishings are spare,
ultra-modern, hip, designed:
black leather and chrome,
spaced unevenly, far apart
on the gleaming marble floors.
She kneels and extends her hands

to undo his fly. Her arms are sheathed
in black plastic. Her head is tight
in a hood, which emphasizes
her mouth, and her long jaw.
She has dark-green lipstick on.
His penis is taken out. It is long, thick.

She fucks his cock with her throat.
His hands hold her smooth head, guide
her forward. She has a collar on.
She sucks his rod, sliding her face down.
Perhaps, she exists only for this.
The only sound is saliva on flesh,

the man's sudden moans.
His ass-muscles tense, as he prepares
to shoot his load. Her face pulls back,
an expression of total concentration
mixed with slack reverence and blank hope,
as she waits for the idea of a reward.

Semen slaps her cheekbones, and lingers
like glycerin, beading on her lips,
tinted lenses. She extends her tongue
to take the jism glistening in the corners
of her mouth off with its tip, swallows.
Then, she spreads her gloved hands

in exhortation, in the begging position.
The man obliges, stroking his nine-inch tool
until it once again explodes into her
shiny, black, cupped bowl. She bends
her head forward, to lap up the white
liquescence: content, wholly present, fed.

First Communion (from The Book of Plagues)

Your face needs light as it does bread,
but in this climate skin grows sick on the sun.
So gather a white mask of protection
and fan your tan fingers across your face,

obscuring your red mouth. Spread
the white solution of protecting oil upon
your lips, like semen smearing a rose.
I will not resolve to stop at kissing your red

mouth only. I will spend the better part of Lent,
and all Easter, taking your clitoris upon my tongue.
I love such a position, being so young,
in our canopy church where pleasure says grace.

back   home
Free Williamsburg | 93 Berry Street | Brooklyn, NY 11211
[email protected] | August 2000 | Volume 6