Category Archives: Sex

Body As A Burial

My body is an ancient burial ground

It gets desecrated by someone else’s

idea of progress.

When you enter me, you stir the dead,

the anger of a century in red

pours out in tainted rivers,

the Red River,

where the missing ones were buried,

floods over and curses any attempt

I might make to love you.

Your heart gets haunted

by something unnamed,

something buried

too deep to be translated.

Your hands are the only evidence

that I exist beyond this.

You frack me without a thought

for what you take,

but what hurts most

is what you leave behind,

was once so sacred.

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Filed under Aboriginal, Anishinaabe, Canada, creative, Cree, Displacement, Earth, Environment, Feminist, First Nations, Genocide, Human Rights, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, introspective, Longing, Loss, Oil Fields, Ojibwe, Pain, Past, Pipe Lines, Poem, poetry, Political, Pollution, Pride, Prostitution, Rape, Self, Sex, Sexuality, Silence, Sorrow, Spirit, Trauma, travel, Truth, writing

Memories All Fade

At some point the sunset gets gold, gilded circle, arc of fire, burning liar! Telling time like the crime of the century. I am still that girl of twenty, staring at another girl across from me on the sofa, high as a kite on green. She asked me how old I was and when I answered she said she liked the sound of twenty, the way it rolled off her tongue was pleasing. My partner was thirty something. This girl had come to visit us, she was a few years younger than me and gay as a rainbow painted on a unicorn, and if I’d have known better, I would have kissed her. These are the things we think about as the years get plated in karats beyond 24k, and we have to wear shades to keep the rays from revealing the wrinkle of age. We stop apologizing. Hormones and a taut physique are soon wasted on promises we never keep. Looking back I never kept my virtue in tact, as a matter of fact I lost it to people far from those I desired out of fear of not measuring up. It seems I was fated to fail at pleasing myself, the queen of self-sabotage, true masochist, here she sits nearing her fourth decade and her thoughts get more obscene, she begins to ponder what it all means. I am no more or less pure or tainted by the choices I make with my body in spite of my heart. I’ve had it wrong all along. Now my body fails to live up to what my mind can only imagine, fearless feast of fantasy, and here my heart comes trailing behind like a heavy little tugboat, cargo of care. I want to let it sink, tear off the ropes that bind, splash down deep and let the waves take me anywhere, but a still wise voice says, you know better, you know from experience, never give up your soul like a fair trade deal, make it real, stop and feel, before all feeling fades into a silver coin of memory discarded like a fleeting wish. Next time you will kiss. You will kiss her in every currency  known on earth through every century in which humankind ever created money or some form of trade for energy, trade for service, you will exist without sun, sans lune, χωρίς φεγγάρι, χωρίς αστέρια, without anything to enlighten your dark dreams.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, Sapphic, Sex, Sexuality, travel, writing

She Said

No baby, you can’t take me for a ride,
I’m not a car, not by far.
I’m a shooting star
whose legs only open to fate,
and we’re not destined for eachother,
so why even bother?

This sacred temple was not built
for fun and games.
Not that way.
Not that way.

She said.

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Filed under Sex, Sexuality, Truth, Verse, writing

Miasma

Black treacle swan. White albino swan. Watching them from the edge of the pond, how they enter eachother like shadows. Watching them swim graceful at first and then the eventual bloody aftermath and after death, the afterbirth of their mating. Their courting is a prelude to homicide. Enter me, perpetual gaping wound that never heals, with your sword of forceful pokes and prods into my interior. It’s a wonder something uglier does not arise from the tide of her open thighs at labor station 23 on a red gurney. Patient x has given birth to the newest antichrist. It cries for more white fluid. I see the pond as ice and the birds as a nightfall of snow and the aftermath of nuclear bombing. His penis is akin to Chernobyl, all cut up and radioactive. She has ovaries like missiles where future bombs await. Shrapnel of climax that’s all we are, anticlimactic and nuclear active space travelers. Cut, snip, tie off the umbilical noose from which we are all hung, twist it hard and breech me as a newborn suicide. Legs out first, cord wrapped around my neck like a final testament. Beautiful in the winter when the northern lights play music in colour, better than a world of endless gray. This is how I’ll stay, gracefully gliding along a crystal surface of glass, where the ghosts tap tap tap to be opened like a cracked womb of gushing river blood. I whistle your purple brilliance and green resplendence into a frenzy of sky spirits that dance out from the melting miasma, the plasma in a tube mixed with opioid brilliance that filters out the white noise. Kiss me nebulous. Inject me with your love, receptors, receptors, respond. We have a code 798, clear, singe, spiral, smoke, inhale, choke, listen to that silence! It’s coated by softly falling snow and the careful circles the ice dancer makes upon our grave in figure 8s, infinity signs, lines that stretch on forever from continent to continent of loneliness.

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Filed under Malady, poetry, Sex, Shadow, Snow, Soul, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Too Sober

Too sober to fuck stars bright so they fade, fade in the night without gold. 

Too close to want to hold if you see in me this black sky,
that makes wishes die.

” But I will turn my eyes from you  
 As women turn to put away 
The jewels they have worn at night  
And cannot wear in sober day.”

C. Barthelette 
S. Teasdale

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Filed under creative, Desire, Grief, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Sex, Sexuality, Sobriety, Sorrow, Stars, writing

Blason

Eyes richer than gold, with their velvet fold of emerald, and lips that leave rubies envious of ruddy days, days beholden to such fools with jewels. I want to excavate the ruins of you with the patience of a cautious archaeologist in search of the truth to the marvelous mystery of your soul, hidden deep, like pearls of lustrous wonder, those sparkling  stars in the sea of your body that I discover on my slow descent to paradise.

“in the realm of you, my child-like fingers in paste, until qualified for pearl, learned gem tactics in the sands of a slowly awakening memory, an amethyst remembrance of treasurous times.” Emily said and I revised.

It’s true, I’m but a foolish child at the shores of you.

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Filed under Beauty, Blason, Colours, creative, Desire, Emily Dickinson, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, Sapphic, Sea, Sex, writing

A word to be born by

Softly, fully we bloom into these bodies
And boom and womb are atomic.

What can one say for the abrasion of our violent arrival into brighter worlds?

In a field at night I saw my mother gather stars, picking each like a red ripe cherry from the sky

And her smile is what captured me.

That was when I knew I wanted to be electricity in her veins.

I traveled from the world of the cosmic divine, made a steep decline down onto my fathers inarticulate tongue and sang through his ribs as the explosion of white travelers fought for their positions in the atmosphere of her body.

I wanted to be there to greet you first, but darkness drowned you away from my life like a wave and the thirst for strangers followed me like a sexual awakening when the sun burns your eyes and the man by your side asks if it was alright, but you can’t recall his name in the light of day, because they all say they love you, it’s a word used to open the sky, a word to be born by.

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Filed under Adventure, creative, Journey, Life, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, Sex, Sexuality, Soul, Space, Stars, travel, writing

All passion spent

They thought we might be the death of eachother. I could hardly stand to breathe without her body. We tried to abstain, I tried to keep her away, at arms length, but she couldn’t obey. One night her partner lay sleeping in his bed as she read poems to me, and something in the seriousness of her expression made me unable to resist her. We were on a cast iron bed in the adjoining room, every muscle flex caused the bed to creak. I put my hand on her mouth to silence her, but her moan escaped and awakened him. Just a look from her was enough to make me cum, the anticipation of her touch sent comets shooting through me. By the time her skin touched mine they exploded into the night like a million beams of light, blinding me with stars. Maybe it was the fear of being caught that thrilled me, or the way her eyes were etched with green flecks of brilliance and her mouth seemed carved out perfectly to fit mine. One day his relatives were visiting from America and they stepped out while she was cooking dinner, promising to return in time to eat. In their funny Chicago accents they said “dinner smells mahvelous, see you soon.” The moment they drove away I couldn’t keep my thoughts at bay. She was sitting on the sofa drinking a glass of red wine, wearing a white apron, stained with the blood of a wild animal. She leaned into me and whispered that her loins ached as she ran her hand down my leg, I felt the earth break and tremble. She took my hand and led me in the bedroom. Our screams filled the small old house as the potatoes boiled over on the stove and the windows went foggy from the steam. We lay gasping by eachother’s side as the car pulled into the driveway and we ran to make ourselves more presentable, less mangled by desire. They were so honoured to be eating a traditional, Aboriginal meal. As they commented on how delicious it was, it took all my strength not to laugh at the situation, their accents and serious faces, her messy hair and legs lined with scratches, as though she had fought and killed this massive beast alone. I always hoped we hadn’t left evidence of our passion anywhere, but if we did, they seemed to overlook it.

Another time she came to see me at the apartment where I was staying. She held the keys to her truck in her hand as she stood in the hallway explaining the situation. She was carrying crates of books from their house and lining the back room with her possessions, promising to leave, to come be with me. Her hair fell in waves down her shoulders, her tightly toned legs shone from the force of her effort, and she stood there with a slight smirk, eyes shaded from the sun. I walked up and claimed her lips, grasping her wrist I told her to stay and she chased me as I pulled her keys away. She fell on the bed, wrestling me down as she tried to pry my hand open. Her sex pushed against mine and I dropped the keys, she stared at the keys, then back at me while I kissed her. Our clothes were unnecessary restraints that kept our skin from eachother. Later as we lay covered by dew and lust, with laboured breaths suddenly we heard footsteps ascending the stairs. The door opened and we struggled to dress, it was so obvious. My brother walked in with my cousin and they found us that way, completely ravaged. The entire place breathed sex. It seemed to follow us everywhere; at all hours, in open spaces, behind bathroom doors, at the homes of relatives & friends, everywhere we went got marked by our undying passion for eachother and our inability to resist. Her hands belonged to my body and mine to hers. It took more than a decade to kill, but we outlived it. Others weren’t so fortunate.

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Filed under Bondage, Control, Dance, Desire, Drowning, Erotic, Infatuation, Intimacy, Longing, Love, Memory, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Sex, Sexuality, writing

Nothing owns me, only you

Seems like girlhood conditioned me to be that woman who hides in that place between dark & light, the place that casts shadows. It hurts to be admired. To have the same scars as others with the same particles of stars coursing through your veins. Maybe I was eight, but maybe I never existed. I was not yours by blood, but you found me as a girl hunted while night flooded in through the open balcony and you came & went and pretended not to see me naked, violated. That boy, just a budding man had taken me from behind, and all you did was walk away and lock the door on your daughter. I must have wanted it, wanted like the purple and blue left on me by you whenever I ran away. Little girls stray. I always did. But that was so small and inconsequential (like your manhood) and then you had the nerve to say you knew, you know why I was so stunted. Mother was the same, she would hand me away to the wolves. I remember being only four years old and hiding under her skirt, where I felt most safe. That was my first time going astray. I went on many adventures into those places between dark & light, places of non-existence. I would later be reaching for things not seen by others. I was sure I could touch them, make them real somehow, bring them into the light to display. I was in a trailer, riding out into the country, a girl and a wolf, alone together. I felt his  fingers to be like spiders, that was the game; the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the little girl’s leg and into her panties to play, the sky went grey and I went with it. The rain fell and I squinted my eyes at the horses on the open prairies, behind the fence, tamed to be ridden into the distance of the forest, where we once ran free as children, without arachnophobic memories. The rain kept falling, it rained and rained. I was five years old and another budding boy took my hand and led me by a lake, forced himself in my mouth and told me to keep swallowing. That is when I first learned to swim, like a small mermaid, I would swim against the current of the world, unseen, under dark water, just below the surface of the light, in that place I came to recognize as my home. I cannot recall all the ones who gained entrance into my young world, so many trespassers disguised as those who loved me. I lost entire years to those night travels, and there was never a moment when I could reach the sunrise untouched or pure. I was a stained glass version of myself cut from crystal, fragile and breakable, a perfect conduit for the light to pass through, on it’s way to somewhere better. Not one of you could see the logic in my decisions. “Why would she, why would she, how could she?” One day my mother asked me in my twenties if I planned to die a drug addict, and I saw my future, hollowed out, creviced, and dark. I decided at last to emerge from that place, but the darkness followed me into the light, like a hungry wolf licking at my heels, and I laughed at you all, in your fickle facades of marriage and children and happy home lives. I clicked my red heels three times in succession and woke up in a wonderland of my own invention. This time it was a choice, I went willingly with those wolves into the darkest of woods to feed their hunger, quench their infinite, injured need for love. I took up the name not easily given, like a wild gypsy sun dancer and claimed that title willingly. One time my father said he never pictured me a thief, he imagined me as a call girl, something others stole or took with or without permission. Maybe he was always right and I just haven’t envisioned that truth yet. Maybe deep down that’s what they all want for us, to please them and make them feel wanted and important. How important are we, showered by eternal white starlight, yet constantly cloaked and veiled to our own inner beauty? Seems like my girlhood conditioned me to be that woman, and that became my name, in a foreign language, Russian for “woman of the wolves.” Or an Indian name given; my indoctrination into an endless world of night, where I am most at home. I learned to master pleasure. I can easily give it, but I never feel it, and pain is so ordinary to me. I laugh at those who feign these games of pleasure & pain, all those who play like children at being on that border, have never truly felt what it is. Let’s go through the motions together. I will take you where you can only dream of being and when you reach that paradise, you will see that I am the Queen. Queen of wolves & shadows. They pass through me easily, and I take them deep inside of me where there is no fear or hurt, to a place where you can master your own shadow. Watch how the wolf enters the girl. becomes her and her him. One could not exist without the other. Give me what you keep hidden from those who fear you most and I will make it my own. Oh what lovely hands you have, the better to unfold me with. Unfold me like a paper swan and write your name on my soul. I’m bad with names. I only remember eyes and limbs, and how skin gets mutilated by sharp claws as they tear you open. I don’t know what it is that gets so numb in me, I only know women make me come alive like a swan on the surface of a pond, gracefully floating beyond, an endless stream of pretty water-lilies and perfumed gardens. There is never a woman whose name I’ve forgotten. Unique & beautiful like flowers, orchid girl, rose lady, tulip child. They make all that is dull and ugly in this world worthwhile. Make me shine my violet femme, my constellation, my flock of doves. Nothing owns me, only you.

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Filed under Abuse, Beauty, Bleed, creative, Journey, Lesbian, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Narrative, poetry, Purity, Sapphic, Sea, Sex, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, writing

For us

I’d like to get some platform boots, a silky pair of black nylons and a strapless strapon. Red and full is how I feel when I see your hard nipple & thirsty mouth, want to take a slow trip South, biting and licking my way through your valleys to the highest peak of pleasure in you, in me, where it hurts, transmit this anti into climax, encircle your shiny pearl with my tongue, the swirl of paradox, the soft endless ness of your velvet body when I enter you slow, rhythmic, then gradually harder, until I need to hold your braided hair, pulling on the reins of paradise, each thrust pushing deeper into you, into me, I need your eyes on mine, so I can journey back and forth between those  parallel worlds where you are both woman and girl. My soul pulsing into that death, that emptiness, that place at the threshold, where there’s no turning back. Brush away the butterfly fluttering in me so constantly, the bird trapped in my ribcage, the viper in my spine, all these things that twist & tangle and unwind me, set them free for you, for us

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Filed under Bondage, Death, Desire, Erotic, Fantasy, Freedom, Lesbian, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Sapphic, Sex, Soul, Strapless Strapon, travel, writing

Multilingual

The languages I speak are English, French, Greek and love. In the latter I am a beginner. At neither am I fluent. Truant to love’s feast, I hunger for something I cannot articulate.

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Filed under Erotic, Feast, Longing, Love, Poem, Sex

δεκαοχτώ

An inferno dying out in your mouth of clouds, the sharp hungry bird crying out at dawn, 18 reasons to stay, 18 to leave, dekaocto.

A girl I watch from your balcony;
years of stifled song, and the wrongs spill out in silence as she bends down, her tight shorts cutting into my agony.

Through the doorway where you call to me after such a long drought, you force my hand down and tell me to touch you now, but it feels like mercy, like persuasion not to fly, like I want to die.

I want to die separate from all the things you know of me,  but I cannot because I am a muted bird, and you are blind to this feathery thing in me, which wakes in the night hungry & scorned.

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The Eurasian collared dove (Streptopelia decaocto), most often simply called the collared dove-

The song is a coo-COO-coo, repeated many times. It is phonetically similar to the Greek decaocto (“eighteen”), to which the bird owes its zoological name. It also makes a harsh loud screeching call lasting about two seconds, particularly in flight just before landing. A rough way to describe the screeching sound is a hah-hah.

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Filed under Abuse, Bird, Bondage, Death, Freedom, Greek, Intimacy, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry, Sex, writing