85 Lust and desire poems

First turn to me after a shower, you come inside me sideways as always in the morning you ask me to be on top of you, then we take a nap, we’re late for school you arrive at night inspired and drunk, there is no reason for our clothes we take a bath and lie down facing each other, then later we turn over, finally you come we face each other and talk about childhood as soon as I touch your penis I wind up coming you stop by in the morning to say hello we sit on the bed indian fashion not touching in the middle of the night you come home from a nightclub, we don’t get past the bureau next day it’s the table, and after that the chair because I want so much to sit you down & suck your cock you ask me to hold your wrists, but then when I touch your neck with both my hands you come it’s early morning and you decide to very quietly come on my knee because of the children you’ve been away at school for centuries, your girlfriend has left you, you come four times before morning you tell me you masturbated in the hotel before you came by I don’t believe it, I serve the lentil soup naked I massage your feet to seduce you, you are reluctant, my feet wind up at your neck and ankles you try not to come too quickly also, you dont want to have a baby I stand up from the bath, you say turn around and kiss the backs of my legs and my ass you suck my cunt for a thousand years, you are weary at last I remember my father’s anger and I come you have no patience and come right away I get revenge and won’t let you sleep all night we make out for so long we can’t remember how we wound up hitting our heads against the wall I lie on my stomach, you put one hand under me and one hand over me and that way can love me you appear without notice and with flowers I fall for it and we become missionaries you say you can only fuck me up the ass when you are drunk so we try it sober in a room at the farm we lie together one night, exhausted couplets and don’t make love. does this mean we’ve had enough? watching t.v. we wonder if each other wants to interrupt the plot; later I beg you to read to me like the Chinese we count 81 thrusts then 9 more out loud till we both come I come three times before you do and then it seems you’re mad and never will it’s only fair for a woman to come more think of all the times they didn’t care

Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me, Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.

I can only give you back what you imagine. I am a soulless man. When I take you into my mouth, it is not my mouth. It is an unlit pit, an aperture opened just enough in the pinhole camera to capture the shade. I have caused you to rise up to me, and I have watched as you rose and waned. Our times together have been innumerable. Still, like a Capistrano swallow, you come back. You understand: I understand you. Understand each jiggle and tug. Your pudgy, mercurial wad. I am simply a hand inexhaustible as yours could never be. You’re nevertheless prepared to shoot. If I could I’d finish you. Be more than just your rag.

Photograph found in the road: bejeweled hand gripping a limp dick. All parties suffering from lack of ambition. The hills of Tuscany won’t dapple with sunlight, and here it is nearly noon. She didn’t much want the leather jacket, the vendor didn’t really care to sell it, she hardly tried it on, he barely praised her beauty, then everyone wasn’t hungry and went to lunch. The rubies won’t glow. The delayed train shrugs on its siding. The penis appears at ease. Osteria, osteria, osteria, osteria. I knew many words but preferred to say the same ones over and over, like a photographer shooting four frames of the same subject, hoping for one in focus. This clearly among the other three.

Either she was foul, or her attire was bad, Or she was not the wench I wished t’have had. Idly I lay with her, as if I loved not, And like a burden grieved the bed that moved not. Yet though both of us performed our true intent, Yet I could not cast anchor where I meant. She on my neck her ivory arms did throw, Her arms far whiter than the Scythian snow. And eagerly she kissed me with her tongue, And under mine her wanton thigh she flung. Yea, and she soothed me up and called me sir, And used all speech that might provoke and stir. Yet, like as if cold hemlock I had drunk, It mockèd me, hung down the head, and sunk. Like a dull cipher or rude block I lay, Or shade or body was I, who can say? What will my age do, age I cannot shun, When in my prime my force is spent and done? I blush, that being youthful, hot and lusty, I prove neither youth nor man, but old and rusty. Pure rose she, like a nun to sacrifice, Or one that with her tender brother lies. Yet boarded I the golden Chie twice, And Libas, and the white-cheeked Pitho thrice. Corinna craved it in a summer’s night, And nine sweet bouts we had before daylight. What, waste my limbs through some Thessalian charms? May spells and drugs do silly souls such harm? With virgin wax hath some imbaste my joints And pierced my liver with sharp needles’ points? Charms change corn to grass and make it die. By charms are running spring and fountains dry. By charms mast crops from oaks, from vines grapes fall, And fruit from trees when there’s no wind at all. Why might not then my sinews be enchanted, And I grow faint, as with some spirit haunted? To this add shame: shame to perform it quailed me And was the second cause why vigour failed me. My idle thoughts delighted her no more Than did the robe or garment which she wore. Yet might her touch make youthful Pylius fire And Tithon livelier than his years require. Even her I had, and she had me in vain; What might I crave more if I asked again? I think the great gods grieved they had bestowed The benefit which lewdly I for-slowed. I wished to be received in. In I get me To kiss. I kiss. To lie with her, she let me. Why was I blessed? Why made king to refuse it? Chuff-like had I not gold and could not use it? So in a spring thrives he that told so much, And looks upon the fruits he cannot touch. Hath any rose so from a fresh young maid, As she might straight have gone to church and prayed? Well I believe she kissed not as she should, Nor used the sleight and cunning which she could. Huge oaks, hard adamants might she have moved, And with sweet words cause deaf rocks to have loved. Worthy she was to move both gods and men, But neither was I man, nor lived then. Can deaf ear take delight when Phaemius sings? Or Thamiras in curious painted things? What sweet thought is there but I had the same? And one gave place still as another came. Yet, notwithstanding, like one dead it lay, Drooping more than a rose pulled yesterday. Now, when he should not jet, he bolts upright And craves his task, and seeks to be at fight. Lie down with shame, and see thou stir no more, Seeing thou wouldst deceive me as before. Thou cozenest me, by thee surprised am I, And bide sore loss with endless infamy. Nay more, the wench did not disdain a whit To take it in her hand and play with it. But when she saw it would by no means stand, But still drooped down, regarding not her hand, ‘Why mockst thou me?’ she cried. ‘Or, being ill, Who bade thee lie down here against thy will? Either thou art witch, with blood of frogs new dead, Or jaded camest thou from some other bed.’ With that, her loose gown on, from me she cast her – In skipping out her naked feet much graced her. And, lest her maid should know of this disgrace, To cover it, spilt water on the place.

after Ovid In summer’s heat and mid-time of the day To rest my limbs upon a bed I lay, One window shut, the other open stood, Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood, Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun Or night being past, and yet not day begun. Such light to shamefaced maidens must be shown, Where they may sport, and seem to be unknown. Then came Corinna in a long loose gown, Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down: Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed Or Laïs of a thousand wooers sped. I snatched her gown, being thin, the harm was small, Yet strived she to be covered therewithal. And striving thus as one that would be cast, Betrayed herself, and yielded at the last. Stark naked as she stood before mine eye, Not one wen in her body could I spy. What arms and shoulders did I touch and see, How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me? How smooth a belly under her waist saw I? How large a leg, and what a lusty thigh? To leave the rest, all liked me passing well, I clinged her naked body, down she fell, Judge you the rest: being tired she bad me kiss, Jove send me more such afternoons as this.

Under the soft translucent linen, the ridges around your nipples harden at the thought of my tongue. You — lying inverted like the letter ‘c’ — arch yourself deliberately wanting the warm press of my lips, it’s wet to coat the skin that is bristling, burning, breaking into sweats of desire — sweet juices of imagination. But in fact, I haven’t even touched you. At least, not yet.

Yo ave del agua floreciente duro en fiesta. —“Deseo de persistencia,” Poesía Náhuatl 1 In the region of rain and cloud, I live in shade, under the moss mat of days bruised purple with desire. My dominion is a song in the wide ring of water. There, I run to and fro, braiding the logical act in the birth of an Ear of Corn, polychromatic story I will now tell in the weaving, power's form in motion, a devotion to the unstressed. Once, I wreathed around a king, became a fishing net, a maze “a deadly wealth of robe.” Mothers who have heard me sing take heart; I always prick them into power. 2 Y vengo alzando al viento la roja flor de invierno. (I lift the red flower of winter into the wind.) —Poesía Náhuatl

Inside the night, this hospital, asylum, this party for those undone by desire, forever unslaked, inside a house inside the night, I'm inside this house with eight beams and moonlight pulling on the past through skylights, this house of white noise, wind and dry heat, lonely house on a ridge line, house of ordinary shame, my sister's house with corrals and outbuildings around it, and beyond that, the dog patrolling, and beyond that, skirts and folds of the mountain rising in rumpled geologic scrolls into the range. At the center beneath the moon's silence that nothing ever changes, muffled in blankets with fear beside me on my little bench of sleep, I can hear their voices, could be three or twenty-three, unhinged saints gabbling to their shadows, or panty-sniffers, drug-trippers in all flavors past vanilla, could be Birnam wood on the move, the shriek of its roots thirsty and air-brushed, or a pack of lunatics crooning norteño songs. What is certain is advent. They're coming down, coming towards the heart beneath the feathers, coming for what can't be protected, on a beam of dread, riding that ray. I'm listening, my eyes snapped-open inside darkness, other people in other rooms who know how to sleep through a night like this night, thrown against the roundness of the world which is desire. The old bitch guards this night on the ranch, half shepherd, half other, this is her watch, she gallops the perimeter, anxious to sound like more than one dog, though she's going arthritic and her paws strike the hard ground. Now they quiet, penitents, lunatics, marauders and ragpickers,quiet. Only one left behind and the moon is his hieroglyph, one creature padding down the mountain, coming closer. Coyote knows a good joke, he only wants to let her in on it. He can't stop laughing, can't stop crying, can't stop licking the crevices clean, licking safety and duty until they're empty. I hear the dog listening, ears lifted. Coyote's tongue slides into night air, pressing narcotic vowels through wonder, through longing and longing and wonder awaken. She's close to that edge, that border in the night where one thing becomes another and even an old dog who's worked a ranch eleven years feels the urge to let loose, blow this little settlement,go wild. Clouds loose and blue in the arms of the moon, slant light on this mountain raking us, the dog and I, we feel the pull. Imagine a woman trying to come between coyote and the female he's after when she knows what is dark and offers itself and vanishes has come for her at last? The body wants what it can't have, to follow the path of thirst through the rent in the wire beyond the corral. The dog doesn't move, but who knows better than she the small outpost death has set up in her, maybe she's all desire now to slip under the moon and chase down that lure. Coyote wheedles and croons another minute or two, then lopes off, calling over his shoulder in a language even I can understand, the right names for things not kept in heaven.

a woman moves through dog rose and juniper bushes, a pussy clean and folded between her legs, breasts like the tips of her festive shoes shine silently in her heavy armoire. one blackbird, one cow, one horse. the sea beats against the wall of the waterless. she walks to a phone booth that waits a fair distance from all three villages. it’s a game she could have heard on the radio: a question, a number, an answer, a prize. her pussy reaches up and turns on the light in her womb.