Posts Tagged ‘BoySlut Poems’

Why we never make it to Bukowski’s grave

 

Black Lilly’s hang in the garden

of Sir Edgar and Sire Alan and Sir Poe

Longfellow wants me to stroke his fellow

and Emily Dickenson likes to pick the crud off

perverse unpoetic poetries as it offends her, HER,

yeah fucking right, I tell my lover, the kill author who

suggests dinner with Bukowski on his grave, he says we

can hang patio lights and plant plants around his headstone

talk poetry and bullshit and more poetry and less bullshit and

then get down to the real bullshit of why authors had to evolutionize

in less than 50 fucking years, and why typewriters are now for roaches

and paper and pens are for third world countries, third world babies, third

world generation X’s and this is rather depressing conversation as I pour me

another glass of cheap champagne wondering why in the fuck my author lover and

I never make it to Bukowski’s grave much less to the liquor store for some real booze?

 

Tequila, Mexico

 

He asks if I ever been fucked

by a Tequila’s bottleneck?

I giggle in my drunken stupor,

my age refusing to behave, ladylike.

My boyfriend is the youngest son

of a mastered connoisseur beyond

the vast fields of the Blue Agave

where my body has sinfully laid naked

each day, every day for the past week;

in my own virgin fields, beneath the incessant

of cloudless skies and the indiscriminative

of the illicit sun, I have been cumulated, watered,

chopped, fucked, de-cherried then carried

into the furnace to live eagerly widespread eagled

in the mouths that desire such liquescence;

I’ve gained the title of my boyfriend’s

self-centered, self-entertaining,

self-indulgent drunken whore;

he tongues the empty bottleneck,

lubricating the recycled glass,

and he tongue fucks it with such grace,

with such delicacy, with such queerness

that my insides clench, my lips burnish,

creating a catalyst of pre-ograsmic froth;

the sweet sensual scent of Tequila’s

post-drunken lust seeps from my overheated pussy

as the bottleneck thrusts in-n-out

by the gentle handle of my lover;

my erotic thoughts drift to Felipe Calderon

macheting his way through the political

candor of sexual politics and awakened uprisings

to become everything a President is not

permitted to be, and suddenly I fantasize

about that influential man slurping up Tequila

as he slovenly pours it over my snatch

until his radical tongue is replaced by the

pre-election of his dick raging spermatic wars

inside my personal Mexico in this small rich town

of Tequila in mid-June where my body alas convulses

 

 

(originally published in the Camel’s Saloon, 8/12)

DESSERT

 

The caramel of your eyes as rich as the custard I never had.

Your skin my quilt for years. I admit, this is love in another

language. Your irides mine, yet faint as the fantasies, I could

never count on. The spice of your tresses as strong as my subterfuge.

We have no cradlesong. Your breath singes my body, giving birth

to many lies and one truth: no, is your way of saying yes.

 

 

One Orgasm At A Time

 

The world doesn’t need
another singer-songwriter
with a catchy melody
and voice of protest

 

What it needs is a
colossal cock
rammed down its throat
with gallons, upon gallons
of cum splashed
in its eyes

 

Unable to speak
there will be
no discord

 

Blinded by cum
there will be
no judgment

 

This is the
only remedy
that bears
any relevance
My erection is
a revelation

 

Leave the fun part
up to me
I told you before
I live to fuck

 

Gallons of cum
will be filled
My ladies are here
our sexual organs
are united

 

I cum, they squirt
When it comes
to this endeavor
we’re together
trying to make
a difference

 

Trying to shut up
the belligerent critics
Trying to walk past
in the streets
as if we’re invisible

 

I’ll fuck like an
overzealous porn-star
if that’s what it takes
Repairing the world
one orgasm at a time

 

 

 

THE CHAIR

 

I brought my own chair

and I sat in an empty space

 

where the plains were surrounded

by absolutely blue skies.

I sat there.

 

I waited for the sky to turn dark

by staring at the sun.

 

The melody in lines

 

The spirit’s melody inside

Is the recreation of the human is his art

The discreteness of the endless sight

Merged in sensations.

 

The wine’s taste like woman’s scent

Strong

Dazzling

Piercing

Till the madness of thought

(…drink is consumed after you tried

the nectar of life

in sweetness of ever – ending moments!)

 

Lucid is the deepness of red, like the girlish virginity

In that body of dreams

Knitted with the strange

In the soft lip of a lady bug

Who gets drunk by wine drops.

 

They say that the best poems are written

When the foolish poets betray their lines

For a glass of wine…

 

 

© Irsa Ruçi

at The End of The Bar

 

 

Strawberry Fields plays on the jukebox.

 

I have lost my lust for women

I think,

as I light a match

to light the cigarette

between my fingers

 

I inhale. . .deep

the smoke casts a haze

over my memories

of what lust once looked like

felt like, tasted like

and regretted like

 

I exhale. . .long

the smoke casts a haze

in the opposite direction, and

when it clears,

I then remember

what lust once meant to me

and what it means

to the young man

hitting on the pretty brunette

at the end of the bar.

 

 

RED IS THE COLOR OF MY TRUE LOVE’S HORSE
                                     Animals have accents too.
                                     Squirrel’s provincial vowels are
                                     complicit in their transient confinement.
                                     Why do we allow this to occur?
                                     I can’t breakfast in peace
                                     without overhearing tree slang
                                     littered with caustic purrs.
                                     The branches shake
                                     adding to the sky’s inconsistent view.
                                     Picnic table and strawberry
                                     plant ravished, juices strewn.
                                     My dogs are less than useless,
                                     preoccupied with vernaculars,
                                     they lack the patience of nouns.

 

you’ve found a home with a window seat in the attic of my mind

 

I woke up this morning

wanting to suck lightning

roll up thunder

smoke it

& exhale the sunrise

 

dive into

your deepest oceans

& cover you in pearls

of gossamer

to crown you

my Queen

 

when the nighttime comes

caress your moon

write an ode to you

in stardust

to be sung by

the cosmic breeze

 

 

ode to an old Crook

 

once upon a time

he committed a crime

and snuck into her room

to make-out with her;

old age and memories lost

have all become but a blur

but he lived

happily ever after,

 

after with her