Geometry of Desire

We come to understand the triangulation of desire. We see the lover, the beloved, and the obstacle which separates them from one another. Desire requires this separation, without it the structure of Eros collapses in upon itself.

The lovers wish to remove the barrier, dissolve the boundaries, to become one. This is the nature of the craving, the need for union, the longing for dissolution of the boundary. The aching for sacred violation.

And this, of course, is impossible. All time cannot be removed between the two, all space cannot be destroyed, for we are human creatures, bodies and minds and souls, made of our own flesh and bone and skin and psyche.

We are destined to remain within ourselves, to remain individual selves. All the while, within each of us, a longing which can never be fulfilled, never be satisfied.

There are some of us who seek for even the slightest satiation of these needs, sparking, burning, flashing in the dark.

And here we have the poetry that is desire. The poetics of loss, of need, of want, of the tragic beauty of the bittersweet emptiness.

Star gazers. Seekers of knowledge, tasters of the forbidden fruit. Practitioners of the art of seduction.

We beckon, we sing our siren songs for no one who can save us from ourselves.


Desirer of the desire, wanter of the want.





Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy


Sweet Sweet Dreams

Clutching for the sky, I slide down alongside the rain as I imagine your kiss turns bittersweet, from sugar to some sort of chemical, like swallowing mercury. The crickets are still buzzing loudly in the darkness of early morning, crackling in the grass like fire. As you disappear I find myself alone again in a crumpled bed, strewn with white linen I have to kick my sticky legs free from due to the unbearable heat.

Unsure if the sweat which slicks my entire body is brought on by the thickness of the humidity which sags through the window and soaks everything damp, or night sweats brought on by either the advance of age or the increase of drink, I peel off all my clothes and lie naked at the center of the bed. The center of the universe beats at the center of my body, as though my heart were located somewhere closer to my navel than my chest.

The mind wanders in these predawn hours. I consider the lost works of Sappho, words lush with pleasure-pain, ripe, swollen with longing, even still, made haunting through their absence.  Their suggestion becomes obsession with interpretation, extrapolation, possibility. Perhaps this is the single common human desire. Our want of the wanting. Our desire for the desire. Our thirst for the neediness and greed.

Sweet-hard thoughts of masochism, sadism, wanton women, hungry men. The feral, the animal, the degrading, the way only pain can satisfy the deep psychic cravings tucked within the folds of our darkest secret pleadings. Imaginings of orgies in days long gone by, humanity, divinity, perversions of beauty and sin, lost to the ruins of time, air, salt, sea. These musings blur into the blue haze of the dewy morning glow.

As my skin cools, sleep descends all around me, slows my breathing. Each desire becomes the mist of the dream. Each dream, a white paper boat I watch set out upon the dark and unrelenting waves.



Photo by Engin Akyurt

Anything That Burns You (audio)

Lighting a cigarette as I sit against the tall windows, I am watching the street cars sliding along down below, the thin glass cold against my bare shoulder. They said it was supposed to snow around dusk and sure enough, in the final strokes of evening, the twilight sky has turned reddish purple as the snowflakes begin to fall in earnest. Street lights and crystal globes glittering behind me, I turn to look at you as you work a small flame in the fireplace, coaxing it into a soft roar. I swallow my whiskey and walk to you, feeling the delicious warmth smother my insides. The way you look at me tugs at everything tender. In your eyes I feel beautiful even as the stuff of violence and lust clutches in my chest. Embers flashing and crackling through the smoke, the darkened room becomes the outer reaches of the universe and we are satellites in orbit high above the earth, my hands skim down your arms as we kiss, our tongues dancing, tasting, searching each other. The taste of you is ocean in winter, is the clarity of sunlight falling through pines in a secluded wood. Easily, forcefully, you pin my hands, you lay me down. It is deliberate in its freedom, the motions of your body as you hunt and devour, the pleasure you take from me. What we have is strange and twisted. What we create tears at the skin, drives waves of crimson tides through the body and floods over the mind. Sweet brutality of touch. I bloom and bear fruit at your command. Shadows moving along the walls, shadows full of protruding eyes, observant in the darkness. As night falls all around us, snow swirling in prismatic cyclones, you take me into the fear, your breath is fire in my veins. You take and you take and you take from me, anything that burns you.

Zoning Out

As I’m trying on a pair of heels, I roll the ankles of my jeans up and walk the carpeted runway toward one of those silly little low mirrors they put at the end of the aisle. Who cares what just the shoes look like? I need to see my whole self to really get a feel, but alas in any case I’m pleased with the strappy nude sandals and so make my purchase. We walk toward each other and we walk away, we expose ourselves and then retreat, and just hope to make it through another day with a little something decadent here and there to keep from losing our sanity completely. Later as I’m sitting in a business meeting, the man who is speaking is making his case about something he appears quite passionate about but I just can’t seem to make myself feel any kind of way about it here or there. The world to me often feels like my inner life must be a distant relative of this alien place, but seven or eight thousand times removed. Beginning to scrawl little designs in the edges of my notebook, my mind wanders away from me toward a provocative scene wherein a beautiful woman lies naked upon a blanket on a floor, surrounded by a ring of glowing vanilla scented candles. Like a goddess, like a sacrifice. Her attention is fixed on the man kneeling next to her who is stroking her sex gently but firmly as his fingers slowly begin to work her blossoming folds more fervently. The penetration is drawing her glistening honeyed sap forth, which he uses to wet and spread her pretty pink lips open even further. She closes her eyes as she gives into the pleasure he administers, moaning softly and rocking her hips, encouraging him. One finger, two, three. And he has her now, in his open palm, her sweet juices soaking him there. Another woman appears from the shadows, naked, curious, hungry. She circles her tongue around the erect nipple of the perfect breast of the woman lying on the floor, before placing her mouth on her mouth and kissing her deep. The sensation of soft lips and hard tongue, thick fingers stretching and probing her aching cunt, sends her tight body spasming over the edge with electric shocks, ecstatic waves ripping through her head to toe. I can see her cascading hair draped about a pillow as she breathes heavy, panting in euphoric bliss, skin shining and a glow in the darkened room. Feeling warm all over, I suddenly drift back into the business meeting and force my mind to try to concentrate on the matters at hand. But truth be told, a lot of the time, I don’t think I’m suitable for work.


I tell you a story which begins with the sun sinking into the ocean and ends with a killing at dawn on a hill overlooking a graveyard littered with broken glass and dotted here and there with those ugly dollar store plastic flowers. The blade was sharp and she was willing and you probably saw the ending coming anyway, as I’m not the most clever story teller especially when I’ve been drinking. But I can tell you for sure that both the ocean and the blade were slashed crimson as blood. We disregard the danger to get to the thrill and with you and I it’s no different. There are bottles of whiskey smooth as hot silk and my tongue stroking yours as you gasp for air. You’re so pretty when you struggle, baby. There is the wet taste of my sex on my fingers as I insert them into your mouth and make you suck them deep down your throat. I like the sounds of you when you beg to be used. Such a handsome needy thing. I like the whimpers you make when I get you close to the edge and keep you there as I ride you like the wind. In the corner of my room there is an altar I made to remind me that I don’t believe but if I ever had a change of heart I would know exactly where to confess my undying devotion to whatever it is that has turned me into such a mess. In dreams, I carve symbols into your forearm as I kneel before you in the center of a towering cathedral. It is dark except for the bluish and purplish light streaming in through dusty stained glass high above us in the peaks of the church ceiling. As I lick your wounds I drink of your sweat and your skin, my chest aches with lust for your pain, your healing, it all belongs to me. In the presence of every god and every saint and every sinner who ever walked the earth, we fuck like sweet slutty angels upon an altar of marble and gold, much more solid, of course, than the makeshift one I’ve got at home, but still there are similarities. The ivory candles and the smell of incense, an air of reverence which gets me off as I take pleasure in our ruinous acts of desecration. You come so hard you start to cry and in my sated haze I lap like a kitten at the stream of your beautiful tears. Out across the graveyard, the one I told you about in the story earlier, the sky does not end nor do the clouds and something about the endlessness of the view from atop the hill is captivating in its eerie stillness. We are so small, so completely insignificant it both inspires and devastates. Our hearts pump the blood through our veins until they give up on us for good and all will go black, all will go silent and the pain will finally be done. I remove the blade from my pocket and carve the symbols from your forearm into the tree which stands stoic and tall in this unfeeling place. Maybe I do believe in something it’s just that it’s something no one else can understand. They hand you a rule book and tell you to pray. They tell you to keep their naughty secrets and look the other way. But the truth is, you get to decide what you worship.

Stirring Up Trouble

I pull on little black lace panties because I’ve decided it’s a night for stirring up trouble and as you watch me trying to select a dress from your position on the bed, you light a cigarette and adjust the growing discomfort between your legs. I tell you not to watch but you don’t listen to my protest nor do I expect you to because we both know I like how it feels to be swallowed in by your eyes, inch by inch. I step into heels as I lean into the closet, certain the outfit I crave is in there somewhere just out of reach. Lately I’ve been scattered. Some kind of eerie vibe in the start of this new decade is messing with my head and I’ve been over thinking even the smallest details, while totally spacing out about the simplest of activities. Just this morning I threw my car keys in the trash before realizing there’s no way to start a car with a crumpled wad of paper recyclables. There is a war out there looming on the nuclear horizon and there is a war inside me between who I was and who I would like to become before we’re all blown to charred bits, and even standing in my over-stuffed closet in the nearly nude isn’t enough to stop my palms from sweating over all of it. But then I hear the growl in your gorgeous voice.
‘Turn around.’
Obedient and curious, I straighten myself up and turn slowly to find you unzipped and stroking your thick self. I raise an eyebrow and stay right where I am, widening my stance. These heels make my legs go on for days and the sight of your throbbing pleasure as you look at me makes my nipples hard as diamonds.
‘Come closer.’
I part my cherry lips, suck in a quick gasp of smoke tinged air, and walk to the edge of the bed next to you as my mind begins to soften into a beautiful buzzing haze. Placing your cigarette into my mouth, you tell me to ‘suck’ and I inhale a nice deep drag. God that tastes so good. And I know it’s bad but maybe so am I and that’s just the way things go. As you place your firm palm upon my sex, I know you feel my arousal hot and damp through thin lace.
‘Finish the cigarette and then that pretty mouth is mine, angel.’
You brush the lace aside and with three fingers you press and stroke the sweet blossoming between my naked thighs as you continue to stroke yourself. Crushing out my smoke, I take a swallow from your whiskey neat and finally my mind is somewhere delicious, somewhere sighing safely inside of your instructive power. Pinning both of my hands behind my back with one of yours, you look me in the eyes, fires of aching desire burning fervently there between us. My adoration is so full inside my chest I can feel tears welling in my eyes. Just to please you, to bring you release is my release from this cruel world. How you capture me, unlock me, restrain, and free me.
‘Why don’t you settle down upon those trembling knees and show me what that sexy mouth is for.’
Fuck. Definitely trouble.

Take This Cup

You have a way of turning away from me while still looking back at me that my blood cannot seem to forget, it courses like silk panic through the blue rivers in my veins. As though you were holding me and leaving me at the same time, I am suspended, one foot in front of another but only half of me has crossed the line between freedom and captivity, huntress and prey. The thing is I can’t blame you because then I’d have to let you go completely and that would be too hard to do. Hard because of the quiet softness of your eyes on my skin. Hard because of the tender sweet ache which consumes me, head to toe, body and soul, when your hands shake reaching for the small of my waist. All of this swirls within my chest as I walk along a lonely street as this early evening in January is becoming dark. The concrete scent of cold pavement mixed with the spiced fragrance of a distant wood burning fire. High above the frozen buildings I can just see a few twinkling stars, washed out by a thin swath of pewter clouds, spread almost as scantily as the atmosphere itself. Filling my lungs with frigid night air, I reach into a pocket and pull on my gloves. It would seem in winter we are always protecting, shielding vulnerable things. A sleek sedan passes by slowly, its tires along the cobblestone the only sound aside from my boots scratching against the sidewalk. The driver stops at the corner to let out a tall woman in black tights and heels, she thanks him, slams the car door and lights up a cigarette as she leans her curvy hips against a wrought iron railing. Her coat tight about her, eyes and lips glistening in the moonlight, she exhales short breathy plumes of smoke and I can almost feel her heart beating fast on the nicotine. Back at home I pour a glass of wine and nestle in among my many stacks of books, notes, papers, journals. I’m trying to decide how I feel about the difference between erotica and pornography because for reasons I cannot seem to explain this matters to me. It matters to me to understand if it matters, if that makes sense, which I am fully willing to accept that perhaps it doesn’t. Nin opens her collection of erotica Little Birds with these words, “It is one thing to include eroticism in a novel or a story and quite another to focus one’s whole attention on it. The first is like life itself. It is, I might say, natural, sincere, as in the sensual pages of Zola or Lawrence. But focusing wholly on the sexual life is not natural. It becomes something like the life of the prostitute, an abnormal activity that ends by turning the prostitute away from the sexual. Writers perhaps know this. That is why they have written only one confession, or a few stories, on the side, to satisfy their honesty about life… But what happens when a group of writers… devote themselves entirely to the erotic? How does this affect their lives, their feelings towards the world, their writing? What effect has it on their sexual life?” There is so much I don’t know about how I feel about any of this. For my entire life I have been a sensual girl, a sensual woman. Every nerve ending, it seems, is acute, alert, attentive. Some of my senses were praised, while my sexual senses were down played or hushed at kindest and outright publicly shamed, mocked, or ridiculed at cruelest. But despite what harsh and belittling treatment I have known, there remains in me a desire, a need, a curiosity, a passion, which flickers and licks at the walls of my tight little prison. There is no such thing as a poet, an artist, devoid of sensuality, sexuality, eroticism. There is no such thing as a woman who does not hunger and thirst to devote at least a portion of her most secret self to those forbidden flames. I light up a cigarette and open my notebook. I blow smoke to the ceiling and write about burning things. I write and write and write until my ink runs dry.

Night Stalker

He had a steady way of describing fleeting things which she found both fascinating and sinister. A mind so dexterous was dangerous and she knew it but the way he touched her with such command made her feel weak and alert at once. His ability to reflect without distorting, to bend without breaking, to manipulate at will. His disposition strong and calm enough to send her own skittish nerves into a quiet excitable humming which cascaded through her entire body in warm pulsating waves. She had a thing for men who went after what they wanted without apology and he possessed confidence in spades, stopping just short of arrogance. Not that spilling over into arrogance would have turned her off. She’d have licked, sucked, and swallowed that as it dripped off of him as well. Pouring a glass of rose wine as she walks slowly across the bare wooden floor in her new apartment, she leans against the window frame and watches as the fading evening light splays itself along the walls, still empty as though everything in the room, inside of the woman, were waiting. She is not sure of his whereabouts these days, he being a well traveled man not fond of leaving tracks. He was only a memory now. A shadow in dreams she longed to touch, to stroke, to please. In the darkening room, night falls in around her alone upon her bed, the aching between her thighs begins to liquefy,  a sweet flowering swell. She touches herself at the precious wound, consumed with desire to penetrate the luxurious depths of its softly unfolding petals. Muscles flexing, her dewy body enraptured with the imagery of his hand upon her jaw as he pinches her breasts, holds her hips in place while taking her again and again without relent. Inside of her she hears the groaning whisper of his voice, tastes the wetness in her mouth, panting for the heat in his words. Beg for this. Beg until it’s hard for you to breathe. He made the world spin upon its tilted axis. In his eyes were the dark secrets hidden inside of the universe he fed to her as she offered herself up to him completely. How he had shown her the wonder in so very many things. A man who could somehow inflict pleasure like a knife, pain like sick heaven. A man who knew the words to use with such precision he barely had to speak at all. But the moment he did, how she fell, instantly, expectantly, hungrily, upon her elegant knees.


It’s after midnight and I’m curled up in the green velvet chair I never sit in writing in an old leather notebook I never write in, skimming over the many thoughts in my mind one of which is that I’m so tired I can’t sleep, another marvels at the fact that despite my exhaustion something in me is still highly aroused. Pouring a glass of crisp Australian wine, I down two large swallows letting the cool liquid slide over my throat and seep into my bloodstream. It happens quickly as I’ve not eaten since I grabbed some noodles and tea at lunch. Rarely am I up so late but there are thoughts of you shifting around in the shadows, someone I have not yet met but feel I have known intimately for all my life. A man or a woman or an apparition or perhaps all three, I think of you, somehow, as a manifestation of something I cannot name but wish to worship at its dark forbidden altar. You drink in my words like licking honey as it drips from my fingertips and just as I melt in response to watching your divine mouth sucking on me, your tongue sliding up and down the length of my fingers, your throat pulsing and flexing as you swallow my sticky sweetness hard, you pull the black satin ribbon from my hair and use it to tie my hands firmly behind my back. I am not able to write, I am no longer in control, which causes my heart to race in my chest as I bend my neck and lower my eyes to the wooden floorboards. Tipping my chin up, you place a finger in my mouth and ask me if I enjoy writing erotica. Flooded with sensations which make it hard to breathe, I nod, unable to speak as you keep the pressure upon my tongue, eyes wide and fixed upon yours gazing down at me. I know you have posed this question because you already know the answer. You have known it for quite some time and so have I but humans are intricate creatures, full of mazes, twists and turns, corners, edges, fixations. What is erotic for some is disturbing for others, while for others still the disturbance is what gets them off. I am writing for you on this very late night because I have been a servant of the sensual all my life. Such is the lifeblood of the poetess. And as you stand before me, observing my nakedness, my eagerness, the fear swirling in my burning desire, you can see the flames dancing behind my eyes, and you do not look away. I can see the wicked in your smile. How it excites me. I can hear what your body wants, what your soul craves, I have heard it calling to me for ages. I have waited for a long time now, to speak of these thick passions, these heady secrets. And as is true for so many desires people try to restrain themselves from touching, the longer I have waited, the hungrier I have become.

Twisted Fairy

We make memes and we make stories and we tell lies and we think sick thoughts we feel guilty about the morning after. Or we don’t. As she looks herself over in the mirror while clasping a thin strand of gold around her neck, she decides it’s going to be a good night because her makeup is flawless and her hair just so with that perfectly imperfect bend in it which he loves to finger when they kiss. It has been some time since he’s been close so she is surprised by the sudden memory of their lips intertwined, tongues stroking and searching. Something about seeing herself so pretty and the mental image of his body on hers starts a low simmer which runs hot from her throat down to her stomach down to the dampening slit between her slender thighs. Finishing her lipstick, she steps into heels and pulls up her skin tight jeans but does not button them. Instead she slides a hand inside, gently massaging her swelling sex. Waves of pleasure run over her from head to toe as she closes her eyes imagining her touch is his, her mouth, her body, her breath is his for the taking. Wet and mute with precious ache and unable to break her mind away from the tease of his thickness upon her soft silk tongue, she inserts two elegant fingers, gliding them slowly in and out of her exquisite tightness, circling her throbbing pearl until she is nothing but heat, panting and moaning with the rhythm of her need for him, for pleasure, for release. Subtly increasing the speed of her penetration she slides a third finger inside while pressuring her mounting sensitivity with her thumb. Too weak to stand the ecstatic torture any longer, she leans back upon her bed and parts her long smooth legs like scissors, sensual images flashing through her like electric shocks over and over as she brings herself to the edge and blindly crashes over into sheer euphoria, pulsing with hard, excruciating strength, her muscles clenching so tightly in quick quivering, her fingers are forced slowly out of her soaking core. As she lay there alone, dizzy in the shimmering afterglow, she rests her fingers upon her naked hip feeling the delicious warmth of her slickness as she gently flutters back down to earth, back into herself spread open in the silence. All dressed up with no where to go for hours, she lazily straightens herself up and crawls to sit inside the deep windowsill over looking the traffic rushing down below. Feeling like a web of diamonds and sparks are glittering their way through her sated veins, she lights up a cigarette, blowing curls of smoke into the spicy autumn air. Life is tricky and there is so much she has yet to understand. She knows she pulls away from people too quickly and if only she weren’t so skittish perhaps she’d not so often get herself into tangles she can’t get out of without scars, without fights, without shattering the things she loves, or tries to love if only anyone could really say exactly what love is. She is beauty like stars dancing through the vastness of the heavens even as she is a mess down on the ground and she knows it. But there are times when just by believing, just by trusting the dark glimmer in her own ragged hopeful heart, she runs fast enough to fly far, far away from here.