Restless Thoughts, Lustful Somnambulism

Oh, to taste a thousand deaths upon bended knee,
Eyes wide; drowning within temptation’s sea,
Head lowered; bound by this devilry,
Tasting the bittersweet honey of debauchery,
Butterfly kisses; lash of the belt,
Euphoric tears; heavenly welts,
Rising and falling; a tide between spread legs,
Whispered pleas; for blissful sensation beg,
As the stage is set; the curtain drawn,
Flesh, the canvas, carnal desire is bestowed upon,
A shudder, a whimper; spent and sighing,
A little death; a ritual, purifying.

Blue Room

Nights
are hardest to bear,
alone,
atop these unwashed sheets
that smell of you and me,
still,
crinkled and heavy
with ghosts
of you and me—
our sweat and loving juices.
I am tethered
to flashes of smiles and kisses
that linger
beneath the sweetness
of heated exhales.
To smell your breath,
again,
and taste you
on the back of my tongue.
To pull you into me
by the small of your back
and sink
into the warmth of white musk–
a tangle of tongues, fingers, and limbs.
To have you—
know you—
again,
inside
and out
is all I want.
Need.
Laying here,
drowning
in us,
my legs brush against the cold
rustle of sheets
you left behind,
cutting the airlessness
of this room.
Rolling over,
I close my eyes
and sink my face into the depths
of your pillow,
escaping the void
that even silence’s ring has forgotten,
and take you
in,
drowning
in us,
this lover’s kaddish.
The scent of your hair—
blue fig and oranges—
and spit
are but pebbles on the gravestone.

 

(Originally published at Former People Journal)

Adult Teenagers on DMT

Adult teenagers on DMT
are first dates where we fucked
fifteen minutes after speaking to the “entities,”
behind the gas station near the Olive Garden.
And later on we ate breadsticks with dilated eyes
like earth angels. In and out of both experiences, inhabiting the bone,
we were spaghetti jesters, crested like a crown. Then, after,
both of us pissed in an alcove near the subway
trying to get home, and we couldn’t be cool or carefree
but we could disassociate deliciously while
while the rolling tongues inside of our mouths
were bowling balls
like how teens used to actually bowl, like,
in the 1950s or something,
but you and I keep the bumpers down
so no matter what we’re always winners.

champagne and freedom

death hangs
in the air

clings to anything
like suicide lovers
stuck out in the sun
past their expiration
date

and no matter how
much your lips taste
like champagne and
freedom

we’ll never make it
out of this hell with
anything more than
bruised egos and
self-inflicted brain
damage

a wasted, broken
youth chasing
our greatest high

Mean Debbie

After Debbie Harry was mean to me
at her book signing
I drank some whiskey
and complained about her
to a guy I know in LA,
during our usual discussion
of black leather strap-ons,
wasted nights, and the hours
we should have spent fucking
instead of driving around in circles
the one time he ever visited
He was bewildered by all
the people walking
and crossing against lights
Not a drop of New York City
runs through his desert blood

From the beginning,
I’d been the more willing partner
Apparently, he’d possessed a set
of boundaries, a condition unknown
to me but not entirely unexpected
A few hours spent in a low rent
Queens hotel out by the airport
and we still write poems about it
a decade later; if we’d spent a week
we’d have a three-act play
or a Greek tragedy
Not sure which of us would die

When I finished talking
to the LA guy, there was nothing
left for me to do except
drink more whiskey
and get fucked in the ass
by a New York City guy
so entrenched in urban life that
he’d never even learned to drive
As soon as he left my apartment
what did I do but call the California
guy to tell him all about it
Mean Debbie, the New York guy,
the fucking, the whole thing
I only told two people how mean
Debbie was to me that day,
the guy who fucked me
and the guy who didn’t
My only comfort is that
I probably had a better night
than Mean Debbie.

She Only Loves Me When She’s Drunk

When we are the last two people
left at closing time

When she is flying down the street,
blowing stop signs,
and opening a wine bottle
with her teeth

“Fuck the police” she says
and passes the bottle to me

I don’t care for wine,
but i drink it anyway

she looks at me,
and with a kiss,
she tells me that she loves me

I take a long drag off my cigarette
and tell her that I love her too

The parkway is lit up like Christmas,
and we are lit up from drinking

I always look forward to those nights,
to hearing “I love you”

She only loves me when she’s drunk

The Pick-Ups

‘He would, I’m sorry, she would
bring guys back from the bars,
mostly, old and fucked-up
horny alcoholics:
he’s, I mean she’s 6ft and paints
his face and dresses as a woman,
short skirt, high heels, he looked
fucking scary I can tell you,
she’d pick up these guys and
bring them back here to fuck,
but when it dawned on them
what the scene was they’d
get angry, frightened and
want to get away:
‘You can fuck him!’ she’d
scream and point to me,
I’d panic and I’d call the
police, the pick-up would
fuck-off fast and my son
would pass-out on the
kitchen floor in his dress
and the police would
arrive and tell me I
was wasting their time’

Sharing

The first time I cut myself,
I hoped I was letting the demons out.
My demons. Fear, hate, insecurity.
I thought I’d be rid of them for good.
I thought I could stare into the mirror
And not want to punch the reflection,
I thought I could smile naturally,
Instead of pretending.
I thought I could be like everyone else,
As the blood spiraled down my wrist,
My arm becoming a macabre candy cane.
I thought it worked. I was euphoric.
Blame it on blood loss.
My do-it-yourself exorcism unsuccessful.
Night turned into day and day into weeks
And my demons remained.

I met Darla at the Laundromat of all places.
I know, how romantic.
Sudsy Malone’s was a combination Laundromat/Bar,
A place where live bands played most nights.
She asked if I had any fabric softener.
I thought she was nuts. I never used fabric softener.
It turns out we had a shared insanity.
Weeks later, she showed me her scars, her demons.
She educated me on many things, including
The writings of Poppy Z. Brite, the Zen of Kite-flying.
And the best ways to remove blood stains.
I introduced Darla to Thai cuisine
and the films of H.G. Lewis.

Now we bleed each other.

Paris by Night,
by Kevin Tosca
Holy&intoxicated Publications

$5:00 / £5:00 / €5:00

Sales and inquiries:
johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk

My Handyman

He opens the blinds
so the sun shines on my naked grin.
He says, “I’m going up to get coffee.
Why don’t you lie there a while
and bask in the glory
of getting your ass hammered.”
Love still drips, my eyes shut.
I thank the Universe
with all my might.
My heart is fixed.