JUST SEX and POETRY
ADRIAN DeVINE LeORIGINAL

The Gap, Australia

#5879 Jan 29, 2013
one guitar

one flower painted jug


still

until my ink

leaks the boundaries

causes the guitar

to stretch and grow

to nurture life

within its woman curves

and music

exploding from unattached strings

my jug would not hold water

the potters’s hand has strayed

from off the wheel

the painted flowers grow

rampant on the page

but my soul

unstrung

flicks

and zizzes
ADRIAN DeVINE LeORIGINAL

The Gap, Australia

#5880 Jan 29, 2013
QuiteCrazy wrote:
Just sex there isn't much poetry
make as sultry
but it only ...nothing
My ninety year old landlady who lives downstairs
speculates as to what sort of wild animal
is pilfering through our garbage at night,
leaving trash strewn across the driveway.
There’ve been wild turkey sightings
in the neighborhood, she says, but it may be just
your average flying-fox or possum. Lately,
the only feral creature I know of lurking
these grounds has been inside the house;
didn’t she hear it last night, clomping up
the staircase, rapping on the door?
And then, bestial grunts and moans, thuds
of his feet again, the scuff across cement walkway,
fleeing back into the night? Between this time,
it was I who was the animal, watching
porn stars lunge their naked asses
at one another like primates, until
she was in heat herself, bending over
to be mounted—nothing tenderly human about it.
Maybe that’s why when the chic I was dating
months ago asked to be exclusive, I felt like a dog
being ushered into its kennel, moving backwards
into the steel cage obediently, curling into a ball,
heaving a sigh. But what’s the alternative?
I could do what I’d been doing, living as a stray,
fucking mutts in alleyways, gazing up into their eyes
looking for affection like scraps of food snuck
under the table, withering to my bones
with starvation. No, I told myself, this
is better, the shelter you’ve always wanted.
And yet, days later, I found myself at his doorstep
after picking up another roving tramp the night before,
waiting to be let in as if I’d been at play and then caught
in the rain. My landlord chatters on, wonders
what kind of strength those turkeys have,
because They’re HUGE, she says, Have you seen them?
and it’s as if she doesn’t see me,
the wild thing in front of her,
and I’m relieved; I start to pick up the pieces—
damp cigarette cartons, shredded plastic,
crusted Kleenex, torn condom wrappers.
Don’t worry about it, I tell her,
I promise I’ll clean it up, next full moon.
ADRIAN DeVINE LeORIGINAL

The Gap, Australia

#5881 Jan 29, 2013
Head out the way you came
and I promise to forget the last hour.
I will roll up the minutes
like a stretch of unbaked dough,
pulling the sticky remnants from between
my fingers.
I will wind your voice up
like a fishing line,
the bait, the hook
tucked safely in the coils
until I’ve forgotten them.
You can erase the footprints,
I’ll leave that to you,
pick them up one by one,
with a spatula, with a finger,
as you like.
And when all traces are gone,
when your presence has been carved
out like a jewel to leave a dark hole
where an eye should be,
only then will I throw you
a smile, a sigh of
relief to land like a bird
on the branch of your shoulder.
ADRIAN DeVINE LeORIGINAL

The Gap, Australia

#5882 Jan 29, 2013
You claim to know what to do
about the undulations
of a wild fish in your lap
slicing you with its gills,
imbedding hooks from its previous battles
into your cracked palms.
Look at this monster, you call
as you pluck it from the lake.

Unafraid, you begin the ritual
of salvation, gently lowering
it into the water, steadying
your arms above the force
of its grunting heft. Flickers
of green light its scales
as you massage the gills,
motion the head and tail
back and forth—a flash of silver
streaks beneath the boat
and it’s gone.

But what do you know about
a young girl in your lap, wild
with desire and skin
so clear it’s as if you are the first
to touch it? Faced with that frenzied
struggle, that raw hunger, you’re momentarily
paralyzed, can’t discern the beast
from the girl, so you seal her mouth shut
with your mouth, offer your tongue
as bait, and try to anchor
the quivering mass by rocking
it across your thighs—all flesh
and floundering limbs—until you can’t
take her terror anymore,
shucking out the cherry in one swift thrust
like a gutted pike.

There’s no trophy to commend
this feat, nothing to mount on the wall
and prove that you un-demonized her.
If only you could freeze those lips
eternally at the stunned Ohhhh
of her final cry, brush the dust
from it day after day with your fingers
or lay her out on the table like a feast
to savor and share, if you could simply taste
that part of her that’s impenetrable,
maybe then you’d feel like a real man.
ADRIAN DeVINE LeORIGINAL

The Gap, Australia

#5883 Jan 29, 2013
To the sex organs—
tight fit of shaft and slit,
the lilting thrusts, spongy G-spot touched
to titillation, tongue to tit,
tongue to clit, prying fingertips.
To the frenzy, the easy abandon
of reason, clothes ripped, stretched
and strewn, oh, the intoxicating
power of it, dropping to my knees,
spit and friction.
To its inelegance,
the pulsations that push
through the groin, plow through
the tip and release, oh,
the tension of it, tightened ligaments.
To the fluidity, sticky
splay in an array on my skin.
To its refusal to rely on love, oh
no, a hero needs nothing but itself.
To the crushing crescendo,
grating, gyrations all alone, but
not lonely, that hum and buzz,
cure-all, end-all, be-all.
To the one thing that makes me call
God’s name in praise, oh, oh......
oh, oh, oh.
ADRIAN DeVINE LeORIGINAL

The Gap, Australia

#5884 Jan 29, 2013
She said....
"I’m naked in bed next to a man
who continually disappoints me;
angry at him, but he doesn’t know it.
I want him to hold me, but he won’t,
because he never does, unless
he’s fucking me.
I’m blaming him already
for the days to come,
the way I will walk through
the city in my blurred flesh perception,
unable to see anything after him—
every man a shadow,
a trigger, every hour
a countdown until the next fix.
I turn away from him in bed.
A half empty bottle of wine on the windowsill
that the neighbor’s lights shine through,
so when I squint it radiates
some ethereal glow, and I think
it’s beautiful, my bottle and its moon rays,
my man and the illusions we create together.
But I’m intoxicated.
And he’s asking me what’s wrong with me.
I can’t articulate what I see: my mind
is moving too fast and his hand is moving so slowly
along my ass, and I can feel him hardening.
I don’t want to lose the meaning, the moment, that anger.
So I start to think about middle school,
my science teacher with his prisms, shining lights
through cut glass to make rainbows.
I figured that anything we found beautiful
we manipulated into being, which made life
all too logical and sad. My lover is whispering
some promise he won’t keep again
and I’m telling him to go away, leave me alone
with the bottle, but I’m kissing him, and wondering
if he would look at it straight on, squint a little,
what would he see?"
ADRIAN DeVINE LeORIGINAL

The Gap, Australia

#5885 Jan 29, 2013
I’m the future, a sniper
camouflaged, crouching
in bushes, my forefinger
on a moment, waiting
to transform that grey matter
you spend your whole life
trying to understand,
into a red mess
in your lover’s lap.

They accused me of being a serpent,
some kind of beast
that would devour her.
They called her a sucker.
I’m no criminal.
My tale belongs to everyone—
love makes all monstrous
and lust transforms us
into distrustful fools.

She wanted it.
She never questioned, never felt
anything unnatural
in the way love flung itself upon her—
no form, logic, explanation.
Asking why is silly—like asking
why we let oxygen surround us
when that’s what keeps us alive.

I had no underlying motive.
Do you think I wanted to
give up my form?
No senses? No self
in the name of love?
What can I say?
My weapon misfired.

Listen, I know love
better than anyone,
its gutters, gritty alleyways,
dizzying mazes. I knew
that pang I felt in my chest
when I first saw her was precursor
to a long and slow decay.
How else to preserve the trance, to protect
her from the fear of loss, unless
to never let her see
what she would be missing?
ADRIAN DeVINE LeORIGINAL

The Gap, Australia

#5886 Jan 30, 2013
We are all
mass assassins,

she declared,
serial killers.

As a flower,
she would have been

a tulip,

with decorous hints
of pubic hair.
ADRIAN DeVINE LeORIGINAL

The Gap, Australia

#5887 Jan 30, 2013
As she sits beside me,
I am a peripheral thief
Stealing stares
at the bloom of her eyelashes.

Her apparel varies so from day to day
That it is a game to guess her dress
And what might be underneath--
scheming; plotting: how they might be
undone.

It is a thrill baiting eaves for her to take;
Snatching the visceral code
of her conversation to another.

I lay back to admire
her desireable vagina,
Envisioning her perfect ass.

I covet that gem of a moment
When she flicks her hair
Flashing clavicle and kissable neck;

When she speaks I sneak a peek at
The phantasmagoria
on the sheen of her lips.

So I call myself kin
to the best of thieves,
Because she will never know.
ADRIAN DeVINE LeORIGINAL

The Gap, Australia

#5888 Jan 30, 2013
She lies on the bed with her head turned
to the wall and her body flushed
with light.

Her breasts hang
and rest by her arms. He will paint
them like this. He will leave
their shapelessness on the paper
and everyone will know the size
of her nipples,
the protusion of her hips
and the colour of her pubic hair.

'It doesn't matter,' he says,
'your head is turned, and
they don't know who you are.'

Her thighs - just starting to dimple
- spread on the blanket and her ankles
cross over.

She worries about pins and needles;
that she'll have to shift.

She will try
not to think of it,

She will try
not to feel his eyes searching
her nakedness.
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

The Gap, Australia

#5889 Jan 30, 2013
slick as a prick
dripping with
your juices
this pen slides
along the page
painting your body
in words
all pink
and drenched
in sweat:
sheets and
shirts
and yellowed
pages
I want to
write you
and read you
over and over.
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

The Gap, Australia

#5890 Jan 30, 2013
the woods are empty
at this hour
as I watch the sky
turn orange and purple
like the face of a mother
about to give birth.

my c ock in hand
I stand
on the stone jetty
watching the blossoming
of color on the lake

smooth motions greased
by spittle
bring me to ecstasy
as I f uck the dawn

the wind blows back
some of my jism,
staining my pants
no problem
they'll be off
and in the laundry
before anyone
will notice

the rest of my wad
floats on the water
until it is nibbled at,
then swallowed by
what looks like a carp
and probably is
as no mermaids
inhabit these waters

the brown sand
that draws the bikinis
from mountain towns
is four miles away
but the vision of their skin,
some pale, some tan
is in my thoughts

as the Lady Dawn
walks across the horizon
trailing rainbows
of celestial c um
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

The Gap, Australia

#5891 Jan 30, 2013
we’re textures groped in dark hallways for

balance

she always split her infinitives and spilt
her drinks. he drove through the center
of the abyss of california. it was
filled with dead call-boxes and skid mark paths
leading through broken dividers and into

infinity

the air is illicit. the san pedro towers
coughing on their own smoke.

they came to in each other’s arms where the
sand meets the boardwalk. waking up
or being born. at night, it looks like
the edge of the

world

he let the dying waves lick his ankles.
thought he could maybe disappear into the
black but it wasn’t black. the ocean only
reflects the sky and you always wash up

somewhere.
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

The Gap, Australia

#5892 Jan 30, 2013
Within the bistro courtyard,
Camille contemplates her near-empty martini;
the first half turned to piss, what remains, bleary.
A thin slice of garnish floats in pale green vodka.

Soon she will swallow the juice in one motion,

a lemon slice joining others beside her glass.

The night is successful: live music, a table-mate

grinning, knowing, as she inhales the last of her drink.


Warm and tipsy, his hand
is a perfect fit between her legs,

the blues guitar player riffing

as a sliver of moon rises through cypress.


God, his fingers feel good.
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

The Gap, Australia

#5893 Jan 30, 2013
Then a slit through midnight
Across collar-bone-wide

Doe-scrapes of red cloth
teeth meeting beyond

meaningless things
legs spread for snakes

What we anticipate

the crossing-into
the being-needed.



The being needed to cross
a wide canyon Only darkness

known since birth
birth removed ancient

sac broke into Anxious
ever since Time started

her red beetle-tick.


One who is sick sprints
toward the split

with knives ready as mother

to heave away what ails
the mind but what is one

to cut away The anxious
bleating goat, throat

exposed. Thoughts darken
the ground What is one

sliver of steal against ice caps.


Sacrificed mind-goat
instead of her arm
red lines are still red


Converse with hurt-bridge
construct full sentences

Don’t rip a dress or do

because you can Enter what ails

as a herd enters a round-pin
belly full before the blood-let.


Then the through-with animal
raised herself braided sweat

around her choke-hold hole
where we came come and must

enter again The last fucked
midnight It begins.


Broke open in a kitchen
the chicken’s soul met its meat

it had to understand What use
have I ever been No useless

chicken Neck stretched
into its meaningless

mother’s mouth again.


she breast-fed her broken
children to death

one eats a meal before being
light-carried home.


Or not The girl refuses
to eat fuels her emptiness

with sex The men hunt
deer ready for her Now

the blood scent is gone
they want holes

to bury their boys She’s willing


Or not Sometimes she’s not
ready for the god

in her The woman carries
knives sacrifices her mind

to beautify earth then destroy


The swarmed tribe told the sky

Open It didn’t

The saw prayed No against
The smallest child’s collar-bone.


The meaningless happened then

turned in on itself kaleidoscope
of color until snakes tails in mouth

made themselves mean something.


Again dressed Again woman
Once child Now taken in
To a room for money Pain
an energy has to go somewhere.


The safe-house is not

safe The mesquite hides
tobacco crazed goats

The mind having nowhere to go
invents but forgets.
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

The Gap, Australia

#5894 Jan 30, 2013
Sometimes I feel like I have lost control of everything. Then there are times I feel like I grasp it all, life is firmly held within my palm

These are the times that I fear the most

These are the times the serrated serendipity of my humanity is truly lost. These are the times when the seductive dance of the sun rise loses it thrill

When I daydream to a fable named certainty; reach for time and things as if they were truly something I can touch

When the sky becomes a picture, not an oil painting. When stars give me answers, and stop asking trick questions

I grab a freshly polished stainless steel letter opener and stab it directly into my heart

I never want to forget that to be human is to hurt. To fear is acknowledge that there is something that fucking matters

To feel the warmth of my own blood is realize that every heart beat is a song worth listening to

I never want to forget that this piece of flesh is just that. A living piece of flesh. Bones held together by my most beautiful sins, singing quiet undefined melodies. Soaked in blood, gasping for breath, holding a letter opener

with a loose grasp
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

The Gap, Australia

#5895 Jan 30, 2013
Within the bistro courtyard,

Camille contemplates her near-empty martini;
the first half turned to piss, what remains, bleary.
A thin slice of garnish floats in pale green vodka.

Soon she will swallow the juice in one motion,
a lemon slice joining others beside her glass.

The night is successful: live music, a table-mate
grinning, knowing, as she inhales the last of her drink.

Warm and tipsy, his hand
is a perfect fit between her legs,

the blues guitar player riffing
as a sliver of moon rises through cypress.

God, his fingers feel good.

PLAY IT AGAIN DeVINE !!
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

The Gap, Australia

#5896 Jan 30, 2013
Somniloquy*

There are ties that bind
your lips so as to save silence
from the mark of sin – strings
of sense, knotted to keep love
from shimmying out the breeze-
broken window and scuttling
across the rim of ancient fountain
before blending into a sea of tourists
and thieves. There is an unbearable
weight I carry for another woman,

one I do not love. A part of me fears
the sated sleep of lovers in the city
of your birth and my peace: it knows
a place in the firefly night, a borough
of the city of light, that will crumble
into its gypsum base with the caged
fury of a chained slave. I know the face
of honesty that arrives, unbound
and unbidden, with Villon’s knife
glinting in the grin of a knave.

There are too many reasons
I have begun to pray.


NB:-* Somniloquy: the act or habit of talking in one’s sleep
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

The Gap, Australia

#5897 Jan 30, 2013
The salt taste of
your tongue laced
with my sweat
lingers.......
the sweet scent of
you on my fingertips

And again I fear that
there is no more
there will be no more
than this.
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

The Gap, Australia

#5898 Jan 30, 2013
My tribute to existential angst
was once marred by unsolicited cleverness,
another time by the chirpy rhythm,
and worse still by too much lyricism and also the lack of it.

I ransacked my body for images.
I tortured my mind for confessions.
I revised my rhythms for accuracy.
I traveled heaven and earth for transitory yet eternal moments.

I weaved myths in to magic.
I merged content and the form.
Then I distrusted cloying ornamentations–
For what is authentic is the poetics of immediacy.

I distrusted myself–
For what is me but a product or a structure?
I distrusted poetry–
What is a poem but an assemblage or pastiche?

I philosophized, and then distrusted philosophy.
I lived and then distrusted action.
I prayed for and then distrusted talent–
For what is talent but fortuitous and vested recognition?

I asked if poetry is the simplest art
or the most complex.
I was told neither and both
and so beware and unaware of all dimensions.

I am a woman.
So, write like one but don’t be overtly political.
I am an Indian.
So, write like one but don’t be overtly parochial.

I lost sleep, time, space, love, growth.
I lost life and lost love of the specter of life.
I sacrificed but then I distrusted sacrifice–
For what is sacrifice but megalomania?

So, the winds blew and the seasons changed.
I breathed; I choked but lived in smoke
and fueled my fateful romance in vain.
For what is love if it is not lost and what is art without its pain?

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