WTF Friday Poetry: She -- Oral Sex and the Crucifixion

This week's poem addresses muses that crucifixion and oral sex are not necessarily antithetical. The lead photo is one that I purchased at the Salt Lake City Arts Festival many years ago. The side bar pictures came from here, don't think they'll mind my borrowing a few with a link.

Crown of thoughts
Pricking and drawing blood
From the brow
Furrowed in thought.

Daughter of God
The juice of life flows
From her lips
Suckling the universe --

She is of the flesh.
She is of the body.
She is spirit made.
She is to be sacrificed.

Making martyrs
Out of my women
Impaled on the cross
Of my desire

Blood drains out
Nailed and crucified
Phallic incisions
Crossways –

Sword enters her
Drawing water --
Euphrates, Tigris
Wellsprings of life
Kneeling at her feet

Head buried in worship
Searching for the spark
Of life.
The flesh twitches
In her death throes
The tongue tastes
Her baptismal water.

Born of the fire
Of passion
Reborn in the moisture
Slaking my praying tongue.
My voice hums
Out Hosanna
I kneel, I pray --
At birth’s door.

WTF Friday: Sex and Violence

Photo from the Deseret News

So this week, I've been thinking more about violence than sex. For those of you outside of Zion, you may not completely understand how saturated the news media has been here in Utah on the Trolley Square shootings. Other blogs (1) (2) have talked about the shootings from different aspects, as has the news media. No one -- that I know of -- has talked about the connection with sex.

The personality and nature of the killer was so easily predictable. Immediately, before any information was available, you knew that he was a loner. Lonely teenage boys turn into killers. A total disconnect can occur between the adolescent male and the society that triggers homicidal rage. The rage is a desperate survival attempt to be noticed.

Mark Twain could have been writing for the Salt Lake papers in 2006, but was actually writing in the late 1800s about the assassination of the Empress of Austria by another young, foreign loner when he opined:

One of the commonest forms of madness is the desire to be noticed, the pleasure derived from being noticed. Perhaps it is not merely common, but universal. In its mildest form it doubtless is universal. Every child is pleased at being noticed; many intolerable children put in their whole time in distressing and idiotic effort to attract the attention of visitors; boys are always "showing off"; apparently all men and women are glad and grateful when they find that they have done a thing which has lifted them for a moment out of obscurity and caused wondering talk. This common madness can develop, by nurture, into a hunger for notoriety in one, for fame in another. It is this madness for being noticed and talked about which has invented kingship and the thousand other dignities, and tricked them out with pretty and showy fineries; it has made kings pick one another's pockets, scramble for one another's crowns and estates, slaughter one another's subjects; it has raised up prize-fighters, and poets, and villages mayors, and little and big politicians, and big and little charity-founders, and bicycle champions, and banditti chiefs, [and bloggers, I might add] and frontier desperadoes, and Napoleons. Anything to get notoriety; anything to set the village, or the township, or the city, or the State, or the nation, or the planet shouting, "Look--there he goes--that is the man!" And in five minutes' time, at no cost of brain, or labor, or genius this mangy Italian tramp has beaten them all, transcended them all, outstripped them all, for in time their names will perish; but by the friendly help of the insane newspapers and courts and kings and historians, his is safe and live and thunder in the world all down the ages as long as human speech shall endure! Oh, if it were not so tragic how ludicrous it would be!

Twain got it right. But why such a burning desire to be noticed?

I'm not playing psychologist here, but rather observer of the human condition. I remember being a teenager. I wanted to be noticed -- by girls. The desire to be noticed sexually in my adolescence superseded all other desires. My violent behavior invariably centered around attempts to impress women. For me, sports were the natural outlet. Some primal instinctual urge made me feel like if I could hit someone so hard in a football game that the opposing player had to be carried off the field, then I would impress the girls. These were actual thoughts and even though I knew they weren't quite rational, I can still feel them 25 years later and I know that the emotion is real and attractive. I can feel the exhilaration as I sprinted down the field, got my victim in my sites and hit him so hard that my entire body went numb as I watched him fly back unconscious to the ground. The exhilaration, the adulation of my team mates and the cheer of the crowd let me feel noticed. My difference from the teenage killer was that I did my violence in a socially accepted and controlled environment -- but I still didn't get the girl, so I kept playing and hoping.

It isn't just sports. We lionize the violent. Women go wet for men in uniform. How many women pulled out their vibrators for soft spoken, off-duty officer Ken Hammond, who whipped out his gun on a moment's notice to silence "the threat." Soldiers equal sex symbols. What are all the muscles for in the guys except for beating up other guys? I feel like an ape on a nature show, bustling for position with all of the other guy apes for some kind of pecking order in the mating game. I just have to bide my time until the Alpha Male gets too worn out from fucking, so that I can take him out. From such a Darwinian perspective, the real surprise is that we don't have more teenagers shooting up malls (credit is probably due to ubiquitous violent video games that provide yet another socially acceptable outlet for all that pent up testosterone).

The male energy is set to conquer. The female energy is to capture. The push and pull, the yin and yang, the in and out, the penetrative and the encompassing permeate sexuality. If Sulejman Talovic had a woman (or a man if his preference ran that way) who adored him and wanted him body and soul, no one would have died this week from the firing of his phallus' replacement -- the more potent and powerful shotgun.

Sex by its design is about creation out of opposites. Sex is destructive when it becomes one-sided or when the balance is skewed. Sex when it is working creates empathy out of the opposites interaction (empathy, being an anathema to violence). The battle between male and female energies is about achieving equilibrium. My Friday poem I dug up is all about that hunting male energy and the capturing female energy and the power when the game is played together. To lighten things up, and to show that sex doesn't just destroy, but can tame primal violent energy, I give you this weeks WTF Poetry:

The Hunt
The hunt
Is no fun
If the prey is too easy to catch.
The symbiotic nature
of the hunt is a give and take
Between the hunter and the hunted.
Hunting cultures have always worshiped their prey as their Gods.
I guess that makes you my religion, my Goddess,
To thee my prey,
I pray,
I kneel
And lap at your clear sacramental wine.
To thee my queen
I pledge my sword
To ram it
Into thy heart.
The chase ensues,
And
At some point I will again have you hoisted on my spear –
It will be at that moment when you have me surrounded.

WTF: Stripped -- A Poem of Money and Sex

Today's Want To Fuck Friday Poetry is on the theme of the economics of sex. Men are required to pay up for sex -- whether it be for a stripper, a prostitute, a girlfriend, a wife or especially, an ex-wife. The following poem couples the hollowness of paying for sex with the horrors of mortality -- two things that are inevitable. This could also be considered an introduction to future posts on this issue, because it is important and rarely discussed from the male perspective.

The payment for sex is culturally ingrained from the hooker and stripper on one side of the spectrum to the wife and mother on the other side. A woman's sex appeal is an actual economic commodity which can be utilized in various ways. From an emotional stand point, the economization of sex is very deadening for the male, because he always has a subconscious hunch that the attention he is receiving is for his pocket book, not for any intrinsic qualities he might possess. Those economic aspects of the sexual interaction color every little bit of fucking.

I know I have a couple of homosexual readers and I would be intrigued for their take on the economic implications of sex or if this is a hetro-guy thing.

Stripped

Green faced dead men
Minutely furrowed brows
Ghostly repetitions in light
Numeric representations
Of my sweat and labor ---

For them I can see flesh.

Grey faced women
Mockingly skin expose
Ghostly apparitions in dark
Simulated representations
Of sex or labor —
For the green faced men.

Grey faced man,
Manly fractured hearts
Ghastly searching for mercy
Demanded contributions
Of love and labor lost –
For the old dead poet:

Sonnets of love
Spilled off the ink of his pen
His love gone
Stripped of life and gone
As is he.

All we are left with is ink ---
Ink bleeding poetry
Or Ink creating furrows in the brows
Of famous dead men –
For which flesh can be stripped away
Leaving nothing but exposed nerves
For the length of a poem or song.

Biblical Love Redux -- WTF (Want To Fuck Friday) Poetry

Carnaval dancers, originally uploaded by VideoVik.

Before I introduce this weeks poem, just a word about the poetic art. A strong portion of myself greatly rebels against poetry that is inaccessible and incoherent. I think the hyperlink technology is a great way to add to the ability to make a poem more accessible. I am a fan of T.S. Eliot's poetry, because even with his obscure references you knew what the hell he was talking about or he at least gave you a chance to figure it out. Maybe it was all the footnotes in The Wasteland or his redemptive Four Quartets or because of his sing-song Hollow Men:

This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
Not with a bang, but a whimper.

Today's WTF poem takes us from the whimper ending wimp out of the world, to the beginning with Adam and Eve and from the fall to the teachings of the New Testament and culminating in the crucifixion of our Savior, Jesus Christ, examined in my own, critical fashion:

Mormon Erotica's Biblical Love Re-Dux

Adam got Eve
Because it wasn't good for man
To be alone,
Because he needed his ass out of paradise
And suffering
In the cold cruel world.

Love your neighbor
As you love yourself
Is pretty bad fucking advice ---
Because most of us
Are pretty self-loathing.

Love your enemies,
Bless them that despitefully use you --
This is the definition of
Romantic love.

God so loved the world
That he sent us his only begotten son.
And look what happened
To Him.

The Erotic and The Spoken Word Or Want to Fuck Friday

Do you remember the days when Spence Kinard had that deep, pious voice on the Mo Tab's Music and the Spoken Word radio show? For nineteen years, his resonant voice pounded the airways on Sunday Morning, telling us of the Lord's goodness. Suddenly in 1990, for what I believe was rumored at the time to be some sexual impropriety, Spence resigned.

I tried to do some research into the rumor, but all mention has been expurgated from the official records and nothing could be found on the Internet. I did find a quote from the one apostle who always gave me hope for Mormonism, J. Golden Kimball, stating what is the most prudent wisdom ever from a General Authority on the topic of adultery: "If my wife looked like yours, I'd commit adultery too." Now, I have no knowledge of Spence Kinard's wife's looks, but it could explain a lot.

I've felt a strong need to put some order into my blog, in part because it fuels my creativity. If I know I have to have something posted on a certain day, I'm motivated. I did my little diversion on Spence Kinard, because I thought I'd name Friday, The Erotic and The Spoken Word, but the weekend is also about getting laid (which is why I'm home alone typing on my blog), so I'm leaning more towards Want to Fuck Friday: Poetry to get you laid (or your face slapped.) When I figure out podcasting, I'll use The Erotic and the Spoken Word for the podcast.

So, welcome to Want to Fuck Friday -- where we pay tribute to the likes of Spence Kinard, who wanted to fuck and did.

MANIFESTOS OF THE CRAZy

Something is rotten
Something is forgotten
Something is misbegotten
Something is gnawing at my brain

Manifestos of the crazy --
Manson, Kazinzki, Emmanuel Joseph--
I'm 200 pages of a Manifesto
Away from being classified as a danger to society.

I'm fucking nuts.
I am mad north by northwest,
but I know a hawk from a peacenik.
Or at least I used to.
I can't tell anymore.

I am a descendant of Joseph Smith.
A spirited, sexual descendant.
Of the first guy to marry 14 year olds.

I write my Man - it - festers
It rots,
It decays,
Daily decay to death--
A decay I fight with my toothbrush of words
and flouride of thought.

Opposition.
Contradiction.
Friction.
Disgust with the cost.
The system captures us.
We don't even see that with the filters on our eyes
There are only certain things that can be seen.

Lord have mercy.
Lord forgive us.
Lord hear our prayers.

Bless our soldiers.
Bless our enemies.
Bless those that despitefully use the lives of those around them.

The pressures of organization
The pressures of socialization
The pressures of institution
The pressures of all types of --tions -- and shuns.

All I really want is flesh.
Flesh and fucking.
Repent.
Relent.
Transgress.
Regress.
Ingress.
Egress.
The old ingress and egress.
The In and Out.
Hey Jude.
Hey Clockwork Orange.
Hey Who -- Who are You
Mamma's Squeeze Box
Ingresses and Egresses.
A society of ins and outs
Whose in
Whose out
It is oh so much warmer to be in
In like my Errol Flynn
Fractured in opposition.

Find the soul.
I lost my soul.

Mary had a little soul, a little soul
Whose sheet was white as snow
And every where that Mary went
That soul was sure to go.
It followed her to school one day
Which was against the rules.
And she sent her little soul home
But it was lost, never to return
Now Mary is a soul-less bitch.

March, march entering like a lion,
Out like a lamb --
March the month of Man --
We enter her hard as a lion and leave
limp and soul-less as the Lamb.

Hope you enjoyed Want to Fuck Friday.

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Vibrator

Banana Vibrator, originally uploaded by zoezombie.

Rummaging in drawers,
The snoop-icity of divorce.
What's she up to?
Or – Who's into her?
Now I'm gone.

The drawer by the bed
Prior storage holder
During the marriage
Of incense and handcuffs --
Curiosity might kill this cat.

Once the drawer of marital bliss
No longer my home
With dread I slide it open -

For a moment sadness, jealousy and envy for the contents of that drawer –

A Vibrator.
To touch her.
To caress her.
To go inside her.
Not me insider her.

Suddenly sadness to madness to gladness –

A Vibrator!
Gyrate her!
An on your own climax -or!
Not some guy insider her!


A real live battery operated rubber fucker!

The gladness turns to glee --

She bought this dildo,
This battery operated rubber fucker
And it is smaller than me.

Sugarhouse

Sugarhouse fall, originally uploaded by catinlap.

Roots of older trees push up man-made concrete
Turning the ground's solidity into waves.
The tops of the trees crest towards the west, the light --
The lower branches an undercurrent of bob and weave.

Caught in the solution of memory
Breathe and stroke through leaf-thickened atmosphere
Breathe-stroke, Breathe-stroke--
Keep the goggles on.
Keep the nostrils plugged.
Keep the mouth shut

For Sugar houses dissolve on the tongue.


Ok, I know that poem doesn't have much erotic going for it, but hey -- its my blog and at this point no one is reading anyway, so I'll put up what I damn well feel like. Besides, Sugarhouse is in Utah and that is related to Mormons.

Stripper Glitter

The Queen of Glitter Gultch, originally uploaded by icklebird.

Her glitter

Made her eyes sparkle
Plastic flecks in black light,
Iridescent specks
Transferred from skin to cloth to skin to cloth.

Speckled I return home
With the scent of her lotion.

The memory
The aroma
The glitter

Gone in dawn's shower.

Stripper Geometry

Stripper, originally uploaded by Maximum Mitch.

Triangulated cloth
Pythagorean perfection
Obscures entrance to hollow cylinders
And tops semi-spheres on semi-spheres
Truth is found in geometeric shapes:
Triangle crotches,
Circular pasties,
Cylinder poles,
Rectangled bills
Intersecting elastic lines
On a curving graph
Of an undulating wave --

Parallel lives and lines

That will never intersect