tagErotic PoetryStretched Silk and Other Poems

Stretched Silk and Other Poems

byCal Y. Pygia©


Tears are melted eyes;
Do not mistake them
For anything else--
Count them victories,
For they are acid;
Their molten rivulets
Cloud the teeth.

Behold the work of years
Of negligence and abuse;
These twins have ravaged
Curtains of desire, leaving
Only vestiges of soft rain
To fall, like melted eyes,
Upon the pavilions
Housing our distant parades.


I love the dark cantaloupes
You wear in the sockets
Of your hollow eyes,
Pretending they are breakfast;
Their ripeness ripens you,
Making me hopeful, yet again,
Of pleasure that separates
Between the teeth, liquid
As the love of a seminal man
Salt-scented with seas
As ancient as the briny deeps
And as insolent
As a ninth inning
Won by merest chance.


Remember the piñata
You filled with bees--
Wasps, as I recall--
And how I was stung
A hundred times or more,
You calling the beestings
Kisses and little mouths,
Until one of the wayward harpies
"Kissed" you, too,
And the wasps were ineffable,
Beyond all words but the epithets
You bore from the days of your youth
For just such occasions,
And you ordered the whole,
Entire hive stuffed with insouciance
Borrowed for the occasion
From reckless, feckless TV
Shows no longer allowed to air.


In the silence
Of the masquerade
No one plays,
And I think,
We are dead
Again, and must wait
For voodoo chants
And the lifting of the skirts
Veiling the mystery
Of our sex,
Genderless until then,
As heartless as a cock
Mistaking itself
For a vagina, its scrotum
Labial, its glans clitoral,
With no ova but misshapen sperm,
Famished and in want
Of someone's brain.

(Whisper to me,
If you understand,
And I'll be right down.)


I am full of monsters
With multiple breasts
And penises everywhere;
I cannot writhe anymore,
The way I used to do,
And when I call for help,
My tongue evaporates,
Rising in a cloud of white
Breathlessness; my eyes
Widen, losing their shapes,
Their irises rolling like grapes
Across the canvas
Of the still life you paint
With the brush of my bones.
Couldn't you have mercy,
Show some courtesy,
Put leeches on my throat
And on my eyes,
To sip the dark nectar
Of my premenstrual blood?
It's cold inside,
Where the monsters lurk,
And they are restless, seeking
Viscera on a silver tray.


The thirteenth candle
Burned too long;
The hour's come now,
And the die's been cast;
It's coming home, hungry,
Wanting to feast
On Indian corn.

When I spoke Latin,
You wanted Greek,
But not Sappho, no,
For that bitch wrote
Verse too sweet,
And you wanted to feast
On Indian corn.

Have you ever noticed
How shemales are stuck
In the anal phase
Of their psychosexual
Wanting to feast
On Indian corn?

Every story must have
A Marion Crane
And a few thousand dollars
To get her moving
To the Bates Motel,
Where she may hope,
At least, to feast,
On Indian corn.

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byCal Y. Pygia© 0 comments/ 6341 views/ 0 favorites

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