Fury

Her actual presence always gives a
Curious deep shock of remembrance
An irrevocable past amidst
The disorder of reunion
Her soul seems to freeze
Around our secret
Like a blanched fury

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Sin & Harvest

at once
sin & harvest
flight & return

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Dawn

on the silver summit I recognized the goddess

then, one by one, I lifted her veils.

Rimbaud

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Holy Pleasure

In a spilled second of frenzy
Agitation among the most high
Creates ripples in the space-time
Wringing our universe like fabric
Disappearing into pleasurable waves

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Incalculable

Twisting she didn’t want to show her face
Her American face drugged eyes unintelligible dialect
I only like noises that don’t mean anything the glow
From a early canter made everything incalculable
Her relaxed body her righteous curves
A headlong dance that challenges one to join in

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The Intelligible World

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Supersubstantial

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Phyllis Davis

Her image lingers beyond any single part, as that modern day minor divinity the Sex Symbol, surrendering herself on screen as you feel she would in life, tender, soft, sweet, willing, but somehow essentially melancholic, fallen from innocence, not knowing, even at the final moment of ecstasy, if she is desirable for her own self, or just for the spirit of lust she engenders, yet needing to experience, to create that desire, sucking it up like her life’s blood…

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Babes of the Apocalpse

Yanny Chan

To tell the truth, it feels like we’re just waiting to die

Original Photo Credit…Anthony Kwan for The New York Times

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just a wild bundle raring to go

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