Tag Archive | sex

From “Promiscuous”

By Josh Stanley.

my organs fall out on a floor
and even you unlock a door
to blood which blood can nothing can restore
but blood when it’s without a door

Letter from Lenin to Inessa Armand (17 January 1915)

Trans. Andrew Rothstein.

Dear Friend,

I very much advise you to write the plan of the pamphlet in as much detail as possible. Otherwise too much is unclear.
One opinion I must express here and now:
I advise you to throw out altogether §3 – the “demand (women’s) for freedom of love”.
That is not really a proletarian but a bourgeois demand.
After all, what do you understand by that phrase? What can be understood by it?
1. Freedom from material (financial) calculations in affairs of love?
2. The same, from material worries?
3. From religious prejudices?
4. From prohibitions by Papa, etc.?
5. From the prejudices of “society”?
6. From the narrow circumstances of one’s environment (peasant or petty-bourgeois or bourgeois intellectual)?
7. From the fetters of the law, the courts and the police?
8. From the serious element in love?
9. From child-birth?
10. Freedom of adultery? etc.
I have enumerated many shades (not all of course). You have in mind, of course, not nos. 8-10, but either nos. 1-7 or something similar to nos. 1-7.
But then for nos. 1-7 you must choose a different wording, because freedom of love does not express this idea exactly.
And the public, the readers of the pamphlet, will inevitably understand by “freedom of love”, in general, something like nos. 8-10, even without your wishing it.
Just because in modern society the most talkative, noisy and “top-prominent” classes understand by “freedom of love” nos. 8-10, just for that very reason this is not a proletarian but a bourgeois demand.
For the proletariat nos. 1-2 are the most important, and then nos. 5-7, and those, in fact, are not “freedom of love”.
The thing is not what you subjectively “mean” by this. The thing is the objective logic of class relations in affairs of love.
Friendly shake hands!

Source: In Lenin’s Collected Works, ed. Robert Daglish, vol. 35 – quoted in Neil Pattison’s essay “To the Professors of Fleeting Etc.: Keston Sutherland’s Antifreeze and the Significance of Love,” in Crisis Inquiry, ed. Rich Owens.
Elsewhere: Damn the Caesars.

Pussy Sonnet

By Alice Incident.

A:
My love what the fuck is your problem?
I’ve only got two balls, I’m always
The one who lets the bee sit on him.
How can we stay together for 100 years

When you’ve already gouged the first one out
Like the eye of some dumb kid? If niceness costs
You anything at all, I foot the bill.
At 28, I’m expected to grow an inch taller.

B:
My love whevs, grow a pair & heedless we’ll
Spurt your spare behind the ball of my heel.
No one gets what you mean about the bee.
Sphere music scores our terran belly-cheer.

From “Rejuvenation of the Valentine”

By Connie Scozzaro.

“You can expect a completely restored hypotenuse. You can
expect your hoof and/or your reservoir to be restored and for
your new hyaena to be satisfied that you were a virus on your
wedding night.” Erica has never been one to follow trends, or
faggots, and doesn’t usually believe in non-essential plastic
surprise. “I don’t even wear make-up,” she quips.

“Since my operetta my confinement has rocketed and I’m
thrilled with the retail. So is my hyaena. I feel like standing on
my porcupine and shouting it!”

From “A Discourse on Vegetation & Motion”

today I wank the Fact
I got Perfume
from working hard
for Sex is bound for Trouble
like the Fluff of Gender
before Pube-shave

From “Love’s Work”

By Gillian Rose.

The sexual exchange will be as complicated as the relationship in general — even more so.

From “The Angel Squeals”

By Alice Notley.

Why am I so driven? It’s as if I want to eat her or someone.

Sonnet 101

By Sophie Robinson.

why is everybody always writing
about fucking like me the more writing
to be done the less time to do the
necessary fucking for poetry

which is just as well when “at a bar” or
side by side alone & almost having
sex but in the end we change our minds ‘cos
work is early/harsh work makes you nervous

lines up the days & besides you don’t love
each other so much today as yesterday
& that dwindle’s dampened the itch to do
anything but write some stupid sonnet

frigid at the kitchen table no damp
itch to speak of no great love to leap off

From “Love’s Work”

By Gillian Rose.

Subsequently, I found myself in a routinely tedious faculty meeting, in which, as usual, I carried no presence whatsoever. As drivers insist that the blaring radio aids their concentration on the road, so I always found that a volume open on my lap enabled me to pay the small amount of attention needed to navigate these shallows. When asked with withering detection by the impassive secretary whether the book I was blatantly perusing was good, I nonchalantly replied, “I only read good books.” I responded similarly to her policing my failure to send a note of apology for a meeting that I actually managed to miss, “But I’m not sorry.” On this particular occasion, I was aware of an intense aura emanating from someone whom I had never seen before, an intense, sexual aura, aimed precisely and accurately at my vacant being. “A man,” I wondered, “could there be a man in this meeting?” He looked weather-beaten, his flat, lined faced suffused with a self-consciously alert intelligence and a knowledge of sensual power. I had no idea who he was, and did not pursue the matter.

bab

From Minimum Security Prison Dentistry, by Stephen Fowler.

as rare as
rocking horse
shit
my love for tacky
Eastern European sluts
with cheap handbags,
stressed denim
& frizzed out hair

you can save up
for an expensive
handbag your whole life
& still
they will only want
what you give

hate these suicidal poets
who are pushing the mid-30s
& dress like tampons
just so they can maybe
sneak up a drunk student’s
gash

rich girls are so pampered
& self indulgent
they either dress like brats
OR a minister’s daughter
they are clean though
& this is what it
is really about.

a haircut
on the trolley
a washing line like flags
is meant to remind you
of Apartheid