Mind Caviar Poetry

Jamie Joy Gatto is founder/creator/editor of Mind Caviar, Ophelia's Muse and A Bi-Friendly Place, an online bisexual resource center. She's a widely published author/editor crafting short fiction, essays, columns and poetry, and she performs spoken word regularly in her home city of New Orleans. Gatto's hardback book, Sex Noir, is available from Circlet Press. She has published several eBooks at Renaissance eBooks including Strictly Bi and Suddenly Sexy-- soon to be combined into a paperback edition-- and the forthcoming Villains & Vixens anthology edited with M. Christian.

Visit Jamie Joy online.

Illustration by Claudio Parentela Visit his gallery online.



 
Aries
~ from your Capricorn
 

Fire walker, fire eater, fire in your soul. 
Man, you walk on soot black death coals 
dancing lightly 
rise above those tongues of flame 
that lick your feet, 
worshiping your fire within.

Mother earth opens to you, my fire man, 
who finds a home in me to nest his flames, 
burning brightly, ever nightly 
fire man, you put your fire in me
make me whole.

Claudio Parentela


Brushburn Beard
~ for Ben

Enfolded by his mass, I am small, 
convulsing, in slow motion
our bodies wrapped like casings.

Our limbs entwine to become one creature 
made of urgency, breathing labored.

scent of skin 
of musk 
of cock 
of spit 
of sweat 
of cunt 
of hair and scalp

Our breath together smells like rain, 
faintly like the flesh of not-yet-ripe plums, 
a little like earth, both light and dark.

His mouth moves over my flesh, 
foraging upon my skin, 
my oils, 
my tiny, tender, white hairs.

He eats of me, 
my body, my muscle, 
I ripple in pleasure, I want, I need, 
find my core, give me more.

He moves his head to and fro, 
lapping at my neck, 
nipping at my lobes, 
dipping down to suckle
nipples the pale blush of wild strawberries.

He whisks two dayís worth 
of bearded stubble
over my tenderest flesh
stinging me with want, 
he covers me with kisses; 
his saliva cools the burn.

Weekday mornings I watch him, 
cheeks full of foam, 
wearing Santaís beard.
He scrapes his flesh with the razor, 
smoothing the planes of his neck, his jaw
paving the road of his face soft and pliant.

He dips into the steaming basin, 
shaking off the excess water
twists his lips left and right, 
examining his next move in the mirror 
as if playing a game of chess.

He avoids the mole on his left cheek, 
a mark of beauty adorning a patch 
near a deep dimple
which only emerges 
in a genuine smile.

He rarely nicks, but when he does, 
red on white appears in tiny rivulets
pureed raspberries drip over whipped cream.

If I could lick his wound, 
I would, 
I would heal him if I could, 
if I shared the salve of dogs

Tonight I writhe 
under, 
together, 
atop, 
I rock.
In rhythm we moan.

By morning Iíll wear a brushburn beard, 
planted on my face, 
borne of our desire.

In morning, heíll scrape away the culprit bristles
Silently dipping razor in water, 
touching razor to face, 
twisting his cheeks 
until they are clean.

Monday mornings I bear the marks 
of our love, 
chapped and raw, 
like wind-burned kisses,
worth the pain, 
with bliss to remember,
an exquisite reminder of Sundayís rapture

Copyright  ©  2004 Jamie Joy Gatto. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.


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