Issue 9
December 2001
Alison Daniel
As for the bio, let it be known I have an interest in erotica, am working on a collection and the research is leading me astray, or maybe, that's another fantasy, a bit hard to tell sometimes, anyway, my work has been published in many small presses in Australia, New Zealand, and America, also, my work can be found at these sites, Stirring, Conspire, Eclectica, MindKites, Clean Sheets, Outsider Ink, Anothersun, plus others.
Blue Eye Shadow And A Lactating Breast
On afternoons when he is my languorous
androgyne and Venus opens her beauty case
we play with pale bright shades.
The creamy texture of lipstick creates impatient
images the way I slowly suck his fingers,
the way I make him wait to taste
intertwining tongues the color of groovy
purple grapes from that wine. Perhaps
our mouths are meant to be open.
I see the way he smiles when he brushes
smooth baby blue onto my lids. How irresistible
this experiment is, almost as if this day
is milky dew when his glass spills
and droplets fall from his pierced left nipple
to the back of my aching throat.
The Kitchen Slut
It may have started when he sent her a kinky
blue nipple teaser before promising to pierce
flesh if she would witness the lifting of his t-shirt
over his head and wait for the razor blade
smooth against his chest. She imagines pressing
her lips to his neck, then gliding her tongue
to the bareness now wet with unswallowed
red wine poured while he sings as he mops the floor
with the eucalyptus scent of pine-o-clean.
He's in the kitchen doing a shimmy shimmy
as the radio pelts out summer songs so loud
the apron strings collapse, the fabricated fig leaf
falls from his waist when she looks him up and down,
then throws him on the lino, his head against
the wall, his cock in her hand and she's kissing
his mouth as if she hasn't a clue about domestic life
because his pants are always off and if they're not,
she'll rip them to his ankles or toss them on the lush
green grass where his nipple ring gleams brighter
than the stainless steel sink freshly wiped,
reflecting suburban paradise or some sort of life
where she doesn't have to worry about stripping
skin from sockets sewn together in protest
about the rights or wrongs of sight when nothing
escapes the steam when he's doing things
with metal implements. The tongs shift shapes
in much the same way oil sizzles in the pan.
He's coking crinkle cut potato chips,
placing one, then another in the meltdown
of her salty lips reacting to the light
shining from the loop of gold but it's his nipple
that catches her eye.
Hermes
1.)
He was born to Maia. She's both nymph
and night. His father is Zeus, the rapist.
2.)
Hermes has no place.
3.)
That tablet of stone is a hoax.
4.)
I'm frightened.
5.)
Outside the window without curtains,
branches bend prowling words.
6.)
The noise reminds me constellations are fingers
poking holes in starless eyes abandoned near the borderland,
the road where suicides are buried,
where darkness has no name for science
and alchemy.
7.)
The flight into the arms of Hades
welcomes flickering shades of ambiguity
but it all depends if I dance
with bare feet till I'm dizzy,
sleek with sweat dripping down the back of my legs.
8.)
The truth is, I
wear high-heeled black leather boots with mini
skirts in summer. The days are clearer
than stolen music stuffed in someone else's suitcase.
9.)
This is not an omen.
Hermes.
Why are you such a liar?
10.)
I've seen the eagle circling the sun. It watches
the woman bathing in the river.
Her name is Aphrodite.
11.)
She's all alone.
12.)
Her sandal disappears without a trace. If
she searches for it, she'll lose
the feather on that godless trail to Hermes.
13.)
I'll lend her my boots.