This section contains adult-oriented content intended for readers 18 years or older. By accessing this section, you confirm that you are of legal age to view such material.
A Note on Age Guidelines
As a strong advocate for open expression and against censorship, I believe in creating spaces where adults can freely explore creative and intimate works without judgment. However, to align with common standards and platform policies, this section is intended for readers 18 years or older. This guideline is not about restricting access but about respecting societal norms while fostering a safe and responsible environment for exploration. Thank you for understanding and joining me in celebrating creative freedom.
“We welcome your thoughts and reflections! Feel free to share your reactions, insights, or reflections in the comments below. Please keep in mind that this is a space for open, respectful, and thoughtful dialogue. Let’s celebrate creativity and connection together!”
June 2025 Submission
Big O
Lynn (Lev) Hoffman
Orgasm’s an unruly son-of-a-bitch.
Loud, screaming, pushing and kicking its way
Out of the belly and down the dick.
It’s a Heavy Metal Battle of the Bands
The big Express Train blasting out of the Tunnel
Into Sigmund Station.
It’s your best friend,
The one with the bad manners
Who always gets invited to dinner anyway
Because he tells the sweetest stories.
Until
sometime in your late forties,
or after the first divorce.
Then things change.
Then Big O’s a long procession of lascivious monks
chanting gregorian and slowly making their way
to the top of a mountain inside a cathedral.
Or it’s nine innings of well-built baseball
Or a whole bottle of Ornellaia that dances
with greedy pelvis and sculpted shoulders
All the way through dinner.
And all the hooting of it
That used to keep the birds away
Turns into the lipsmack chirp
That calls them in.
Then you come like the ocean instead of the storm.
Imagine that you decide to stop for a while.
Maybe
She’s had her little death
And wants you to come inside her
And you say that
Maybe
You and big O are going to
Take a nap now and save the rest
For later.
a sonnet for a kiss
there is a kiss, one kiss i’ve stored for you
from lips i’ve kept away, pressed shut
it has become ripe, this kiss, with blushing yeasty skin
mature and private, well-considered,
neither damp nor dry, not hidden
but simply reserved once served, to be
re-served to you and only, yes to you.
there is a part of you that will rise up
to be kissed, rise up from a private park
whose paths cross in front of monuments
to heroes of your body’s heart and all
the children of your restless spirit wait
too proud to talk, too full of passion to be still
wet yet dry as tinder calling out to fire.
what it might be like
slippery-soft, gripping, scalp-stretching.
off the floor, off the bed, against the wall
gasping, yipping, moaning
sharp little in-breaths, squeaking throat calls
water and growls bouncing off shower tile
snare-drum tattoo, bass-drum rumble
looks like fighting, feels like fire
swapping spit, trading demons
taking possession with the deed
everything wrong to be just right
goofy hats, funny voices
phallic shadow-puppets
chocolate mousse and flying squirrel
five yard penalties for illegal use of sauternes
rib cage xylophone, foot sole feather
over the armchair, blued with winterlight
over the half-moon, silvered with stars
after a struggle she, invaded, conquers
and then there will be a peace that smells
both damp and burnt,
like thunder off the coast.
May 2025 Submission
The Shoemaker’s Daughters
By Jacqueline Jillinghoff
There onee was an old shoemaker with two young daughters. The
girls were twins, and so much alike their own father could not tell
them apart.
The shoemaker had married late in life. His bride, a mere girl
herself, accepted him only because her parents were poor, and he
agreed to pay them a handsome sum. He was a gentle man,
however, and, desiring no more than a helpmate and cook, never
demanded his rights as her husband. They lived together as
chastely as father and daughter for more than a year, until one day,
the young wife began to feel her own strange stirrings within her
and, in gratitude for the shoemaker’s kindness, invited him into her
b e d
Their love wrought a profound change in the old man. For the first
time in many years, he greeted his neighbors with a smile and a
clap on the shoulder, telling them to find happiness while they
could, lest the bord call them home before they had tasted it fully.
t e worked at his trade with renewed zeal, although he thought
nothing of elosing the shop at a moment’s notice and rushing to his
wife for a goodly bit of tail. Some days, she said, it was hardly
worth the trouble to dress herself in the morning, and indeed, many
were the days she did not.
And so, when she died bringing their daughters into the world, it
was as though the shoemaker’s spirit died with her. He returned to
his gloomy, taciturn ways, warning his neighbors never to look for
happiness, for it would only lead them to grief.
, c a
His sole comfort was his daughters. He called them Nija and
Omega, for that is what they were to him, although as they grew,
their names were misheard and corrupted, and they became known
simply as Anna and Olga. It hardly mattered, since no one could
remember whose name was whose, and each of them answered to
either.
They were the most beautiful girls the townspeople had ever seen,
with ivory skin and raven-black hair that made them the image of
their mother. In their character, however, they were the antithesis of
that dutiful treasure, who had given her life for their sake. It was
sometimes said that death had reseued her from shame, for in truth,
her daughters grew up spoiled and mischievous. Their father just
could not bring himself to discipline them. Striking either one would
be like striking his own true love, he said, a n d since they were
identical, he never knew which one to punish. A n d the twins learned
early to use their resemblance to advantage, taking care that only
one of them would be seen misbehaving at any time. When Anna
stole apples from a neighbor’s tree, Olga could be found sitting in
the cottage, reading her lessons. When Olga threw mud at the
washing that hung in the neighbor’s yard, Anna would be diligently
sweeping the floor in the c o b b l e r ‘ s shop. A n d when the neighbor
came to complain, and the shoemaker asked which of his daughters
was guilty, the neighbor could not be certain. Then the shoemaker
would ask the girls to confess which of them was the culprit, and
they would only point at each other.
“I am afraid I will punish the one who is blameless,” the old mar
said. “And I cannot bear to make an innocent girl suffer.”
This situation dragged on for several years. The shoemaker’s old
friends fell away one by one, taking their eustom elsewhere. He
barely noticed, however, as he thought only of his grief and the
solace he took in his pretty daughters
Then one day, the Lord Mayor of the town burst into the cobbler’s
shop, where the old man was sitting idle, and demanded he take
action.
“One of your daughters is a shameless wanton,” he said. “Not
fifteen minutes ago, I was driving along the woodland ride, when
through the trees I saw a flash of white. Thinking it was the tail of a
deer, I descended from my cart and set off in pursuit. But what did I
see? A young girl cavorting in the wood, and she was utterly
naked.”
“Utterly?” the old man said.
“As the day she was born, though that was some time ago.”
“And you are sure it was one of my daughters.”
“No other girls in our town are as beautiful,” the bord Mayor
confessed. “No other young breasts are as firm and pointed, no
other buttocks as shapely.”
“You obviously paid close attention,” the shoemaker said
“For the sake of accuraey,” the bord Mayor replied. “When the girl
saw me, she flew up the hill like a hind. It was a hard climb for a
man of my—”
“Girth?”
“Of my years. I gave up the chase. But I saw her plain as day above
me. When she reached the summit, rather than covering herself, she
placed her back against a solid oak tree and touched herself in the
most lascivious manner.”
“How, precisely?”
“She caressed her maidenly breasts, and, parting her legs, moved
her fingers between them, not once, but repeatedly, all the while
smiling at me with the most devilish expression.”
“Scandalous,” the shoemaker said.
“A sight I shall not soon forget.”
٢٢٢
“Anna! Olga!” the shoemaker called. “Come here at once!”
The young girls entered the shop from the residence behind. They
were dressed modestly, in gray linen frocks, and they folded their
hands before them, bending their gaze humbly toward the floor.
“Yes, father?” they said together.
“The bord Mayor swears he saw one of you cavorting in the nearby
wood in a state of nature.”
“Twas not I,” said Anna.
“Twas not I,” said Olga.
“It must have been Olga,” said Anna.
“It must have been Anna,” said Olga.
“There you have it,” the shoemaker said.
“So you will do nothing?” the bord Mayor fumed.
“What would you have me do?”
And the Lord Mayor departed in a huff, the medallion of his office
swinging impotently about his neck.
“I shall overlook this one transgression,” the shoemaker told the
girls. “But please, promise me you’ll bring no more shame on our
little house.”
“I promise,” said Anna.
“I promise,” said Olga.
One of them fibbed, for in the days that followed, word spread of
more sightings of a naked girl— here by the brook, there in the
meadow — who touched herself in shameful ways while
blaspheming mightily, declaring to her bord and Savior that
apparently she was about to arrive somewhere.
Superstitious women believed she was a spirit, perhaps the ghost of
the shoemaker’s wife, come to lure the young into sin. The men
knew better. They organized a patrol, scouring the countryside with
nets and ropes, determined to string her up and prove she was flesh
a n d b l o o d .
It was then she staged her most daring provocation, for, with the
men tracking her off in the hills, there was no one to stop her from
taking a stroll through town. Suddenly, as if materializing out of the
air, she appeared at the fountain in the square, barejoot in
sackeloth. She looked about. No one paid her any mind until, with a
knowing smirk, she drew the sackeloth over her head and dropped
it in the dust.
Women gaped as she marched up the street, shielding the eyes of
their small children. Young boys erowded in her wake, each daring
the others to smack her bare bum, or squeeze her titties, or merely
tap her leg. Yet each was too frightened to do it himself.
“You first!” cried one.
“No, you!” eried another.
“Fraidy eat!”
“You’re the fraidy eat!”
“Well, if you’re not afraid —”
They touched themselves as they followed along. Those who were
old enough made a mess in their trousers. Those who weren’t could
only wonder at the discovery that their little o rg a n s were good for
something other than relieving themselves.
Then, as suddenly as the apparition had appeared, it was gone. As
the parade approached the cobbler’s shop, the girl broke into a run.
her bare behind flashing around the corner and down the alley. The
boys, caught by surprise, hesitated a moment, then dashed after
her, but when they reached the rear of the cottage, she was nowhere
to be seen. (She had, of course, slipped in the back door.)
Toward nightfall, the men of the village returned, only to learn they
had been duped. Once again, they confronted the shoemaker, who
once again called upon his daughters, who once again blamed each
other for the spectacle.
“This must end,” the bord Mayor said. “If you cannot control your
wieked daughter, whiehever one she may be, we shall ship them
both off to a convent. bet the sisters beat the devil out of them.”
“Very well,” the shoemaker said. “Give me one more day.”
The bord Mayor agreed, and the men dispersed.
That night, the shoemaker stole into his daughters’ room as they
slept. In one hand he held a sheepskin rag. In the other, he carried
two shallow bowls whose contents were indistinguishable in the
darkness. His daughters lay side by side on their stomachs, their
faces turned toward one another. Each wore a brief white shift with
nothing on underneath, and it was but the work of a moment to dip
the rag into a bowl and apply it to a bare fundament.
The next day, it seemed, the town had given up the hunt for the
naked gamine. The women kept their houses, the men plied their
trades, the children played in the lanes, all as usual, until, toward
evening, the raven-haired girl appeared beside the fountain in
sackeloth, as she had the day before. Once more, she flung her
rough covering to the ground and set off in the altogether – this
time at a brisk trot.
“There she is!” the children eried.
“But look! Her heinie is blue!”
These last words were on everyone’s lips, but if the girl heard them,
their meaning was lost on her. She scampered happily through the
village, pleased that all eyes were on her bottom, though unaware
of the true reason. Upon reaching the town’s little church, she
darted through the front doors, which stood open in preparation for
vespers. Wi t n e s s e s were sure she would be struck down for such
sacrilege, showing herself naked at the altar, and while that did not
happen, a stranger, unexpected marvel was attested to by all: when
the girl emerged from the church’s south transept, her blue bottom
had mysteriously turned to red.
“Witcheraft!” the women exelaimed.
The scarlet-assed girl continued her run. Some men tried to chase
her down, but she was swift and soon lost them at the edge of the
wood. (Meanwhile, unnoticed, another, identical girl snuck out of
the c h u r c h in a black robe.)
At sunset, the bord Mayor came to the cobbler’s home and
described what the townsfolk had seen.
“Even I’m beginning to think she’s a demon,” he said. “When the
naked sprite ran into the church, her backside was blue. When she
ran out again, her blue backside had turned to red. There has been
nothing like it since the days of the weeping statues.”
“She is a demon, but not the kind you think,” the shoemaker replied.
“Bring everyone together in the square at noon tomorrow. Until
then, leave me in peace.”
The following day, at the appointed hour, a crowd gathered as the
shoemaker had instrueted. Just as the church bell finished striking
the angelus, the old man marched his daughters into the square.
Under his arm, he carried his cobbler’s bench, which he set before
the fountain.
“I have been foolish and blind,” he announced to the crowd. “I
believed one of my daughters was innoeent, and the other was
wieked. Today, I understand they are two of a kind. Anna, Olga,
front and center!”
The girls obeyed and stood trembling before him. Each was wrapped in
a dirty white sheet. These the old man abruptly snatched away, and the
erowd gasped to see the truth revealed. Not only were the girls naked,
but their bums were different colors. One was azure, the other gules —
as, gentle Reader, you were surely expecting
The shoemaker sat on his bench.
“Anna,” he said, “you first.”
The girl with the red bottom stepped forward, and her father
hauled her across his knee. He spanked her twenty times, the
crowd elapping along with every blow.
When justice had been done, and tears were streaming down the
girl’s face, he threw her aside and turned to her sister.
“Olga,” he said, patting his thigh ominously, “you next.”
With a frightened whimper, the second girl bent over her father’s
lap, whereupon he vigorously laid another twenty resounding
thwacks on her quivering blue behind. Once again, the crowd
applauded every stroke.
“Now, the shoemaker said, “you may both stand here, like wieked
children, and let the people gawp at you until I call you to
prepare my supper. I am returning to my last.”
So saying, he picked up his bench, as well as the discarded
sheets, and strode away, abandoning his naked daughters to the
leering of the crowd.
The townsfolk were happy that at last a vexing mystery had
been solved. The old cobbler was happy, too, for he had won
back the respect of his friends, who would soon be returning to
his shop. Even the naughty sisters were happy, for they’d had a
good spanking and were standing naked in front of the whole
town, which is all they really wanted in the first place.
Moral:
A firm hand is needed
When words go unheeded,
And the guilty can’t hide
When their bottoms are dyed.
The End
Reverend PLURall, a self-published poet, shares her chapbooks and zines with friends and strangers alike to encourage and inspire collaborative magic through reading, writing and/or other forms of ritual.
This poetic tale was written in May 2024 by Reverend PLURall (aka Lynne Rabchuk) as a healing spell for herself, and for all the divine humans who choose to read these magic words.
This spell references the magic of alchemy and the colors black, white, yellow, and red associated with the four phases of that transformative work.
The magic words are written in haiku form to set the tone and setting of each chapter, and uses verses of couplets in iambic pentameter as a nod to Shakespeare’s love sonnets as well as an 8-syllable variation on that rhythm scheme called iambic tetrameter.
Each chapter alternates the perspectives of the two characters depicting how their voices are reflected in each other, and how together they tell their love story from A to Z.
This story is dedicated to all the witches who do shadow work until they see the light and be the love. Thanks for being weird, we’re’d, and fuckin ferally wyyrd with me.Reverend PLURall, a self-published poet, shares her chapbooks and zines with friends and strangers alike to encourage and inspire collaborative magic through reading, writing and/or other forms of ritual.
This poetic tale was written in May 2024 by Reverend PLURall (aka Lynne Rabchuk) as a healing spell for herself, and for all the divine humans who choose to read these magic words.
This spell references the magic of alchemy and the colors black, white, yellow, and red associated with the four phases of that transformative work.
The magic words are written in haiku form to set the tone and setting of each chapter, and uses verses of couplets in iambic pentameter as a nod to Shakespeare’s love sonnets as well as an 8-syllable variation on that rhythm scheme called iambic tetrameter.
Each chapter alternates the perspectives of the two characters depicting how their voices are reflected in each other, and how together they tell their love story from A to Z.
This story is dedicated to all the witches who do shadow work until they see the light and be the love. Thanks for being weird, we’re’d, and fuckin ferally wyyrd with me.
A self-published poet, Reverend PLURall shares her chapbooks and zines with friends and strangers alike to encourage and inspire collaborative magic through reading, writing and/or other forms of ritual.
This poetic tale was written in May 2024 by Reverend PLURall (aka Lynne Rabchuk) as a healing spell for herself, and for all the divine humans who choose to read these magic words.
This printed version of this spell references the magic of alchemy with text in the colors of black, white, yellow, and red associated with the four phases of that transformative work.
If you would like a printed version mailed to your home, or emailed to you as a PDF file, please email the author at reverendplurall@gmail.com
The magic words are written in haiku form to set the tone and setting of each chapter, and uses verses of couplets in iambic pentameter as a nod to Shakespeare’s love sonnets as well as an 8-syllable variation on that rhythm scheme called iambic tetrameter.
Each chapter alternates the perspectives of the two characters depicting how their voices are reflected in each other, and how together they tell their love story from A to Z.
This story is dedicated to all the witches who do shadow work until they see the light and be the love. Thanks for being weird, we’re’d, and fuckin ferally wyyrd with me.
~Reverend PLURall~
Attire removed
And title handed over
All hail the new Queen
All Amazons are women who
Have died betrayed by men; born new
As warriors, they’re strong and true
They fight for justice to accrue
I am the one exception to
This rule because my mother knew
That selfless prayer’s the avenue
For making life from clay statue
Her royal reign I carried through
My every act, but now I’m due
To pass the torch to sister Nu
Nubia’s our new Queen, it’s true
Medusa
Blind, deaf, mute, evil
Bound to the past, no future
Bereft of present
Betrayed, rejected, seen as faux
From birth, through life, ‘til my deathblow
My only gift: a curse of show
Protection magic, look, presto!
For those who meet my gaze all go
To statue form, leave me solo
My sisters raised my children, ohhh
I never got to see them grow
What’s joy? What’s pleasure? I don’t know
In broad day’s light, I saw shadow
In life above, drowned in sorrow
Now I abide here down below
Diana
Crawled through the dirt
Cerebral alchemy site
Cavern in forest
Call out, call in, I call this day
Athena, Baubo, Hekate
To your divinity I say
I need your help to forge my way
I’ve left my guard down, stripped away
My armor gone, I’m easy prey
Exposed to those who want to slay
To feast upon my bare display
Truth’s lasso round my flesh, I lay
Inside this cave’s mouth to convey
I’m here to enter death’s doorway
Until you’ll have me, here I’ll stay
Medusa
Darkness reigns below
Dominion of damned spirits
Damaged and destroyed
Down here I’m stuck to hem and haw
The Underworld is dark and blah
My frozen memories cannot thaw
I ruminate on every flaw
No form, no chains through which to saw
No record can I write or draw
No justice here, no court, no law
No way to speak, cry or hurrah
No hand to pick or weave the straw
No nails to sharpen to a claw
No food to chew, or teeth to gnaw
No nourishment, just thoughts so raw
Diana
Evening falls, moon rise
Emotions flowing freely
Energetic shift
Endured the walk, entered the cave to rest
My lasso like a bodysuit, I’m dressed
I’m ready for this rite, my divine quest
To become human, or to die unblessed
Call out, call in, I call this day
Athena, Baubo, Hekate
To your divinity I say
I need your help to forge my way
A mix of clay, tears, prayers – my birth
Ensured my reign was full of worth
My life was long and blessed with mirth
But now I return to the earth
Medusa
Fear and loneliness
Filter joy from life and death
Friendship is unknown
Faith proved herself to be Athena’s myth
Despite my worship of her monolith
Her sacred temple offered me no grith
So Perseus could end my life forthwith
Now I reside below with Hekate
And yet I have not seen her to this day
If she were to appear, what would I say?
I’d thank her for the respite of my stay
Another Goddess I’ve not met: Baubo
I’ve heard her laughter heals all ills and so
I’d love to meet her raucous spirit, though
I doubt such deities come here below
Diana
Grounded, bound for sleep
Growing restless during dreams
Goal is envisioned
Garrulous voices haunt my dreams in sleep
A slithering upon my thigh does creep
My body frozen stiff with chills skin-deep
And so I will remain until I reap
The knowledge that I seek, it can’t be found
Within the waking world where I was crowned
I’ve placed myself beyond all light and sound
To gain the divine wisdom so renowned
Call out, call in, I call this day
Athena, Baubo, Hekate
To your divinity I say
I need your help to forge my way
Medusa
Hekate’s domain
Holds secrets in the darkness
Harmony or harm?
Heroic act of justice; murder no
My death was moral, just, and caused not woe
Not even for myself because I know
That spared my children living my shadow
Mortality was my curse, said my kin
And yet death was a blessing for my sin
I took my lumps upon my clefted chin
I knew my monstrous fate was not to win
It seems the Fated Three left me to rot
My villain’s tale reveals an evil plot
When humans defy Gods we won’t be fought
But like a bug dismissed with just one swat
Interconnected
Individual beings
Interdependent
Invisible, and yet I did so sense
A human soul, a spirit, now past tense
No clarity, confusion did commence
As I gazed in the rain which did condense
The spirit did not notice I was there
While lost in their own thoughts as if a snare
I could not hear their words but felt the air
As if the breeze was thickened with despair
Again, I’ll journey to this place of dreams
Where everything is different than it seems
Perhaps this spirit can hear all my screams
So whisper not, I’ll yell to the extremes
Medusa
Jaded over time
Jealous of the innocents
Jailed in body, mind
Judged harshly for injustice done to me
And punished by Athena’s cursed decree
A dedicated priestess, inductee
Unfairly scorned, rejected devotee
Now trapped in liminal space after life
I cannot even speak of all my strife
I have no words, just hate and shame are rife
I’d stab myself if I could hold a knife
I’d throw myself into the River Styx
And hope the ripples would be seen by Nyx
But hmm, what is that sense? I am transfixed!
If I had eyes or ears… they’re playing tricks…
Diana
Keys fit in their locks
Kindred spirits bound to bond
Knowledge sought is gained
Kaleidoscopic visions fill my head!
I think I saw Medusa filled with dread
She peered into the River Styx and pled
For all her pain to end with one last shed
It seems she may have seen or even heard…
Could this be water magic that we’ve stirred
Or am I simply dreaming the absurd?
I’ll try again to speak a magic word
My favorite words of all are Love and Light
But in the darkness of Underworld’s night
I think the first selection feels most right
With hope, I try again, with all my might
Medusa
Laughter’s medicine
Listening well is a learned skill
Love is an action
Love… lingers in the air as though a shout
There is another sense I feel about
Within the River and without a doubt
I see a naked woman, laid spread out
Her body bears a rope without restraint
But more a decoration, simply quaint
I wonder if she’s evil or a saint
The sight of her did make me feel quite faint
I felt the urge to dive so I could soak
As if the woman could be worn, a cloak
If only I could laugh at this cruel joke
This tortured tease of company; I’m broke!
Diana
Magic words and acts
Meditation medicates
Maiden, Mother, Crone
Medusa, you’re my sister, don’t you know?
We’re both Athena’s daughters, and we grow
Through war and peace and wisdom, as we go
To feel true joy and love, release your woe
I’ve come to give up immortality
I’d like to pass it down to you, for free
I’ve prayed to our Goddesses, all Three
A fated rebirth is your destiny
Athena’s gift was taken as a curse
I know you felt it could not be much worse
But I have learned your power’s not perverse
Instead the truth is simply the inverse
Medusa
Near-sighted or far
Naked truth and well-dressed lies
Need a glass to see
Neurosssisss sssuch asss yoursss, a shame to sssee
Your liesss are clear, I’ve no naivety
Athena’sss gift of peaccceful olive tree
Wasss jussst to cover up her murder ssspree
Don’t dare call me your sssissster, or you’ll sssee
A ssside of me that you will want to flee
Inssside your body I will ssslither, be
Ssso I can freezzze your sssoul with ssso much glee…
Begone from here, you lying banssshee, flee
Your presssenccce is not welcome, you bore me
I do not wisssh to make an amputee
Of jussst sssome sssilly namelessssss wannabe
Diana
Obscenities fly
Obviously incorrect
Offensive defense
Oh Goddess, I’ve forgot myself, I’m sorr-
Diana is my name, but what’s bizarre
Is humans call me Wonder Woman. Are…
Are you Medusa, Mother of the star?
And yes, Athena’s Champion, I’m one
She made me reign as Queen of Amazons
But I’ve decided that my time is done
Instead of many lives, I just want one
I want a human life, for just one day
With less responsibilities to weigh
I want to make this deal with Hekate
So we can make a trade, is that okay?
Medusa
Pushing through the veil
Polarity shifts for both
Paternity breaks
Puh, Pegasus, my son, he is a star…
And Chrysaor, my golden sword, my scar…
My children, now dead long ago, they are;
Forever they can live in my memoir!
If I agree to give you one day more
Using my human soul, then I can soar?
I’ll fly free and just like the Trojan War
Burn all my enemies, settle the score?
Or will I get to make Athena freeze?
Poseidon too? Oh, how I loathe that sleaze!
I wish there was a slower way to tease
And torture both of them as I would please
Quaking fear shivers
Quell the rage, induce reason
Quickly alchemize
Quiescence is a skill that we can learn
Through practice, we can alchemize the burn
So those who caused you harm, made your heart churn
Will never again be of your concern
Detachment is the mirror of that rage
I want us both to get on the same page
We’ll fight for inner peace, until we gauge
Our love withstands each crashing wave and stage
I offer up my body for your pain
Purge everything. You’ll see I can contain
The pitiful, provocative, profane
Together, we’ll transform it all to gain!
Medusa
Reflection River
Reliving eternally
Reinventing all
Reality just got so real, I feel…
My body has returned to me. Unreal!
My snakes still speak, but now they help me heal
I’m high above and flying through the Wheel
Desire for revenge has no appeal
For living well, forever, makes me squeal
With absolute delight, like a good meal
A Queen who loves, protects, receives the kneel
Insssstead of thrusssting into you my pain
Our sssoulsss embraccce until we are ingrained
There isss no better way I could explain
How necccesscary’sss our bond to ssssussstai
Diana
Sacred seduction
Salacious sweet sensations
Simply sexy smut
Ssseductive, sssexy, sssissster, ssslither ssslow
I wisssh to sssenssse your sssoftessst touch and blow
Your every memory, make me feel and know
Sing me your song of love, go high and low
Oh yes, that’s it, keep going, don’t stop now
You’re growing ever stronger, and somehow
You’re also growing softer to avow
Your powers of protection are a vow
I’m overwhelmed and gushing at your growth
To you, my love forever, that’s my oath
Our two immortal souls are so betrothed
That one without the other’s just not both
Medusa
Touching my body
Tweaking my broken heartstrings
Trembling in pleasure
Tassste, touch and teassse me every way you will
I’ve never felt an inkling of the thrill
Of being wanted and to want to fill
My body with another till I sssssspill
My sssoul is crashing wavesss of lussst and blissssss
I’ve never known it’s possssssible to kissssss
With tendernesss and passsion sssuch as thisss
If true we only get one day, love, hissssss!
The afterglow of shining like the moon
A twinkle in the eye, reflex of swoon
When it’s your time to die, I hope not soon
I will sing our love song to our sweet tune
Diana
Understand, accept
Union in each element
Unifies wholly
Until my time has come, and come what may
I’m so glad that we had this single day
A day to fall in love, commit and pray
To be forever bound in every way
My vow to you, my love, my truth, my light
Through every day and every single night
Whether I am alive or not, despite
Our bond will never break by any might
For universal love like ours is rare
And yet it can show others how to care
For first themselves, and then true everywhere
Divine humanity is only fair
Medusa
Veracity and
Vulnerability are
Valiant strengths & goals
Variety just proves consistency
Is better than the lack of it. Agree?
I need your love to live a life happy…
Why do you have to go? Please, don’t leave me!
My vow to you, my love, my truth, my light
Through every day and every single night
Whether I am alive or not, despite
Our bond will never break by any might
For universal love like ours is rare
And yet it can show others how to care
For first themselves, and then true everywhere
Divine humanity is only fair
Diana
We all come, in waves
Waves of pleasure, and of pain
Waters cleanse our souls
We’re one forever, my last word be love
I’ll be forever both; below, above
Whenever you feel lost in the grief of
Our separation, my sweet mourning dove
Just fly and feel me there beneath your wings
For when supporting you, my spirit sings
I’ll always live inside your heart
Our souls cannot be torn apart
I thank you for my mortal life
Thank you for being my sweet wife
We’ll both be both, below, above
We’re one for all, my last word’s love
Medusa
Xtracted, gutted
Xtraordinary bond
Xtremely destroyed
Xistence is not meant to be alone
Our bond is from the flesh down to the bone
Beyond the body to the very soul
Without you, how will I ever feel whole?
Just fly with me, right there beneath my wings
When you’re supporting me, my spirit sings
Together body, mind and heart
Our souls cannot be torn apart
I thank you for immortal life
Thank you for being my sweet wife
We both are both, below, above
We’re one for all, our last word’s love…
Diana
Yet in waves, depart
Yesterdays, not tomorrow
Yielding connection
Your love goes on, lives after me
Immortalizes mortal we
Shows just how good true love can be
So everyone will strive for thee
It’s love and peace which lead the way
On Justice Road and Collab Bay
No one alone has enough sway
Just those who’ve learned to work and play
Without another, we’re just one
But with at least two we’ve all won
Our losses also are our gains
We chose our crown, and how we reign
Medusa
Zeal for life and death
Zenith of light/shadow work
Zero fatal flaws
Zing, zig and zag, my compass lost
And yet the gains were worth the cost
I gained a friend, a lover, true
Did things I thought I couldn’t do
It’s love and peace which lead the way
On Justice Road and Collab Bay
No one alone has enough sway
Just those who’ve learned to work and play
Learn how to set and reach our goals
Learn how to love all worthy souls
Learn how to safeguard, not just fight
Learn how to heal and be the light
March/April 2025 Submission
WISDOM OF THE BODY: SOME REFLECTIONS
–R. K. SINGH
We live in a sexually pluralistic world and whatever our conviction, sex is here to stay. No use decrying it. It is a fact of daily life and provides humankind with significant components of meaning. Through the realities of sex and sexual experience we can gauge a person’s inner most truth, his/her consciousness.
But how sad, despite global interaction and expansion in awareness, most people still tend to conceal bodily experience; they do not recognize wisdom of the body, which is worth loving for its grace, truth and reality.
Painters, photographers and poets view the human body with all its senses, emotions and intellect as a repository of actual pleasure, pain and ecstasy. They express it with imagination and philosophical intuition, making us conscious of our varied realities. They are not inhibited by false shame. They know human sexuality, if presented and used properly, should help us fuse the primordial male-female polarity into energy which could then make life in harmony with the original source, bring the individual and humanity closer, and promote stable sexual relations. If used unwisely it may degenerate into a diffracted and miserable world.
Sex : A metaphor
Artists do not question the cult of pleasure or the reverence for abstinence as they explore the naked physicality in all its dimensions. They do not create a work for the sake of casual stimulation. Rather, they know that sexual symbolism becomes devalued and inexpressive if it loses the wealth of its actual sexual experience and fails to illumine ones inner landscape; they seek to illuminate the realities of life through body-images.
Sex is a metaphor: the encounter of man and woman, woman and woman, man and man to express feelings, to feel valued or loved, to explore relationships, concerns, roles, to react against false ethical and cultural values, against stereotypes and prejudices, against hypocrisy and dubious social standards that enchain, and debase honest aspirations as lust or vulgarity.
Against a gnawing sense of loss of meaning and purpose in the computerized, simulation-filled emptiness of our life today, including gimmicks, imitations, romantic overtures, and even plain silliness that are often noticed, sex serves as an antidote to the fast dehumanizing existence: Its expression is a means of defying the disgusting sociopolitical world without; it’s a form of active resistance to political manipulation day in and day out.
No Narrow View
With their erotic presentation, artists and poets seek to create what is physically balanced and confident, and elevating to the senses. They know that the naked body is a pretext for a work of art and it can be made expressive of a far wider and more civilizing experience. As Kenneth Clark observes in The Nude (1956), “It is ourselves, and arouses memories of all the things we wish to do with ourselves.”
There is, therefore, a sense of purpose in a poet or artist’s eroticism or sexuality – love of the self through exploration of the body, or naked physicality leading to love, or libidinal sublimation, or sexual union of two consenting adults.
It cannot be objectionable to express the real human needs and experiences, the physical body artistically re-formed or sex-acts re-enacted with a sense of shared delight. The sexual imagery indeed conveys a mixture of memories and sensations, a desire to perpetuate ourselves in the complex of living.
Octavio Paz writes in The Double Flame (1995) that eroticism is a social form of sexuality which is transfigured by our dreams. I see it as a means to rediscover the original magic of life just as sex is the mainspring of ones psyche and constitutes the sensory experience besides being the balance-point of various beings.
It is in no way being “low”, “vulgar”, or “obscene”. In fact, in ancient Indian Writings love and eroticism carried the same connotation or concept: the pursuit of its language and emotion in various forms is art. In the Atharva Veda there are a lot of ashleela Suktas – obscene only according to narrow view of morality.
Sexpression: Indian Heritage
Many of our thousand-year old temple sculptures are an undisguised exaltation of physical desire; the sensuous friezes of the temples at Khajuraho and the figures carved on the stone walls of the Sun Temple at Konark are great works of art because their eroticism is part of the Indian philosophy; it is our cultural heritage.
We should be able to appreciate the purity of intention, the desire to distil from the smallest experience the largest, most universal insights, something which unites us all.
The process of erotic creation, like Kama-adhyatma, pursuing sex to spiritual height, is something positive in Hindu ethos; it is an important psychological fact of life, a sort of libidinal sublimation if one also performs with an awareness of the rich and ennobling pluralistic dimensions of the Hindu culture.
Love and celebration of womanhood, as part of erotic experience through a process of exhilaration, stimulation and relaxation – swimming through the river of heavenly happiness, uniting the eye, mind and imagination, and losing ignorance – is both physical and spiritual. This is what keeps an artist going, giving birth to new works, one after the other, reaching a height to feel silence through spirit in the body.
Orthodoxy Undesirable
But somehow, in recent years, largely due to lack of the spirit of enquiry and appreciation of the Hindu culture, tradition and values, discussion and expression of sex in public seems to have been denigrated. Authors and artists have been frequently subjected to violence of the orthodox right wing which seeks to ban honest sexual self-expression and is intolerant of recreational and non-procreative sex acts.
There was a time when even prostituted in India were an integral and respectable part of the Hindu society. There was no social tension due to unsatisfied lost. Sex practice was not looked down upon just as men and women enjoyed healthy emotional relationship both within marital and larger societal contexts. The writers of the ancient Sanskrit manuals like Kamasutra, Panchasakya, Smara Pradit, Ratimanjari, Kokashastra, Ratirahasya, Ananga Ranga etc. educated men and women in the art of courtship, foreplay, actual intercourse (including various postures of union) and post-coital activities; they treated love not only as a matter of giving and receiving pleasure, but also as a means of access to the realm where human and divine meet.
Emotional lyrics of poets like Kalidasa, Bhavabhuti, Bhartrhari, Amaru, Yashovarman, Jayadeva and others reflect frank eroticism but create a transcending spiritual effect and meaning with their expression of the primordial pursuh-prakriti, or what the Chinese call Yin-Yang interplay.
God Created Sex
I do not know how many people would disagree with the view that the taste of the forbidden fruit in Eden was actually the awareness of physical attraction between man and woman: The tree of knowledge was actually the knowledge of the process of creation, of love, of sex.
The Bible, like the ancient Hindu scriptures, does not decry sex. In fact celebration of physical union is God-ordained; man and woman are expected to stay together, love each other as their own flesh.
Because God created human beings as male and female, He created sex and ordained sexual union (in a socially acceptable form) to bind man and woman together, to make them dear to each other as husband and wife, to lead a healthy emotional life through love and sex, and thus ensure personal and social stability.
As I see it, it is God’s design that we enjoy life, be happy, be one flesh in coitus, and thus glorify Him in body. In the Vedas and Upanishads, too, sex is the source of happiness in equality, in oneness of man and woman, in love.
The search for love, or desire for sex, even if erotic, is essentially the aspiration for entering into another to know, to understand. It is rather a search for the ‘whole’ in daily living and giving. It is the search for a bridge between the uncontrollable external events and the often impulsive, subjective, or internal responses.
Body as Soul
In brief, depiction of sex in art and literature has been metaphysically serious in India, just as sexual desire and fulfillment is an action of the spirit in body, leading to pleasure and harmony. The body images illuminate the realities of life; sexual metaphors in art make it possible for artists to convey what it feels like to be filled with desire, transmuting and transmitting memories of experience.
Artists visualize human body as a picture of the human soul; they celebrate it to understand the world and the self. If they glorify nudity, it is to explore the consciousness, in conflict with the muddling external chaos.
As a poet I realize humans are flesh in sensuality and there is divinity in it. The fleshly unity is the reality, the passage to experience divinity, and its expression should not be repressed through governmental interference in the name of morality and all that.
Sexual self-expression should be treated as ones fundamental right just as personal freedom of choice, sexual privacy rights, and tolerance for diversity are the hallmarks of a liberated enlightened society.
–Dr.R.K.SINGH
Professor & Head, Dept of Humanities & Social Sciences
Indian School of Mines
Dhanbad 826004 India
NOTHING DIFFERENT, JUST BETTER
Edward Robson
Remembering the way it always was perhaps
when we came back together
from a trip or from a mood requiring solitude,
you would close the door and start the ceiling fan,
while I would light a candle
even if it wasn’t dark
then draw you close against me
pressing flesh and sharing warmth.
You might let me take my time
unfastening your things to let them fall away
and graze with palms and fingertips
each pasture as the candlelight discovered it,
till sensing tension in my muscles
straining feigning patience you
my ever-so-pragmatic friend
would have enough of passion’s posturing,
step back simply doff the rest
and tumble naked laughing onto freshly laundered sheets,
and reach for me, and prove to me
that you could hunger mightily as I.
Ever did i revel in your innocent abandon,
artless lust that knew when it was time to touch,
and never coy indulged with glee the wishes
of our eyes and lips and fingers.
Long before we ever got around to kissing we
were always finding things to do,
close to nature mostly
but concerned less with particulars
than with this excellent companionship of spirits
that refused all waste of life,
carping every diem with delight
and finding laughter everywhere.
And when we added to those treasures
all the pleasures of our blessed flesh,
though we both said it was better
than a picnic by the falls at Linville Gorge,
better even than the stars on your front lawn,
it was really nothing different, just better.
An afternoon on your big bed,
where senses danced the edge of overload,
where words would lose coherence,
grunts and gasps gain prehistoric eloquence,
where trust was consecrated
wonders celebrated
death obliterated,
still was just another afternoon together,
one more bike ride by the lake,
one more visit to the farmers’ market.
For opening my bliss-besotted eyes
I would find my best friend with me as before,
still panting sweating flushed with lust
and yet as merrily yourself
as when we last sat down to coffee.
At least that’s how my heart remembers it,
those days when nothing could have been
more natural or yet more perfectly romantic
than the love we being who we were exactly made,
for what we did together then,
by virtue of its perfect ordinariness,
had come to saturate our every moment
with significance exquisitely erotic.
We forgot in time to look for
boundaries delineating moments–
when does friendtime turn to lovertime,
or sex emerge from foreplay?–
boundaries like lines in children’s colorbooks
that hide the truth, which is that we
are all of the above.
So every time my eyes encounter yours,
even now in memory,
the world is once again made new,
life’s passion overflows,
and love becomes us.
This one appeared in Perfume River Poetry Review. I have long believed one cannot understand sex in all its depth without understanding prayer, or vice versa.
in the beginning
as time begins the spirit moves creating
calls us all to join the sacred dance
by which all things will ever be made new
(each encounter is our very first
like swimmers long submerged we rise
into each other’s arms
and from each other’s lips
draw life in great sweet gulps)
in this most perfect moment
we are drawn beyond ourselves
our voices moved by something
far too primitive for speech
utter sounds of ecstasy
that none would dare call meaningless
(laughing sighing murmuring
timeless afternoons of conversation
punctuated now and then by words)
ego starts to fade within the longing for the other
for the intimacy that transcends all individualities
at last no longer needed is forgotten
as we two perceive the oneness of creation
(yin and yang are met and joined
breath a gasping counterpoint
legs seek purchase torsos strain
eyes lock mounting joy reflect till
fusion’s flare consumes all thought
and paradise is gained)
name it passion name it prayer
holy is the gift we share
all-creative sacrament
where spirits groan insentient
sighs too deep for words to bear
our father who art with us here
the name we breathe in unison
most hallowed be
amen
amen
Here’s the issue of Perfume River Poetry Review in which “in the beginning” appeared: https://touranepoetrypress.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/perfume-river_issue-2_ars-erotica1.pdf
And this one is yet unpublished. Those who grew up steeped in Christian scripture will be amused by the allusions to the Book of Exodus. I still wish life had worked out in a way that let me share it with the one I wrote it for.
burning bush
in bold imagination i opine
you seem unlikely to pursue that modern trend
pudenda smooth denuded mocking prepubescent innocence
in reply to eyebrow quizzically canted over
half smile that does not deny the truth of my conjecture
i would hasten to explain
your incandescent candor in my mind implies
you would not choose to lose the lush exuberance
of undergrowth that owns your organicity
scant chance that conversation happens
as such license would demand a favorable time
a timeless setting i would favor setting us
in warmly literary villa in the south of france
but muse perhaps the leisure of a carolina morning
could for us be cloistered cove
where basking you recline supine
damask petals delicately splayed
in frame of foliage parting like the sea of reeds
to strong east wind by prophet’s rod directed
shifting now inhaling musky welcome
brackish marsh eternal eve
again engulfed my reverent expirations
fanning sacred conflagration till your fingers
capture furl entwine locks binding tightening
as ancient hymn begins anew
the melody becoming you
back in realtime regions mundane spaces
consecrated by our sharing there
a joy intensely real as your and oh my
hopes unconsummated still ablaze
unquenched yet ever unconsumed
i visit as i can drink deeply in your presence
to depart more full of hunger more content
my male heart thawing in the warmth
of mystic fires discretely banked
tongues of flame not ripe for naming yet
i hear their nearness and remove my shoes
Bio: Edward Robson earned his PhD in Psychology and spent 30 years in clinical practice before retiring to return to school for his MFA in Creative Writing. He presently resides in North Carolina with his wife but has spent the last five months in Panajachel, Guatemala. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals. Other works in progress include short and long fiction, plays, and essays, some of which can be found at Medium.com.
Ed Robson, PhD, MFA
Poet, Writer, Seeker after truth
“Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames.” – Rumi
February 2025 Submission
Many Distances
by Angel Hogan
The problem with the heart, a tool of time, is want can never speak.
-Willis Barnstone
And then there is this offer of a mouth
A layering of tongues
Teeth breath, lips, with-with – – –
Barely an idea, a trick
Flickering in the corner of your eye:
Your lover awaits life from your gaze
Your breaker baits a heated barb
Your beloved dies and rises beneath you
Your keeper sinks to your hips
Your warden walks the mighty yard
Your sweetie stays in the strange
Your crush stands in the wind
Your mistress lifts one aching calf
And bites the tender skin.
Now there are fingers
A layering of flesh,
The almighty touch, a whisper…
Now a flame:
Your lover says your name
Your honey sets the blaze
Your teacher wets your belly
Your partner parts your thighs
Your escort knows your secrets
Your precious lights your skin
Your guide finds you adrift and tangled
Then sails you home again.
Poem was published in Sensual: A Unique Anthology 2013 Volume 2
January 2025 Newsletter
Leda
by Joe B-.
After Cesare da Sesto’s copy of Leonardo
It drives a mortal man to tears
And outrage at his mortal luck.
I haven’t gotten laid in years,
And this chick does it with a duck?
OK, so he’s a feathered god
Who’s got a knack for bestial sex
And tons more cash than some poor sod
Who lives on unemployment checks.
But, by Jove! It’s a crying sin
The way those strands of hair came loose,
And her dippy, post-orgasmic grin
Announcing, “That was one sweet goose.”
His eyes beg for another treat.
He pats her fanny with his wing,
While, glancing shyly toward her feet,
She strokes his throat like it’s his thing.
Someday she’ll buy a cockatoo,
Some parakeets, and a canary.
She’ll spend her weekends at the zoo,
Jilling in the aviary,
And all the hatchlings from this tryst,
In years to come, will grope for words,
Describing to their therapist
Mom’s traumatizing love for birds.