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Commentary
by Guillermo Bosch
bosch@guillermobosch.com
 ar is hell enough without making it even more of a hell by lying about and demonizing our victims as cursed and evil beings incapable of feelings for us or of being felt about in the way we desire one another -- in the ways of erotic love.
For that reason I have included a Bosch poem, Madonna of the Mosque, in this month's Sauce*Box...my way of saying I find all peoples of the world desirable, beautiful, and capable of bringing me to passion and orgasm.
We have, also, other tales of Incubus and Succubus and shapes of things changing…evils and dangers lurking everywhere, perhaps because these times are so dangerous and filled with deadly sins, and clearly the worst of all is not lust, but pride…that pride which cometh before a fall…that pride which causes us to keep staring into the mirror transfixed by our own magnificent image, not daring to ask the question on all of our lips: "What evil do we see in our own reflection?"
Tales of the Crimson Succubus
Seven Gold Coins for Shana
by Carmine
carmine@cybermesa.com
 He stood in the parlor, his back stiff, beady eyes darting back and forth and a quivering slit of a mouth whispering prayers of resoluteness and self-induced chastity. In his hands the esquire clutched a worn Bible. He was no priest, nor was he even given to any of theology’s trappings, but black thoughts had clouded his head for many months, thoughts he had found flagrantly stimulating, at times even titillating. Although he was here, deep inside he wished to flee the brothel. A battle of wills had begun within him, and for the moment licentiousness domineered dogma.
A door eased shut, its click bringing the man back from a fervent malaise. Having assumed the guise of a human woman, Crimson Succubus walked into the sitting room, the bustle of her flowing scarlet gown moving from side to side. The Bible held in both hands, the middle-aged gentleman turned and stared at the woman. She wore her raven hair loose, its tresses teasing slightly red skin. Two sanguine eyes stared into his, and in that instant her slit-like lips parted and a long, wickedly shaped tongue licked the lower labrum.
A sable corset was wrapped about her slender frame, the bodice lifting full breasts, their nipples stretching the fabric that held them in check. She sat on an overstuffed couch, and as she crossed her legs she exposed a pair of finely woven stockings that encased muscular thighs and well-contoured calves. Her feet were small, the stiletto heels wrapped around them twice the average length.
"Marcus, isn’t it?" she hissed, her voice like a cobra, its cadence quick and lethal.
"Yes, madam."
Succubus smiled, patting a cushion on the couch. "Entertain me for a moment."
Marcus sat down, placing the holy book between them.
"A man of letters, are you?" Succubus licked her upper lip then made to switch thighs, a nectar-like perfume escaping from between them as she kicked one leg over the other.
"Yes," he responded with a nod. "I—" He stared at the ceiling watching a fan go round and round. "That is to say," he stammered yet again. "I mean—"
"You have a special request?"
"Shana," he blurted.
Succubus laughed, covering her mouth and recovering quickly.
Marcus stiffened. "Shana," he repeated, this time with more assurance.
"Of course, Marcus. Ours is to please." Succubus stared at his crotch and smiled at the bulge burgeoning there. "Seven gold coins and she is yours for the night."
"She is here, then?"
"Oh yes, dear Marcus. She knew you would come."
Marcus placed seven gold coins in Succubus’ outstretched hand. As he pulled back, the she-devil teased the man’s ring finger, around which was a platinum wedding band.
"Upstairs," Succubus waved him away.
***
Stepping into the room, the door closed behind him, several locks setting into place of their own accord. Marcus took another furtive step in the pitch-black chamber, but then he froze. Several feet away, she was there. He could smell her. Virility overlaid with expensive perfume, an intoxicating nectar that belonged exclusively to Shana.
Shana lit several candles then stood across Marcus, her eyes locked on his. Still clutching the Bible, Marcus let his eyes move downward, past the auburn hair, wide eyes, rustic cheeks, and full lips to a long neck, lithe collarbone, and wide shoulders. Then there was her exposed bosom, each breast full, its aureole beaming red and each nipple almost lavender. A black leather corset pushed up the breasts while adding delicate curvature to the woman’s lower torso and stomach.
Stepping back, Shana ran her soft hands down her sides, delicate fingers teasing taught thighs. Between the legs hung eight inches of thick, round meat, with two inches dedicated to a mushroom helmet than even now tingled with concupiscence.
"You can touch it, Marcus." Shana smiled. "Mmmmm, you could even lick it."
Marcus shook his head.
Shana stared at his trousers. "Or would you rather me worship?"
Marcus nodded.
On her knees, Shana placed her face on the fabric, her lips finding Marcus’ manhood. She bit through the pants, her teeth teasing the member within. Wrapping her hands around his ass, she pushed him into her. Saliva stained the fabric, turning it pleasantly darker. While she teased his butt cheeks with her fingers, Shana unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, and allowed the garment to fall onto the floor.
Without hesitation Shana used her left hand to grasp his cock by its base. She squeezed the shaft firmly, turning the tiny mushroom head a dark shade of purple. She flicked at the helmet, her tongue bouncing off flesh only to return again and again. Opening wide, she took him in an inch at a time, concurrently releasing the base and moving her index finger to his balls. Behind them she teased a hidden and mostly forgotten portion of the shaft. Marcus groaned—he had never felt a shiver from inside his cock, but as Shana sucked and teased with her finger, he quaked like a schoolboy before the paddle stuck.
Marcus clenched his teeth as his cock began to ache. Shana responded by taking him all the way down her throat, saliva lining the sides of her mouth and staining her neck and breasts. The holy book, which he had been clutching in his right hand, fell to the floor, where it landed with a thump. Marcus looked down; Shana’s cock was engorged, its wonderful helmet hovering above the book.
Before he could move, Shana twirled her tongue round and round and eased her right hand’s middle finger into his chaste waste-hole. Marcus groaned as she worked it in and out, with each thrust inward going deeper and deeper, the sphincter abdicating its frail virginity. With both hands he grabbed her auburn hair and with ardent fury slammed his cock in and out of her mouth. Shana wrapped her lips around his cock, her face bobbing as he mouth-fucked her.
As climax consumed him, Shana rubbed her cock, and both of them exploded at the same time. Anemic, pale cum oozed down the sides of her face while thick gobs of come covered the leather jacket of the holy book, the viscous droplets coalescing upon the embossed outline of a golden cruciform.
Without a word Marcus cleaned himself off, pulled up his trousers and picked up the Bible, dropped several gold coins onto the floor, and made his way to the door. Shana stood up, her hands working her massive member again, the remains of cum oozing out of its impressive head.
"I hope you wife enjoys the smell of that book’s leather."
Marcus stood at the door a moment. Stiff once again, he opened it, paused, then stepped out, not once looking back.
Shana sat on a plain wooden chair and continued to work herself. The door creaked open and Crimson Succubus peeked inside.
"You marked his baneful book, dear Shana?"
"Yes, mistress."
"He’ll bring a fresh one tomorrow."
"I understand, mistress."
"Good. Continue."
The door closed, this time the catches and bolts neutralized. Shana smiled. Poor bastard, she thought. Like God, Lucifer had countless minions, and they likewise worked in mysterious ways.
Oh that I had another lover
by Terrie Leigh Relf
tlrelf@cox.net
 ou claim to be a good lover, tis true,
but I, my friend, am better still than you.
While sipping tea with only sugared cubes,
neither wine nor spirits hath I so used,
while you, my dear, senses all-a-jumble,
cannot wake your willie from its slumber.
For t'were it erect, as befits its craft,
mine lips would be upon its royal shaft.
What then would follow? Ach, you naughty boy!
I have leather bindings, some clever toys,
and with them you would feel such ecstacy,
before I brought you back to sanity.
Forsooth, you vex me sorely, lying still,
Perhaps by dawn with you I'll have my will.
RETURN TO TOP
Snowman
by Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com
 ne winter
my wife and I
built a snowman
of ice and string
the melting snow
bled into the Hudson
the roots of thin
steel beasts watched us
from their berth
the haze in a yellow arc
shivered with glass eyes--
the red wail of sirens
bit into our clasped hands
that night in our bed
her fingers with their
many silvered rings
sought my hair
then my tongue
grew into her bristle,
into slipping teeth
Our baby's hand
reached through the womb,
and that winter ended.
2.
Five years
after
I write this
letter to her
old voice in my skin
I tie her plaid scarf
to my wrist,
I watch smoke
spring between red/blue gables
that Hudson,
that old oak shakes
the hung dead from arms and canyons
of snow belting ice in my hair
I remember black stones
in the Snowman's face;
a scarf and a crooked hat
we set between the twigs
We hugged snow in our shirts,
wrestled with our wet skin until
the ice kiss rubbed us
to a silent stare,
as blood blew my tongue
to her blood;
our hair shone in crisp pentangles,
cut jewels glistened in skin
I remember those
dry hands that leapt out
from my hair.
I crawl to the Hudson,
to stare at ice sheets,
and I play with the photo
of her face that haunts my wall.
3.
In my window
a woodsman
bangs his shovel
hard into ice
to cut steps home,
to pack the snow
into ruts for boots
and sleighs,
to gray and melt
with cinders and mud,--
then to drift
eventually
to that Hudson
At my desk
I search inside the wooden box
where I keep silk and string;
pearl buttons from the Snowman's coat.
I remember
the holes her red boots cut
in clean snow.
I speak for
an ancient snow-beast
I can no longer
rub into magic
One winter
my wife and I
built a snowman
of ice and string
from patches of talk
and often lies.
RETURN TO TOP
The Incubus
By L.C. Campbell
 he lay in bed, staring out her window at the full moon. Twice now the incubus had come to her in the night, each time when the pale night orb had hung round and low in the sky. The first time she had begun to struggle, but soon surrendered to the feelings he created in her body. The second time she had welcomed him gladly, opening herself fully to sensation. This time...this time, she thought, she would try to please him as well. His visits had followed the same pattern, the same general actions following each other in a grand dance. She recalled one by one the things he had done to her in their sequence, and her legs spread wider of their own accord.
There was a soft rustling sound, and her bed sighed as a weight settled upon it. She looked into the shadows, and saw a shape near her feet, a menacing, inhuman form.
His hands slid up alongside her, his gnarled fingers with their taloned nails stroking the coverlet over her thighs. She murmured, as though in a dream, and reached out in welcome. He moved up and over her, his bulk obscuring the window and the moon's soft light. His teeth, sharp and pointed, glittered in the dimness, and his breath heated her throat. His lips found hers, and she arched against him, her mouth moving eagerly to accept his tongue. One hand spread wide over her breast, and even through the blankets her nipples leapt to meet his caress. He pulled down the covers slowly, his tongue leisurely exploring the curves of her lips. She embraced his shoulder with one arm, sliding the other down to find the root of her pleasure. He paused an instant as her hand grasped the shaft of his cock, looking down at her inscrutably. She stared up into his hourglass pupils, wondering what, if anything, this creature thought about during their congress together. She stroked the length of his member, down to its root, and tickled his balls lightly with her fingertips. There was no hair anywhere on his body, and she closed her eyes to savor the velvet of his skin. His free hand rose again from the blankets, up over her knee, across her thigh and smoothly grasped the mound of her sex. She giggled to herself - the last time, not expecting his return, she had not known to go naked to bed. She had learned better. His thick fingers slid down the crack of her pussy, and she spread her legs eagerly. Gripping his cock rhythmically, she stretched up to nibble along his neck. His hand probed deeper. She arched her pelvis up against his palm, begging silently for satisfaction. One of his fingers entered her, and she gasped against his throat. She was astonished anew by the sensation, for his finger alone was as large, it seemed, as any man's cock could be. He began to pump his hand against her, driving his finger in and out. She rocked in response, milking his shaft the while. She whispered to him, not knowing whether he heard, begging him to enter her fully, to let her suck him, all the things she knew would soon come. Orgasm welled up in her, and she shuddered against his chest, pounding her hips against the bed in powerful release.
As she subsided, he shifted, and she moved the hand that gripped his cock to rest both her hands on his head. She knew what was next, and was impatient. Despite her climax, she was not yet tired, though when he left her she knew she would be drained. He slid down over her, but as he did so, she grasped him by his ears, holding him gently still. She knew she could not hold him if he would not be held - her struggles, that first night, might as well have been against the wind for all the effect they had had on him. But he waited, when she stopped him, and she quickly rose up beside him, then turned and fell again on the bed, her feet to the headboard. He stayed still, when she released him, and so she reached out and gently pushed his head toward her dripping cunt. He lowered his face to the curls at her crotch, and dipped his tongue to the well of her juices. She turned her head, and looked up along his thigh to the erection that hung over her. Smiling to herself, she rose up against his leg, and took his balls gently in her mouth. As his tongue entered her pussy she nearly fell back, so powerful was the sensation of his penetration, but she was determined, and leaning on one elbow she gripped his waist with her other arm, holding herself firmly against his hip. She took the end of his cock in her mouth, but realized that she might take no more, it filled her so completely. The driving pulse of his mouth against her cunt was distracting, and she moaned deep in her throat as she ran her tongue around the glistening head of his spear. She pressed her breasts against his belly as he gripped her buttocks and pulled her further open to his searching mouth. She sobbed and rubbed her open mouth frantically along his shaft. As again the waves of orgasm filled her, she wrapped herself tightly around his hips, sucking as much of his cock as she could fit between her wide-stretched lips. Tingling waves rolled over her, she felt buoyed up on the tide, but still, she knew, he was not finished with her. Each time he came and filled her cunt three times, and each time he disappeared without relief himself. She was determined not to let him go without filling her with his cum.
Now he shifted again, pushing up on his mighty arms. She stopped him again, just resting her hand on his back, and sat on her heels beside him. He waited dumbly, and she looked at him a long moment. Then, straightening, she pressed her breast to his lips. He opened his mouth to suckle, and she reached down to again grasp his cock. It was hard as always, unchanging in its nature. She stroked and pressed, trying to find some alteration in his breathing, some sign that she was affecting him, but there was none. He sucked gently at her breast, and she was surprised to find herself pushing him slowly down beside her, never quite disengaging him, but lowering him onto his back on the bed. He traced her nipple with his tongue, his hand coming up to cover her unsuckled breast. She kissed his forehead tenderly, then rose to straddle him. His eyes opened, and he stared up at her. She smiled, and rubbed her pussy firmly over his cock, not yet wanting to hurry the final penetration. Always before he had lain atop her - now she would control the act, and hoped to bring him deep within her soul. He arched a little, seeking to enter her, and she shook her head playfully. Sliding down, she sucked for just a moment, tasting her own juices on his slick skin, then she straightened, and very slowly rose to put just the tip of the pulsing cock into her cunt. He strained, but she rose up with him, not letting him go any further in. "No," she said aloud, "my way this time." He didn't show any sign of understanding, but neither did he attempt to change position. Encouraged, she rocked just enough to push another inch of his shaft into her. As before, the sensation of his prick inside her nearly drove her to instant orgasm, but she opened her eyes, gazed at the moon, and slid fully down onto him. Impaled, she paused a moment, resting her hands on his chest. His own hands came up to grip her hips, and she resisted the temptation to let him guide her motion. She swiveled her hips teasingly, and he once more opened his eyes to regard her. She rocked back, reaching one hand down behind her to tickle his balls, and his entire body gave a shudder. Her eyes widened with delight, and she began to bounce gently against his hips, short swift strokes to help him find his rhythm. He groaned, and she nearly stopped short. Never before had he made any sound. She stared down at him, and his face contorted in counterpoint to the beat of her hips. She rocked more wildly, bending down so her breasts swung against his chest. He groaned again, and she was startled, when she looked at him, to see his face changing - in the darkness it seemed to her that his features were softening, somehow.
She pressed on, driving toward his climax, and was rewarded by his pelvis rising to meet her. He clutched at her buttocks, his fingers splayed into her crack. She rode him frantically, pounding against his cock with determination. His back arched, his hands slid up her back, and she gripped his shoulders with taloned fingers. She pressed her breast to his lips, and he opened his mouth to suck hungrily. The tingling of her nipple communicated directly to her cunt, and she gripped his hair in her hands. Her wild locks swung about her in an invisible wind, and her fangs pierced her lip with burning passion. She scissored her legs to tighten her cunt around him, milking his soul through his need. He cried out, as his cock throbbed and pulsed within her, his climax taking him deep within her. She felt the heat of his sperm filling her, and sucked deeply at the soul he exposed. Her hourglass pupils gleamed in the darkness as the man beneath her wept in surrender. Her wings spread, the succubus disappeared
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The Techie
by Terrie Leigh Relf
tlrelf@cox.net
tar was on the porch smoking a clove and sipping an espresso when the beat-up VW van pulled into her driveway.
What a hottie, she thought, and then hoped he wasn’t selling something that she didn't want to buy.
He glanced at her through the window, nodded after they made eye contact.
After a few minutes of watching him shuffle stuff around in his car, she walked down the steps to meet him.
"Help you with something?"
"I’m Ryan. Mari’s roommate. You need a techie, right?"
"Yeah, but I had no idea she was going to send you!"
"I’m Star," she reached her hand through the window. He surrounded it with his warm hands.
She felt something. A jolt of energy. No, more like an undertow reaching out, tentatively at first, and then with more purpose.
Ryan let go of her hands, grinned. He had a single dimple just to the side of his mouth. It kept him from looking too boyish.
Star stuck her hands in her corduroy pockets, flexed and unflexed them to still the throbbing.
"So, what’s the problem?" Ryan climbed down from his seat, set his bag on the hood of his car ,slammed the door shut. He noticed her hands bunched in the pockets, made a mental note not to rush things. If she got nervous and called Mari, well, that wouldn't be such a good thing.
Then he remembered that Mari wouldn’t be a problem.
"Well, I had a virus, but McAfee seemed to take care of it. Then, I lost all these functions, and my start-up disk won’t work and I can’t access my mail and I have work to do. This is going to cost me big time, isn’t it?"
"Not necessarily. We can work something out. Mari said you needed help. I wasn’t doing anything today. So—"
"So, come on in. Want an espresso?"
"Sure. Point me to your puter. I’ll see what’s going on."
While Star made another pot of espresso, she glanced in Ryan’s direction more than a few times, then punched Mari's number. It wasn’t like her. Mari would have called to say she was sending someone over.
No answer.
"Where'd Mari go?" Star was worried but tried to maintain. She took her hands off her hips, allowed them to rest against her thighs. They twitched to return to the safe haven of her pockets, but she resisted the impulse.
Ryan hesitated. "She said something about going to the mall to exchange something."
"Oh, ok. I just wanted to call to thank her for sending you."
"It's no big. Really. Happy to be of service."
He made a mock salute in her direction. Such exquisite hands. Probably more than a little dexterous. Smooth. Why hadn't Mari ever introduced them before? All she'd ever heard of the roommate was that he was a computer geek, kept to himself.
This guy was nothing like that.
"So, are you are Mari an item?" Star chuckled, raised an eyebrow, hoping she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt.
"Naw. Well, I won't say I wasn't interested. She had—has—this great energy. But the roommate thing. Not the best situation if you get my drift."
"Yeah. You'd suck up each other's energy. No room to breathe. Careful. It's hot."
Star handed him the ceramic mug, handle out. Instead of taking the handle, Ryan cupped his hands around hers, and then slid them around to take hold of the coffee.
"Smells good. Thank you."
"So, what’s wrong with my puter?"
"Trust me?" He peered into her eyes. His were obsidian, luminous, like scrying ponds.
"Looks like you know what you’re doing."
"Ok, then. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Why don’t you sit outside? I can’t believe it’s still winter what with this Santa Ana. I’ll join you in a few."
"Sounds good. I’ll get another chair."
Star rummaged around in the hall closet for a folding chair.
Ryan was already sitting on the porch when she walked outside.
"Done already?"
"It’s loading. We’ve got a while ‘til phase two."
Star set the chair a few inches away from Ryan, sat down, sighed in relief. Ryan was just a great guy. No need to worry. He raised an arm, extended his hand to a point in the sky, but didn’t say anything. She stared at where he pointed. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Clouds and more clouds.
About ten minutes later, Ryan’s watch beeped.
"Let me go check on things. Be right back."
She could hear the wheels swiveling along the wood floor, the clatter of disks, the opening and closing of his satchel. After a few minutes, Star went inside.
"All fixed. You should be ok now. Let me make you another boot-up disk and I’ll leave these recovery disks for you, too." Ryan looked up from the monitor, grinned.
"I really appreciate it. So, how much do I owe you?"
"Let's call it a trade. Mari tells me you’re a great writer. I’d really love to read some of your stuff. I'm a bit of a writer myself, but nowhere near your caliber. You're doing me a favor. Really."
"Mari’s a better writer, but ok, flattery will get you a few places with me. What're you into?"
"Sci-Fi’s good. Horror. Slice of life stuff. I suppose I’m a realist at heart."
Ryan stood, moved over so Star could sit down. She lifted the lid on her current disks case, pulled out a few, stuck them back, then selected another one.
"Here's something I've been working on. I supposed you’d call it slipstream. A bit of horror, a bit of SF/S. It’s about these 30-somethings who work for a SF press. There’s this wild party hosted by one of their funders, and well, let’s just say these so-called investors want something more than their literary talent. It's still a bit raw around the edges, but--"
"You and Mari are so much alike! She said pretty much the same thing this morning just before--Well, let's just say it was pretty tasty stuff."
Ryan pressed against the back of her pink swivel chair, rested a hand on her shoulder.
There it was again. That odd pulsing. Like an electric current.
"Here—you should sit down. It’ll be easier to read."
"Don't tell me you're feeling nervous? Relax." Ryan placed both hands on her shoulders, massaged them a bit before he moved on to her neck. He sighed, and Star wasn’t sure if he was releasing his own tension or giving voice to hers. He moved down to her shoulders, rested his hands there until she shrugged them away.
"Ok, just let me know when you want to scroll to the next page. It's about ten pages."
He was silent. Unbearably so. It was one thing to conceive of these tales, type and send them out, but to have a reader right behind her, a reader whose hands traveled the length of her back then down her arms, tentatively fluttering close to her breasts, was more than a bit unnerving.
But she had to admit it was exciting, too.
"Scroll down, please," his voice just above a whisper.
Star moved the mouse over to the scroll bar, clicked.
The next time he wanted her to scroll down, he placed his hand over hers.
Time passed so slowly, though, that Star wondered if he was reading each page twice. Or maybe he was just a slow reader. It didn't occur to her that he savored each word, rolled it around in his mind, thoroughly tasting it before gathering its essence--and hers.
He pressed against her hand again, trailed his fingers lightly up her arm. Star released the mouse, leaned back in the chair.
The words, "are you finished?" caught in her throat as he curved his arms around hers, his long elegant fingers surrounding the tops of her hands, his thumbs circling her palms, pausing, then pressing against the mounds of Venus.
She shuddered as streams of energy suffused her body, tingling the tips of her fingers, the crown of her head. The words, "you should go now" were only audible in her mind.
As if responding, he leaned closer, whispered what sounded like, "I want all of you," but there was a high-pitched whining in her ears.
If he had kissed her then, she would have let him.
But he didn’t.
She never expected what came next. She would have laughed, called it ludicrous.
Until she realized that she couldn't breathe.
He pressed her head against him, firmly grasped her jaw and neck with those lovely hands. She struggled a bit, then stopped as she became aware of the most exquisite sensation. There was a surge of brilliant, multi-faceted light. She smelled something burning, felt the surface layers of her skin melt then merge into something other than herself, as with one final, fluid motion, Ryan pulled her from the chair and into him.
RETURN TO TOP
Madonna of the Mosque
by Guillermo Bosch
bosch@guillermobosch.com
oung Madonna of the mosque
Allah's child hidden
behind your torn book, protected
from my lust inflamed
by your bare ankle,
your naked wrist...
I cannot speak,
nor even dream of
a kiss from those
rose red lips, nor dare
to pull that flowered scarf
away and let your unbound
waves of dark hair fall
out along my arms which
lift you up, then lay
you down upon this
multi-colored, woven rug
where I, in silent adoration,
kneel before your golden
thighs...and in your sighs, I
hear the muezzin's call to
prayer before this temple
where I tremble in delirious
anticipation while the dying
sun descends behind
gray forbidden mountains
and fierce desert winds bend
over bare willow trees spread
out along this dusty river
road we follow together
toward a green oasis where I
touch the Evening Star and you
lie focused on a rising Crescent Moon.
RETURN TO TOP
The Pink Oboe of Vietnam
by Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com
Pleiku, Vietnam 1967-1968
 ink Oboes are dangerous
fuckers you know, the old
whore said as she laughed
at the storms of Joes
star gazing war maps
of semen on her chin.
1. New Year 2000
Midnight came, year
2000 born again alive.
1967 is not too far away.
Did you know Vietnamese call
Vietnam Conflict, American war?
2.
I helped small women lift legs
to birth infants invisible
in the petals of river gray
to roam by mouth of tide
what Ho Chi Minh became.
We are mankind cruel
Hobbes said without
rite of poems struck
in the fuck of wind.
I want human innocence
for steps backward out
of the bush in country
In Nam, what could Blake
or Joyce say, but I carried
Emily she confessed while
the slicks made green air
into toast and orange sky.
How bizarre loving napalm
burning morning when actors
shrieks became scabs &
preamble to pink oboe
I played strumming DEROS
watching motion of lover palm
gathering neck to strum
the blessing of her mouth with
thick soup of mortal remains.
3.
Why is time travel neither
mechanical nor spiritual
drawn in mouth to suckle
reeds, when plucked,
we fondle mystical lamb
4.
On worst night,
angel said, "play oboe".
You will ride safe,
pink sky above canopy.
"Show oboe life,"
she played
when Bach's
Mass screams:
thighs tighten
twinned pink vulva
in nape of waves
balanced mouth to
tongue bitten.
All midnight alert
when jet bang bang
tarmac at Travis Base,
I stood in aisle
beating pink oboe
made hard playing
Jazz trombone.
Yes, invisible mad --
almost discovered;
no one noticed
We were in the world
when we sang the
doors were dead
5.
Here again, home
in '74 Focus Club,
legs entwined
pink oboe and Devine
drank cups of blood
to bless pink flamingo
MOVIETONE news.
This is what I thought
when I danced apart
my Nam fucking steam
bath tiny women as children;
beaten we were welts
drawn weapons ready.
Death lips, cocks, .45
pursed to pink oboe rushed
up stairs, lover collapsed
near eye of open sling
door gunner shot from hip
death is one final pink
bloody come with shit
dragged away dear
body bags zipped
with ark burning concrete
wilderness in bulge of
dark 55 gallon drums.
Playing oboe again,
only nightmares noticed.
I am bone with rib fingers
to twirl reeds consume
breast milk drawn down
to heal wounds that
are psalm as her warm
hand cuddled thighs
we suckled jazz of jizz
on the day before again
Logic was tease of sex
with bang genesis born
not with Adam and Eve
but Lilith dangled
pink oboe steals infants
from jungle mangers.
6.
I am not crazy. Pink oboes
live inside the clouds when
Huey sank in peaceful ponds
outside last LZ rising on
tree-line we drew thousand
round or was it drum of God
that beat us company
when yes and no were not true,
I am not dead, I came
with pink oboes tiny girls
in marble frieze in baths
making bloody emblems:
not so bad "America,"
she said. Boom-boom
good for GI pay #1 girl"
to know end of earth
I delivered her child
three months
before she held
my head in her arms
I felt the depth of cunt
like reaching for the
arms of children who
had died once before.
Breached. I pulled boy
live with tender orgasm
as she came again,
she said for real, my son
lives over and over as
she swallowed my head
and I was born in my
own hands upon
my own field.
"My son will kill your death
GI you walk back again,
kill your name and make it new."
I love deathly blood drawn
from wells of floods and rivers
where dangerous music
strikes up the fucken band --
Sgt., you are last hero,
pound your oboe again.
Do you remember how
as children we gather hearts
and minds in paper bags
blowing coke and old opium
for sweet seeds as Circe
in a mirage of grunts
humped bliss when
chicken hawks staggered
for last steps and kingdom come.
I swear this: I have no maps,
no papers to prove devil
white horizon where circles
of dominoes appeased
monuments in DC and
Wailing Wall. No excuse
Sir, my oboe stopped.
With no ceremony
Priest blesses wooden
cross to cut orders
home for the truly dead.
7. EPILOG
Sex & Death & Sex Again
Eve Came and land
was filled and never
empty as rest
was after 7th day
when she made God
fuck all night. He did,
and she did, sharing
holes equipment.
Just like the pink oboe,
love is an after-thought.
I love America for its
sinkholes. Irony leaps;
Flags steal madness
with infants delivered
in a hooch or upon
GI blankets with jungle guns.
Now green rice and
blue sky of Nam are
healed. Was the
pink oboe wrong?
Is that boy alive?
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© 2003 by guillermobosch.com