Treat yourself or someone you love to two great reads …

“Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo” modernizes the concept of the biography away from Boswellian “every ladder rung is vital” structure, and straight to “the good and meaningful stuff — that defines who a person is … and why.”

BOOK DESCRIPTION:

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With laser-like precision, Adam Donaldson Powell bores into Albert Russo’s psyche, while in parallel he analyzes the work of a lifetime. But more often than not, there is a process of cross-fertilization, whether it is clearly identified or on the sidelines. He interviews his subject, not always in a linear fashion, scanning the latter’s important stages of life: there is first Central, Eastern – the former Belgian Congo (now, DRCongo), Ruanda-Urundi (now, the two countries of Rwanda and Burundi) and Southern Africa – Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) and South Africa, where the author was raised, completing high school at the Interracial Athénée of Usumbura (now Bujumbura), studying with European, Congolese, Hutu, Tutsi, Asian and American classmates, both in French and in English (he also went to an all-boys’ school in Salisbury, now called Harare). We then find him in the Big Apple at the age of seventeen, attending New York University, after which, he pursues his studies in German at the Collegium Platinum in Heidelberg. The subject is asked very intimate questions about his private life, with which he is faced for the first time. And he reveals facts he never thought could one day be thrust into the open. But still, he complies, candidly. Mr. Powell illustrates with excerpts of the author’s novels, poems and short stories, which are all either clearly or subconsciously related to Albert Russo’s life, as well as photos, letters and book reviews from Albert Russo’s personal archives. Mentioned are his AFRICAN QUATUOR, the collected poems in the CROWDED WORLD OF SOLITUDE, volume two, his collected stories and essays in the CROWDED WORLD OF SOLITUDE, volume one, and finally, his GOSH ZAPINETTE! series, of which David Alexander writes: “… Be warned, Zapinette’s gems of insouciant wit tend to become infectious. This wise-child’s deceptively worldly innocence takes the entire gamut of human endeavor in its compass. Hardly anyone or anything escapes unscathed. Michael Jackson,Vittorio de Sica, Freddy Mercury, Mao Zedong, Bill and Hill, the Pope, Fidel Castro, and even Jesus of Nazareth all come under Zapinette’s delightfully zany fire as she “zaps” from topic to topic in an irrepressible flux. As the century of the double zeros is with us, we have seen the future and the future is sham. As a healthy dose of counter-sham, Zapinette should be on every brain-functional person’s reading list.” After America, the subject moves to Northern Italy where he will reside nine years, then to Brussels. He spends half of his life in Paris, France, before finally settling in Tel Aviv Israel. When asked what his roots are, he replies that he is a humanist born in Africa, with his virtual roots being the languages which he speaks: English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, vernacular Swahili, as well as those he can only read: Portuguese and Dutch. He will soon add Hebrew. Those cherished languages are much more than forms of speech, they are his planet, from which he extracts much of the sap of his writing. So, don’t be shy. Get Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo. See order details HERE!

originals of letters + journals re AR 1

DO WATCH ‪”The Age of the Pearl”, extracted from my new biography “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo”

READER COMMENTS … regarding UNDER THE SHIRTTAILS of ALBERT RUSSO:

UNDER THE SHIRTTAILS of ALBERT RUSSO ‘can perhaps be likened to skipping a small rock across a pond – creating ripples and reverberations which both reflect the greater omnipotence of the water and temporarily alter its periphery and identity.’ Such is Adam Donaldson Powell the master weaver behind the literary tapestry that is the life & times with a view into poems, novels and picture gallery of one brilliant international award-winning multilingual poet, novelist, essayist, historian and photographer – Albert Russo – a man with a claim to no country yet a citizen of many soils – in his sensitively scripted yet profoundly penetrating work unveiled as ‘an alternative biography’.

— Jeanette Skirvin

This biography crowns five decades of my father’s very prolific writing. Both my brother Alex and myself are immensely proud of our father’s literary achievement. From his very deep insights on the history of Africa, to the birth and struggles of the Israeli state, his poems and immensely entertaining short stories, humorous novels for teenagers, short stories covering the complexities of human nature, there isn’t one topic that my father hasn’t masterfully addressed in his writings.

— Tatiana Russo

We have the pleasure to see all the beauties of literature, poetry and photography of Albert Russo in Adam Donaldson Powell’s brilliant and memorable book “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo”. Russo’s profound and well-ordered imagination helps him to create great works of literature. Russo never writes his great poems and novels according to any mechanic rule. He has perfected his writings due to “the existential qualm for which my heritage is responsible: Africa, Judaism and Italy. They exist and coexist in cycles, in a fashion so inchoate that I am never quite sure which will take the upper hand.” Powell, the immortal poet famous for his classic “Three-legged Waltz”, points out that Russo “began life as an outsider; the offspring of refugees to Africa from Nazi and fascist persecution then became an outcast via his self-proclaimed ‘gaytude’.” No doubt, this fact has provided the perfection of tone in all his creative endeavors, and this will certainly entice all readers. The true essence of Russo’s writings and photography is revealed by Powell in this unique book. Adam Donaldson Powell’s latest powerful book “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo” is a tour de force in biography and literary criticism.

— Dr. Santosh Kumar, Editor, Cyberwit.net

​To avoid any doubts or confusion, this book by Adam Donaldson Powell is NOT just a biography of the life of Albert Russo, nor is it a synoptic overview of his massive and prolific collection of works of prose, poetry, and photography. This book is something far more than either of these literary vehicles could ever be. Through literally decades of conversations, correspondence, and collaboration between these two very talented authors/artists, Adam Powell gives us a glimpse into not only the very diverse heritage and globe-trotting life and experiences of Albert Russo, but also a glimpse into his very psyche and incredible intellect. In other words, this book lays bare for the world to see what makes Albert Russo one of the few true renaissance men of our times. Russo’s collection of works bridges gulfs of heritage, culture, philosophy, and more – often with more than a hint of his sometimes quirky and off-beat sense of humor. For anyone who has ever read and enjoyed ANY of Russo’s works, this book is a must-read to fully understand the man behind the true art of his words, ideas, and imagery.

​– J. Richard Davis, B.A., J.D.

 

Adam Donaldson Powell, author

 

 

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Review of Adam Donaldson Powell’s book “Entre Nous et Eux”, by C. Richard Mathews, USA.

Adam Donaldson Powell’s new collection of works, Entre Nous et Eux, displays his multiple talents and concerns in a series of brilliant and engaging pieces. Powell is an activist, essayist, fiction writer, visual artist, poet, who writes in four languages, though English is the predominant one in this volume and an inability to read French, Norwegian or Spanish will not detract from a reader’s understanding and appreciation of any of the pieces.

The book is divided into four sections: poetry, a novella titled “Entre Nous”, a short story titled “Death Poem” and another, longer novella called “The Stalker”. While the works deal with many themes, the overriding one for this reader was the issue of how societal and political forces affect — often adversely — an individual’s development, sometimes to the point that she or he does not or cannot understand or accept who she/he is. A major factor in this, it is suggested, is the inability of others in her/his family and in greater society to respect and accept a person’s differences (the “other”).

The book begins with Powell’s great strength: his poetry. Interestingly, in the three works of fiction poems appear as well. In both the stand-alone poetry and the fiction, poems allow Powell to focus the reader’s attention immediately on his themes and concerns. The first group of poems involves children in a presumably Western European (Parisian?) context and their shock at how the world interacts with their innocence: a child playing hopscotch confronting a pedophile, a young girl taunted because she has “two mothers”, a young hijab-wearing Muslim girl also subject to jibes, problems for a child of “color”, a presumably Muslim boy’s trauma at the hands of police after talking of ISIS, the treatment of gypsies and their plight and ostracism, the shock of exploding bombs in an unnamed war zone.

Although much of the poetry deals with “social issues” in one sense or the other, there are purely lyrical moments as well, such as the poem “Jeux d’Eau”.

At a number of points the issue of suicide is introduced: the inability of the characters to accept themselves or others’ perceptions of them. Thus, in the first novella, “Entre Nous.”, a friend of one of the main characters dies of an overdose (deliberate?) days after they’ve had sex with each other. And the beautiful short story “Death Poem”, concerning two young Japanese men, involves the presumed suicide of a father over his son’s homosexuality, and the son’s own subsequent suicide himself. As noted above, the use of poetry, and references to poetry, permeate Powell’s fiction writing and in this moving story he introduces us to a specific Japanese form of poetry relevant to the taking of one’s life.

Both novellas involve casts of characters that are followed through some years of their lives. “Entre Nous.” is presented partially in an epistolary form. The story involves the interaction of several gay friends and various sexual escapades in a number of Western cities — Paris, London, New York — that the author is obviously familiar with. As in some of the poetry, especially the collection of interlocking erotic poems “tu sais je vais….t’enculer (love letters)”, the writing about sex is explicitly detailed, a means for the author to “épater la bourgeoisie” in the mode of Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Genet and other French writers. Their cumulative effect is, ultimately, powerful and meaningful. These passages are part of his subtle analysis throughout of various types of love and physical and emotional attraction.

The second, longer novella, “The Stalker”, concerns a young woman and her lover, a transgender man who, at one point discovers that he may be “a lesbian in a man’s body” (294). The overriding theme is one of identity — despite society’s pressures, finding it or creating it and then having the flexibility to change it or allow it to modulate as circumstances and feelings may urge or dictate.

The reader should not miss the great amount of humor and wit, and pure literary pleasure, in Powell’s writing which, as in Proust, may be overlooked if one focuses merely on “the story line” or themes. Be ready for a wonderful turn-of-phrase, or the startling juxtaposition of images. For example, in “Une Lettre d’Une Prostitue…” the letter writer states, “J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans le peau de quelqun d’autre…” Or, “mots doux et traitres a la fois…” (37). Or: “lips part revealing your lizard tongue” (63). Or: “blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape” (55). Or: “the relentless fantasy is more than the sum of reality’s individual parts”. (78)

Especially delightful are the “echoes” one finds between different parts of the works through the use of literary devices similar to Wagner’s leitmotifs. Thus, there is a reference early in “Entre Nous.” to Donald O’Connor and Marilyn Monroe singing “a man chases a girl (until she catches him)” and then much later the reader comes upon a scene of Karol/Mariusz showing his poetry to a closeted priest in which he has written “I delight in chasing straight boys until they catch me” (172).

It should be noted that in both his poetry and fiction Powell’s writing style is clear and precise without being pedestrian or boring. It is a style that is able to draw in and engage the reader quietly and without showiness, leaving one with a sense of pleasure, even when the subjects at hand are very serious ones.

Powell’s book is highly recommended for its many pure literary pleasures but also for its profound insights into aspects of modern life that are often obfuscated or ignored by other writers and media in our contemporary world oversaturated with often meaningless written and visual distractions.

C. Richard Mathews
New York-based art historian, writer and attorney

Recension du recueil ‘Entre Nous et Eux’ de Adam Donaldson Powell,

Le nouveau recueil de Adam Donaldson Powell intitulé Entre Nous et Eux reflète les talents multiples de l’auteur et comprend une série de textes aussi brillants que jubilatoires. Powell, l’activiste, est à la fois écrivain, poète, essayiste, peintre et photographe.  En outre, il écrit en anglais, sa langue maternelle, mais également en français, en norvégien et en espagnol.  Le lecteur découvrira dans ce volume des textes dans ces quatre langues, ce qui, dans notre monde hyper-connecté est encore une rareté, mais en même temps une grande richesse.

Ce volume est divisé en quatre parties: Poésie, une nouvelle intitulée “Death Poem”, et deux courts romans portant les titres suivants: “Entre Nous” et “The Stalker”.

Alors que ces textes évoquent de nombreux thèmes, le fil conducteur est celui des effets de la société et de la politique sur le développement de l’individu, au point où celui-ci ne comprend plus ou n’accepte tout simplement pas qui il est ou ce qu’il risque de devenir.  L’auteur suggère que les autres, c’est-à-dire, sa famille ou la société dans laquelle il évolue, est inapte à respecter, voire à accepter sa différence.

Le livre a pour prémices la poésie de Powell, poésie dans laquelle il excelle. Ses textes de fiction sont eux aussi parsemés de poèmes, plus ou moins longs. Les premiers poèmes traitent de l’enfance ayant pour cadre une capitale européenne, qui pourrait être Paris.  Et des conséquences, insidieuses ou cruelles, que le monde alentour peut avoir sur eux. Voyez cette gosse jouant à la marelle et qui s’éloigne précautionneusement d’un pédophile, cette autre que l’on moque parce qu’elle a ‘deux mères’, ou cette jeune musulmane malmenée à cause du hijab qu’elle porte. Que dire aussi de ce garçon basané que la police menotte dès qu’il prononce le mot Daesch, du traitement odieux que subissent les gitans, de leur ostracisme. L’auteur évoque également le choc que produisent les bombes explosant dans des zones de guerre.

Tandis que nombreux sont les poèmes traitant de problèmes de société, ils possèdent tous cette touche lyrique si propre à Powell. ‘Jeux d’Eau’ en est un parfait exemple.

La problématique du suicide apparaît ci et là: certains personnages ont du mal à s’accepter, d’autant plus lorsque leur entourage les rejette.

Ainsi, dans le premier roman, ‘Entre Nous’, l’ami de l’un des protagonistes meurt à la suite d’une overdose (peut-être délibérément), quelques jours après que les deux ont fait l’amour ensemble.

Dans la magnifique nouvelle ‘Death Poem’, qui met en scène deux jeunes hommes japonais, le père de l’un d’eux se suicide, apparemment à cause de l’homosexualité de son fils, lequel à son tour met fin à ses jours. Que ce soit dans ses textes de fiction ou dans sa poésie, Powell évoque le suicide en utilisant des éléments particuliers de la poésie japonaise. Y percevrait-on l’ombre de Mishima ?

Les deux romans mettent en scène des protagonistes sur des tranches de vie. ‘Entre Nous’ est raconté en partie sous forme épistolaire. On y parle d’amis gays, de leur interaction, de leurs expériences sexuelles vécues dans certaines grandes villes occidentales, telles que Paris, Londres ou New York, villes que l’auteur connaît bien. Powell, n’ayant pas froid aux yeux, n’hésite pas à écrire des ‘lettres d’amour’ contenant des mots crus, comme par exemple: “tu sais je vais….t’enculer”. Et cela pour ‘épater la galerie’, à l’instar de Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine – qui, à l’époque écrivaient sous des pseudonymes -, Genet, ainsi que d’autres écrivains français. Mais là, il ne s’agit pas uniquement de subterfuges, ces vers érotiques, voire pornographiques, participent de l’analyse subtile de ce qui constitue l’amour pluriel, qu’il s’agisse de la simple attraction physique et/ou des émotions qui peuvent en découler.

Le second roman, ‘The Stalker’, qui est plus long que l’autre, est l’histoire d’une jeune femme et de son amant, un homme trans-genre, qui se demande s’il peut être “une lesbienne dans le corps d’un homme”. Le thème principal ici est celui de l’identité qui, envers et contre tout, tente de s’affirmer et de trouver un équilibre.

Malgré la gravité des sujets abordés, le lecteur pourra apprécier, tout au long du volume, la veine humoristique et spirituelle de l’auteur, à l’instar d’un Proust qui se ‘moque’ gentiment de certains de ses personnages. Powell joue avec les mots et s’amuse à juxtaposer des images, comme dans ‘La lettre d’une prostituée’, où l’auteur écrit: “J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans la peau de quelqu’un d’autre…”, ou encore, “mots doux et traitres à la fois…”. D’autres  exemples me viennent à l’esprit, tels que “lips part revealing your lizard tongue” , ”blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape”, ou encore, ”the relentless fantasy is more than the sum of reality’s individual parts”.

L’on trouve des passages particulièrement jouissifs tout au long de cette oeuvre si singulière, rappelant les leitmotifs de Wagner. L’un des personnages écoute un ancien vinyle de Donald O’Connor et de Marilyn Monroe chantant “a man chases a girl (until she catches him)”. Plus loin, il y a une scène dans laquelle Karol/Mariusz montre l’un de ses poèmes à un prêtre, où il écrit: “I delight in chasing straight boys until they catch me”.

Dans ce livre, qu’il s’agisse de poésie ou de prose, le style est clair, précis, et à la fois engageant, sans jamais être pompeux, même lorsque l’auteur traite de sujets graves.

Cette oeuvre mérite d’être lue pour diverses raisons. D’abord pour la belle phrase, un plaisir purement littéraire, ensuite parce que Powell aborde ici des thèmes de notre société contemporaine qui souvent sont, soit ignorés par d’autres écrivains et les média, soit négligés en raison de la quantité phénoménale de distractions vaines, aussi bien pseudo-littéraires que visuelles, que l’on nous bombarde quotidiennement.

C. Richard Mathews, historien de l’art, écrivain et avocat new yorkais

ORDER “ENTRE NOUS ET EUX” (PAPERBACK & EBOOK) HERE!


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Taboo: In this moment.

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IN THIS MOMENT.

In this moment, I do not care
about gay liberation, gay rights
or gay-normalization in society.

In this moment, I only want you to:

Kiss my lips, lick lustfully inside my mouth
… and feel the shame.

Suck my cock, repeatedly, and in its entirety …
and feel the shame.

Prostrate yourself, brace yourself, open your crevice …
and feel the shame.

Crave and savour my offering …
and feel the shame.

In this moment, I will truly love you.

And after this moment …
I will gratefully send you back to your husband or wife;
knowing that you will be back — accepting my love;
yet again, and again.

image

… say what?!!
I cannot save the world, or
solve your relationship problems.
But if you go down on me —
yeah, like that! —

well, maybe then,
we can save the moment.

You … and me — together.

Do it … just fucking DO IT!

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Tales of sex, submission and bondage (xxx-rated).

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Vous beurrez vos tartines des deux côtés ?

Bonjour, Monsieur (mon beau mec):

Si vous voulez me baiser,
vous devriez le faire.

Si vous voulez me sucer,
vous devriez le faire.

Si vous voulez m’enculer,
vous devriez le faire.

Et puis …
je vais vous emmener dans un voyage
que vous n’oublierez jamais.

Vous beurrez vos tartines des deux côtés ?

MY STRANGER … SO SWEET.

So sweet
are your suggested promises.
My stranger.
My unobtainable
moment of passion.
You coax me;
you cast me aside.
We can only have each other
in our leap-frog dreams:
both out-of-sync and yet
totally — oh so totally …
in syncopation.
The relentless fantasy is more
than the sum of reality’s
individual parts.
I see you everywhere;
in the gait of strangers …
in my memories.
Beginning from the
waist down …
easing toward the toes
and then quickly
darting upwards
to a fleeting and
indiscriminate
photographic flash
of your insignificant face.
My stranger.
My passion.
My stranger …
So sweet.

(French version)

Si douces
sont tes promesses suggérées.
Mon étranger.
Mon inaccessible
moment de passion.
Tu me cajoles ;
tu me rejettes.
Nous ne pouvons
nous posséder
que dans des rêves fugitifs :
tous deux si différents
si totalement autres
et pourtant …
si merveilleusement
en harmonie.
L’implacable fantasme
est plus que la somme
des parts de réalité.
Je te vois partout ;
dans les pas des étrangers …
dans mes souvenirs.
Glissant depuis la taille,
lentement, jusqu’aux orteils
puis, avec la violence d’un éclair
l’on remonte, tout en haut,
pour ensuite
découvrir ton visage
insignifiant.
Mon étranger.
Ma passion.
Mon étranger …
Si doux.

DIRTY TALK.

Dirty talking shadows in
dimly-lit smoke-filled bars
stir restless gonads to
suggestion, proposition
and sweet, nasty lies.
The scent of body sweat
mingles with department store
perfume like oil and water,
leather and silk —
unlikely, yet strangely magnetic.
Oh yeah …
I love the way the lie
exuding from your posing stance
binds my wrists and genitals
pulling me to my knees,
demanding nameless submission.
Across the distance we begin a
sultry dance of anonymous flirtation:
I turn to catch your stare,
you look away;
my eyes drop to my cocktail,
yours slowly scan my torso and loins.
I acknowledge with a smile and you
walk away because I broke the rules,
was too eager to collude fantasy
with reality and was, therefore, unsafe.
You feign indifference as you watch me
leave with another two hours later.
And I’m already half-spent as
I prepare to torpedo our dirty talk
into the bowels of my compromise.

Je veux un amant.

Je veux un amant, un vrai …
et je le veux maintenant.
Comme Arthur Rimbaud … ou Jean Genet.
Non pas comme ces mauviettes
qui ont parsemé ma jeunesse :
l’oncle qui m’avait convaincu que j’étais
une ‘tapette’, un ‘gogo bizarre’,
avant que je n’apprenne
ce qu’était la baise ;
et cet enfoiré qui m’a violé
dans la maison de sa mère — m’obligeant
à tenir ma langue de peur qu’elle ne se réveille
et appelle la police … pour me coffrer, ou pire.
Ou bien encore cette ‘folle’ sadomaso qui
possédait tout un attirail de jouets sexuels
et de godes en caoutchouc,
mais qui se fâcha lorsque je me mis à rire
parce qu’elle ne pouvait plus bander … normalement.
Je veux un amant, un vrai ;
qui puisse me sucer et m’enculer
et me prendre comme un ‘homme’.
Je veux un amant, un vrai … qui soit
tout ce qu’il dit être ; et qui s’en ficherait
que l’on apprenne qu’il aime un autre homme.
Je veux un amant, un vrai …
Comme Arthur Rimbaud … ou Jean Genet.
Et je le veux maintenant.

je vais juste t’enculer …

there is no other way
out of this predicament.
the constant tumescence
is almost unmanageable.
everywhere I am,
everything I do –
I think about you …
and, well, you know what.

je vais juste t’enculer …

my biggest fear is that
my unyielding obsession
will become chronic,
and perhaps even terminal.
in the former case,
even having you as a live-in lover
would not be enough.
no, I need to feel your absence,
envision you from a distance
and hunt you down mercilessly …
again and again, forcing you
to submit to the inevitable.

je vais juste t’enculer …

I will stalk you even after death;
and we – two sultry glowing balls of light –
will dance a passionate bolero
with seductive pauses every now and then,
perhaps a bit of love-making and brazen flirting …
but, of course, most of all:
je vais juste t’enculer.

tu sais : je vais juste t’enculer …

Affamé comme un loup.

j’ai attendu pendant quinze ans.
je n’ai pas été célibataire
et je n’ai pas été seul
ou solitaire.
mais j’ai attendu ce moment
pendant longtemps.

tout ce temps,
j’ai dîné sur rien de plus que
mes fantasmes et
les rêves —
de toi et moi.

et maintenant,
je suis affamé …

oui, affamé
comme un loup.

tus labios.

tus labios …
tus labios.
me dan los sueños
de la mamada perfecta.
¡delicioso!
¡ay! ¡que rico!
¡que rico es!

analingus.

analingus.
squirming,
moaning,
gasping;
tongue darting
in and out,
like a cat
licking ice cream.
it tickles.
it pleases.
you scream.
you are ready;
here i cum.

jeg kommer til å knulle deg.

jeg kommer til å knulle deg …
du får bare holde på —
men jeg skal nok knulle deg.

tongue.

there is only one tongue that excites me
more than your tongue …
yes, my own tongue licking,
slurping,
drooling
slime and spittle
all over your body.
like a predator of the night,
i will soon conquer you
and render your primary defences
quite useless.
you will beg me
to possess you.

kiss me, mother fucker.
KISS ME!

embrasse ma fleur …
maintenant !

fetish.

while i love rubber,
leather,
sadomasochism,
role-play,
water sports,
and much more …
i only have one
dominant fetish,
and only one
driving passion:
oui, c’est toi.

c’est toi.

As-tu faim ?

(cum to me soon.
i have something for you.)

As-tu faim ?

qu’est-ce que tu veux que je fasse ?

no poetry tonight.

no … no poetry tonight.
no romance,
no candlelight,
and no lube.
no persian carpet
under your knees
and no condom.
shhhhh!!!
shut the fuck up
and look at me.
seduce me,
and worship me
with your eyes.
stop!
I did not give you
permission to fellate me.
not yet.
open your mouth and
receive my spit.
do your constraints hurt?
good! are you ready
for the second course?
it will be a warm meal …
a golden antipasto.
yes, I know what you want …
but it is teaching discipline
that truly turns me on.

now … show me those
hungry eyes and pouting lips.
open wide and gag …

you are beautiful.

you are mine — in this moment.

barriers and scruples.

it usually starts
with the tongue …
kissing,
darting,
plunging,
ravishing …
deep.
deep inside
your man-cunt,
your flower,
your barricades.
it is just foreplay.
we both know
that my cock
will soon overwhelm
your man-pussy.

i like it when
you pretend to
have barriers
and scruples,
only to have them
whittled away
with each thrust
followed by a
multitude
of moans.

pretend to resist me!

the reward will be
that much greater.

get it up!

romance is cool,
but in its time and place.
right now I need you to
get it up.

get it up,
get it up,
get it up.

sling.

love in a sling is
not always lovemaking, but
sometimes a great fuck.

maricon.

coño … maricon …
which expletive deleted
turns you on the most?

tell me …
I need to know.

I will taunt you with it
until you shut me up,
and relinquish your unbridled
sex upon me — uncontrollably.

I am not really a “nasty pig” …
I am just a little naughty;
and perhaps very horny
… for you …
right here, and now.


¡hazlo, maricon! ¡hazlo bien!

Mon beau mec …

Mon beau mec:

Je veux vous rendre enceint.
Je sais que c’est impossible,
mais quel plaisir d’essayer …
encore et encore.

Monsieur…

Monsieur,

Je ne peux vous promettre
que je serai capable
de garder mes mains, ma bouche
ni aucun membre,
ni le reste de mon corps
hors de votre portée –
quand nous nous rencontrerons
enfin à nouveau …
après toutes ces années;
après ces années de rêve,
où j’ai revécu, fantasmé
des moments qui auraient pu être …
Nous n’avons jamais vraiment été seuls
l’un envers l’autre, sauf dans
ces rêves et ces fantasmes.
Je vous ai fait mien tant de fois;
dans la perfection et l’imperfection.
Je ne peux éteindre le feu, l’attraction,
la fascination de la séduction, en dépit de
la fatalité que cela ne puisse être.
Je n’ai cure que vous ayez une relation
avec quelque autre partenaire,
épouse, mari, cocu … que ce soit.
Je sais que mon inextinguible, inassouvie,
passion pour l’aventure d’un moment ensemble
avec vous, peut être un moment éternel,
sans commencement ni fin.
Il y a tellement de choses à dire,
tant de façons de faire l’amour,
tant de silence partagé, à savourer …
et mes roses affamées de soleil
cette envie d’être fécondé par votre sperme.
Je brûle de redécouvrir le lagon bleu
voguant sur ma lente chaloupe,
pénétrant votre grotte majestueuse
avec cette fougue, cette envie irrésisitible
qui est pure poésie de la chair.

Vous savez bien à qui j’adresse cette supplique.

A vous, bien entendu …

(English version)

You know who I am writing to, Sir …
Yeah – to you.

I cannot promise you
that I will be capable
of keeping my hands, mouth
and other limbs and appendages
off of you – when we finally again meet …
after all of these years;
after years of dreaming, reliving and exaggerating
moments that could have been …
in other circumstances.
We have never really been alone
unto ourselves, except in my
dreams and fantasies.
I have had you so many times;
in perfection and imperfect perfection.
I cannot extinguish the fire, the attraction,
the fascination of seduction in spite of
the possible fatality of ultimate attainment.
I no longer care if you have a relationship
with another partner, wife, husband, cuckold …
I only know my ever-burning – yet unfulfilled —
passion for a moment’s adventure together
with you; perhaps an eternal moment,
without beginning or ending.
There is so much to talk about, so many
ways to make love, so much shared silence
to savor … and my sun-hungry roses
crave fertilization by your semen.
And I – I hope to rediscover the blue lagoon
in my quiet rowboat, penetrating your
majestic grottos with the utmost painterly
and poetic indiscretion.

You know who I am writing to …
Yeah – to you.

sueños errantes.

¡Fuerza!
El amor.
¡Fuerza!
El sexo.
¡Fuerza!
Las mentiras.
Y tal vez te encuentre
en mis sueños errantes.

(French version)

Vive
l’amour !
Vive
le sexe !
Vive
le mensonge !
Peut-être t’ai-je rencontré
dans l’errance de mes rêves.

thick as yoghurt.

ciel couvert, couleur crème
épais comme le yaourt,
qui me rappelle
toi … et moi …
et aussi …
tu sais quoi …

(English version)

creamy overcast skies,
thick as yoghurt,
remind me of
you … and me …
and …
well, you know …

blade.

our dance is ritual;
a senseless obsession
between two moths
playing with fire.
no chains, no whips.
just bondage … and the
ever-sweet consequence of
a sabre’s cutting edge.

(French version)

notre danse est un rituel ;
une obsession insensée
entre deux papillons de nuit
jouant avec le feu.
ni chaînes, ni fouet.
juste une attache …
et les douces conséquences
de la lame tranchante d’un sabre.

reeking of hormones.

the man of my dreams:
sweaty, reeking of hormones,
sex-adventurous.

in hot pursuit.

i am allergic
to all your perfumes,
except the natural one
you keep attempting
to cover up.
i love it when
you start to
break out
into a sweat.
your hormones
scent the jungle
for miles around.
and i feverishly
swing from tree to tree,
in hot pursuit.

and…

and …
i am almost immune to your
whimpering and squealing.
it is background music …

and …
i continue to fuck you
quite hard —
all the while, rather oblivious
to your screams, contortions and gasps.
when your hysteria reaches a certain point
i stuff my jock strap into your mouth and
intensify my pillage of your quivering asshole.

and …
you beg for more, and more.
deeper, and harder.
at that moment,
i know that i am in love …
at least in this very instant.

and …
as your barricades tighten
one last time
before final surrender
i join in with
a haunting orgasmic
scream of my own.

then, shortly …
there is no more ‘and’;
only silence,
sweat,
and sperm —
everywhere.

amaryllisatnight