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We’ve got a black underworld rising here,
and it will follow the moon and her shroud of the night,
while we fill your soul as the sky darkens.

Power feels good when it takes over, it makes you shiver and moan…

It’s so much better than sex,
just like the hunt,
the bite,
until it falls still,
and you’re left shivering in the dark
with all the deadly pleasure nerves can give you.

It’s like seeing the world in twenty-four dimensions.

It’s like hearing your lover whimper your name
with their flesh pressed against yours.

Or hearing them scream.
In pain or pleasure, it doesn’t matter, it’s animal.

It’s like knowing you’re the one and only,
the last one there,
and you can rule the world,
if you just ask for it.

It’s a simple thing to get and a simple thing to have,
but when it destroys you,
it’s so hard to get rid of.

You can fight it and it’ll always be there in the morning,
the pounding headache
and the deep seated self-hatred,
and the body lying beside you, shuddering with heartbroken sobs.

You learn not to remember their names.

You eventually stop counting.

And then,




Old Poem


Somewhere far and cold and wide

Vast and seemingly inbetween

Point A and point B,

You and me,

Elsewhere above it all.

Find me, hide me,

Loosely, languishing on the kitchen floor,

Lost in kisses.

Locked lips in haste, this nowhere place,

Where we forgot what came before.

Tongues and gazes and the flight

Of alabaster rose, nipples that float beyond

Me, high, limitlessly adrift,

As you reach above, laughing,

Dusted with paint and with flour.

I gentle your hips with caresses, these murmurs,

Words with nothing but love in their teeth.

The river of your spine, the forest of your ribs,

These valleys and caves, yet unexplored,

Imploring, demanding, wet like wax,

Like your eyes of emerald and skin of gold.

I think I love, I dream,

I fall to earth euphoric.

Icarus and Midas


Her skin tastes like salt.

My tongue points behind my lips and as I bend my head to place another delicate kiss along the sharp edge of her hip, that dainty place between thigh and belly, I can taste her; clammy and smooth and salted like a fish. Her legs twitch slightly under my hands and the faintest of giggles erupts from her cherry-flushed lips. She sighs with relief. I smile. My fingers pull a cup of ocean up along her ankle, right up her calf to her knee, letting it slip back into the vast abyss in tiny transparent rivulets.

Under the stars she shimmers, all bald head and gracefully bony body, a delicious nakedness that has nothing to do with our current nudity. Out here beneath the night sky her bad girl façade is gone, leaving the meat of her, the brilliant and fragile beauty that enchanted me so completely. Something in what we had done calmed her, allowed her a moment freedom from the defensive shell she’d carried with her all this time.

I’m still alive! Tidbit.


“I can’t do this without you!”

The wind whips my voice from my lips and casts it out into the dark, ripping over the rooftop, catching in Sierra’s hair, echoing in her ear. She turns her head towards me slightly, her eyes unmoving from the city below. She refuses to meet my gaze. This yearning I feel, this need, it hinges on that glance. Those stunning green eyes, so sharp, so clear. She looks at me and knows who I am, who everyone is. One of a kind.

She’s perched on the edge of the roof, barefoot, clad in silky lingerie and a rough brown farm coat. The coat catches in a powerful gust, making her stumble, and for a moment my heart is in my throat as I wait for her to tip, to windmill, to fall into the oblivion nine stories below. She heaves up onto her tiptoes at the edge. I throw my hands out to catch her but pain shoots through my belly- like needles pushing through my hips- and in that horrible, fatal moment, I can’t move. I can’t do anything but grit my teeth and glare through tears at her wobbling silhouette… But then she catches her balance, splaying her fingers in the air, a stifled gasp escaping those smudged, ruby-red lips.

Tidbit: Trite Nonsense


“When someone with the authority of a teacher, say, describes the world and you are not in it, there is a moment of psychic disequilibrium, as if you looked into a mirror and saw nothing … Yet you know you exist and others like you, that this is a game with mirrors. It takes some strength of soul–and not just individual strength, but collective understanding–to resist this void, this nonbeing, into which you are thrust, and to stand up, demanding to be seen and heard.”

– Adrienne Rich

Another Quote~!


“In Hebrew, to engage in sexual intercourse literally means “to know.”  This is not just a euphemism.  The connection between erotic desire and knowledge is lodged both in our origin story in the Garden of Eden, and written into the word philosophy—philo, loving, sophia, knowledge or wisdom—a loving of knowledge.”

(From Here)

A Particularly Pleasant Quote


Our lives in twain, the heart’s desire,
The sinful fears and righteous fire;
To make quick meat the lives of men,
From suckled babes to dust again.
What lies beneath the title page,
A lover’s quarrel, a poor man’s grave;
A passion cry, a madmans’ sigh,
The smell of powder, death and thighs.
We wander through a file of days,
Distracted by our petty ways,
Until one day we live no more,
But cease to be and cut the cord.
“Remember me”, we cry too late,
“My life was more than just two dates.”
But what if we could go again?
If God said YES upon a whim.
If you were free to choose anew,
Would you choose me
To be with you?

– Terry Moore

Strangers in Paradise comic series.

A Poem By Terry Moore


The cunning linguist

Speaks a language that is without words

Without alphabet and dialect,

Whose only real communication is

More and less,

Yes and no.

The cunning linguist

Regards the new as uncharted territories,

Islands ripe for conquest,

And the old as a familiar taste

Like fine wine

Or fine dining.

The cunning linguist

Can bring entire landscapes to yield

Pulling mortal constructs-

Morality, piety, correctness and control-

Into the depths of hedonism

And true desire.

The cunning linguist

Conquers all,

Whether queen or matron,

Mother or virgin,

Tainting nothing

While bringing all to fruition.

The cunning linguist

Is the master of his art,

The mistress of her magic,

The tender of a complicated land

That creates sweet nectars

And gentle flowers.

An Entirely Inappropriate Poem