Evan J. Peterson
Escritor da Clarion West e autor de The PrEP Diaries da Lethe Press, bem como da ficção interativa rpg Drag Star! da Choice of Games. Seus outros livros incluem os capítulos de poesia de terror Skin Job e The Midnight Channel e a antologia finalista do Lambda Literary Award, Ghosts in Gaslight, Monsters in Steam: Gay City 5. Ficção, não ficção e poesia de Evan apareceram em Weird Tales, BoingBoing, The Stranger, The Rumpus, Best Gay Stories 2015, The Queer South Anthology, Unspeakable Horror 2, Queers Destroy Horror, Nightmare Magazine, Drawn to Marvel: Poems from the comic books, Arcana: The Tarot Poetry Anthology e Aim for the Head: An Antology of Zombie Poetry. Evan foi o editor criativo fundador e, em seguida, editor-chefe da Minor Arcana Press.
Clarion West writer and author of The PrEP Diaries from Lethe Press as well as the interactive fiction rpg Drag Star! from Choice of Games. His other books include the horror poetry chapbooks Skin Job and The Midnight Channel and the Lambda Literary Award finalist anthology, Ghosts in Gaslight, Monsters in Steam: Gay City 5. Evan’s fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have appeared in Weird Tales, BoingBoing, The Stranger, The Rumpus, Best Gay Stories 2015, The Queer South Anthology, Unspeakable Horror 2, Queers Destroy Horror, Nightmare Magazine, Drawn to Marvel: Poems from the Comic Books, Arcana: The Tarot Poetry Anthology, and Aim for the Head: An Anthology of Zombie Poetry. Evan was the founding creative editor and then Editor-in-Chief of Minor Arcana Press.
Twice this week I’ve heard that phrase, the two
unsexiest words ever, rubbing up against each other
in separate mouths. What gives? There's no room
for babies in this bathhouse. No hanky code for that.
Semen springs eternal in the rites of porn,
and that’s the point—the moment—the everlasting
pop! with no nine-month hangover. Baby batter? Barf.
It makes me think of infants churned through a hand-
cranked eggbeater, or an electric whisk tipped back,
slinging baby batter all around the kitchen, slick
sloppy cords of it splattering the microwave,
ruining my niece's crayon pictures on the fridge,
fwapp-ing us in the eye, Grandma’s glasses cloudy
with baby batter. No waffles in hell, but baby batter
whipping through like a giant spider in convulsions,
shooting ropes of hot, wet silk out its asshole.
Do spiders even have assholes? No more baby batter.
Boy butter, perhaps, or man candy, that ebullient
bullion, the very phosphorescence of joy, liquid of love,
l’eau d’amour, jouissance, frisson, all kinds of fancy
French! The gatling of the gods, slippery opal
bumblebees, those popping pearls,
that silver zing, anything, anything
but baby batter.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Cock
Musk is hung like art
In the blue air.
The cock lurks with patience
In blue jeans.
Five steel rings
Along a pillar of flesh.
The cock has brought a ladder.
III & IV
A man and a woman
A man and a man are also one,
But with two cocks.
I do not know which I prefer,
The excitement of a journey
Or the return home,
The discovery of a new cock
Or its eventual familiarity.
The night is still.
A pulse is audible.
Do you see the cock
Nodding to that drum?
O thin men of Haddam,
Shut up and whip ‘em out.
Inaccurate, to call
A child’s penis a “cock.”
It has no mission yet.
The cock fancied itself a phoenix,
Emerging from its hot little nest.
The cock is a wizard, conjurer
Of the most reptilian emotions:
Like the conqueror’s ambassador,
The cock earns trust through diplomacy
The cock is ready. He holds
A pearl at his mouth.
Drummer, phoenix, conjurer,
Diplomat, and wraith—
The cock appears and vanishes,
So quick, this shifting shade.
I hold you still as you cry the lash from your eye. Cathartic,
the way we play house. I replace the man who raised you.
Some nights, I want you the way fire wanted Dresden.
The way tuberculosis begs for an orphanage. To hear you
sob, that opportunity to soothe. You get all the attention
you can handle. Chilled steel. Suburban surgeries. I dab
your eyes with a cotton tuft. New instruments for new
practices. The cold end of the belt. We leave our notes
in the margins of gratification. The hairbrush. Smack
and burn. Books claim it’s common, building intimacy
with a persecutor. The safety pin. Sting and throb. Children
usually favor the parent who disciplines them.
One Argument for Intelligent Design
Honey boys, what drips this afternoon?
Creation myths: How the Dandy Got His Strut
or, Why Men Have Nipples. Vestigial,
useless for any purpose other than joy.
portable sundials knowing no time zone,
two setting suns ever on the verge
of being swallowed by the sea. Nature
abhors the waste of such tissue.
Swell velvet, calfskin, anthropology
of ecstasy. In pleasure we trust.
Early tribes had to explain these things
Face to Blind, Bald Face
When I fall, I fall hard,
coming face to blind, bald face
with that gruesome moose jaw
that sweettooth shushing plantain
that precision steering column
that poodleskirt hootenanny
that apricot plantation
that is your mighty minotaur
That purse-bursting pig tickler
that conch-slapping cockleshell
that nerve-burdened pope's nose
that crystal-blung caduceus
that dingdong didgeridoo
that is your tailboned cherub
That quick-slitted lovecraft
that eldritch cleavage
that Spring-Heeled Jack
that is your no-nonsense naptime
That Fudgy the Whale
that dragon from Mars
that word-stealing duckburger
that ship-soaking asteroid
that science fiction double feature
that is your spit-sipping doodlebug
That humble pie a la mode
that wing-footed Flash Gordon
that chuckle-cheeked wobble pot
that chunky peanut butterbean
that is your swooning baboon
That Medusa's braided ponytaint
that thunderbolt pagoda
that is your million-in-prizes.
Well. Bless my nipples.
Bless 'em all the live-long day.
The Saddest Suck
I got sick of wondering How Could He.
I went online, read your tweets,
read erotica, got an idea, did yoga,
inversions and plow, then attempted
autofellatio for hours. Mama didn't raise
quitters. I hurt my neck.
Rolled out of that pose, back
on my back, ended with a whimper.
As I emptied, the corner of the spare pillow,
the guest pillow, grazed my cheek, meager
false fingertip of cloth, and I
leaned into it, starving.
Almost got it that time.
One of these days.
See all works from Obscenografica Issue 2
Veja todos os trabalhos da Obscenografica Edição 2