• Vinni Corrêa

Evan J. Peterson

Site: http://evanjpeterson.com

Instagram: @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.

Baby Batter

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.


A man and a woman

Are one.

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

Before invading.


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.

Something Domestic

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.

Decorative technology,

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 kickstart-my-heart

that where'd-I-leave-them-britches

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 Dont-Mess-With-Texas

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

#poesia #poetry #poet #writing #erotic #eroticart #arteerotica #pornart #arteporno #erotico #LGBT #drag #gay

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