Tag Archives: queer poetry

Untitled (Orlando, June 12, 2016)

Posted on June 17, 2016 by Avery Cassell

#1 I am trite. Nothing. Today is divided into those who say “Orlando” and see the past, And those who say “Orlando” and see the future. Will the word “pulse” ever be the same? A slithery kind of sexy feeling. … Continue reading →

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Summer

Posted on June 14, 2010 by Avery Cassell

Almost summer, The air with the faintest breeze, From the ocean, I’m inland, It hardly reaches me. And I think about how you feel inside of me, Laying next to me, Sticky skin, Folds of tender labia damp with come, … Continue reading →

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Soft

Posted on September 13, 2009 by Avery Cassell

A thread of insincerity floats to the ground, A soft blue sparkling thirty inches of mohair, A cat toy or a half a fringe or something else, Stretched from door jamb to door jamb, Iron tacks holding it taunt – … Continue reading →

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Flesh

Posted on September 11, 2009 by Avery Cassell

A bird, a bug, a something flying in the air, And I’m spinning, unwrapping this present, You touch me, and I feel spools of yellow and periwinkle blossoming inside, My organs are gone and all I have is sex, Displacement … Continue reading →

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My Dominant Breast (To Silas)

Posted on April 19, 2009 by Avery Cassell

Is everything just an “I want”? You know, I brush up against you in the crowded hallway after the show, Press my left breast into your upper arm, And then later when discussing sexual meanings with another friend, (I never … Continue reading →

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