Dear Reader: Welcome to the spring 2021 issue of Wicked Gay Ways. As we welcome spring there seems to be a light at the end of the tunnel regarding the COVID 19 pandemic and hopefully we will be on our way to some level of normalcy this summer and fall.
In this issue we are thrilled to welcome the writing and visual art work of several artists from the USA and Europe. Writings by Parel Joy, Eadbhard McGowan, Raymond Luczak, The Poet Spiel, Aldo Quagliotti, Ken Anderson, Deborah Ketai, and Brody F. Torres, and art work by John Waiblinger, Eddy Rhenals, and Imanol Luquin. We hope you enjoy our spring 2021 issue.
MEN-MOTHS
In the crowded dining room, men
full of murmur flutter like moths
thirsty for the elixir of enlightenment.
With no more strength than a whisper,
they sip words full of discovery and awe.
Their muscles of bull and bitch soon flex.
Such illuminations, daisy-chained through
hands and cocks and tongues and asses,
give these men-moths lightning and thunder.
KINDLING
Heat from between your thighs simmer
between mine as you stoke your iron
tongue into the fireplace of my mouth.
I am wood. Each kiss you leave behind
on my body is ash. I float upward,
remnants of my old boat drifting apart
on the spermy waves of spring,
pumping the hottest blood of all
around us as we men naked rekindle.
Raymond Luczak is the author and editor of 25 titles, including Compassion, Michigan: The Ironwood Stories (Modern History Press), once upon a twin: poems (Gallaudet University Press), and Flannelwood (Red Hen Press). His work has appeared in Poetry, Passages North, and elsewhere. He is the editor of Mollyhouse. A thirteen-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. raymondluczak.com
Eating Flowers, Digital Photography, 18 x 15, 2013, John Waiblinger.
Desk Dreams
Like the blue moon I push and pull,
Carving into you as we fold and swirl
The sheets around us, leaking and biting
Clanging raw flesh like hot steel.
You suck my ear when you want to be bad
Slap me when I should be good, so I kiss you,
beg for more— throbbing and slick,
No longer just fucking, hasn’t been for a bit.
The rhythm of us always fits
Cleanly like pieces of a ship
Surfing green oceans of sirens
Holding whips…
I give it whenever I can,
whenever you will let me,
Sending you poems to prepare you,
For when it’s you giving it to me.
My clock is ticking by slowly
And my cock is throbbing under the desk
Text me back quickly
So we can start making a mess.
Splinters
Under the broken slats of salt beaten wood lies a panorama of graffiti, bare asses, and girthy shadows. We walk past a circle of older beefy men, fawning for a young guy who is smoking and smoothing out his spot in the sand, then two twinks on the same mission – giggling to themselves in the awkward noise of the local cruising spot. Steps later, we tuck into a corner, our teeth banging together until our tongues start cushioning the blows. I am nervous and soft, but he is throbbing and wet. If you’re uncomfortable… I fall to my knees, unbuttoning his jeans and take him into my throat. Each footstep gets him harder, his cock swelling in my mouth. I see the others looking right at me, watching me dribble spit, swallowing every drop given to me and cannot help but smile.
B. F. Torres spends summertime by the coast and winters in the city, B.F. Torres has developed his work in poetry, essays, and short fiction over the years to create truly hybrid writing. After graduating from the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts, he spent his free time exploring new locations and meeting new people to write about and grow from. He is hoping to expand his mediums to include not only written pieces, but also polaroid photography, digital art, and scrapbooking. With his many small journals in hand and typewriter back home, the possibilities and inspirations are endless. Follow him on Instagram @ Roof.of.a.tower
beyond grachten and fietsen
I got my nipple pierced on a cold Saturday,
another afternoon in this kloteweather
hoosbui after hoosbui after hoosbui-
fiets broke, doing ninty tonight…
though I’d like to zhoosh with the gillies;
it’d be bona to see you, your dolly old eek!
I never saw a love like this, so far from Quookers
and Roombas and bakfietsen, so far from the
canal nouveau riche.
doing ninty tonight, always ninty with
my pierced nipple and my wet lips and my
Polari-loving palone by my side
she’s a nasty vogueress, a force to be
reckoned with, a vrouw with ten thousand flannels.
she could kiss me in the street on the kade
of the gracht and I’d fall all over again, I’d
show off my piercings to the lamppost light, I’d
pick up smoking for her.
and I’ll kiss her in the dark if I have to. I’ll wait until
we’re inside in the safety of her huiskamer to kiss her
if I have to. I’ll kiss her in the safety of her slaapkamer
if I have to, the safety of her letty, the safety of
a space for two the safety of closed curtains and
dimmed light.
canals. Dutch. (singular: gracht)
bicycles. Dutch. (singular: fiets)
dreadful weather. (Dutch and English)
pouring rain. (Dutch)
nothing. (Polari)
to drink. (Polari)
women. (Polari)
good. (Polari)
pretty. (Polari)
face. (Polari)
box bike. (Dutch)
woman. (Polari)
female smoker. (Polari)
woman. (Dutch)
embankment. (Dutch)
living room. (Dutch)
bedroom. (Dutch)
bed. (Polari)
polyester,
synthetic bedding plastic
cups plastic flowers plastic
love, the
toothbrush he gave me, the t-shirt
I slept in; for six
months straight he’d sit in vinyl
seats and the toothbrush
would still be there when I returned
flannel.
the way she kisses me – silicon on her night-
stand, two frank o’haras a sarah waters a sappho an entire
shelf for marx.
vase full of daffodils, stack of riso printed zines
hal fischer’s gay semiotics.
hal fischer’s 18th near castro street.
wool,
linen reliable like me because you know
I’ll be here until the end of the party; denim
like the jacket I’ll cycle home in when
it’s light outside again, with cups
to wash in my sink even though they’re yours
to clean
in second-hand silk I want
to hold you,
in soft mohair and lyocell you scare me,
lavender and cardamom, in verbena and boxes full
of artworks, in soft viscose and fresh flowers you run
through my thoughts
in charity shop fur I want
to keep seeing you, and hold you in a satin embrace
I want to lay you down in sheets of cotton
& kiss you in cashmere and lace
Parel Joy (she/they) is a writer and creator from the Netherlands. She’s been living in Aberdeen for the past three years, where she studies English with Creative Writing. She is the former head editor of the University of Aberdeen’s student newspaper The Gaudie, for which she has been a regular writer. Her work was also published in Hysteria Zine and Blacklist Journal. Follow her on Instagram @pareljoy.
Louis on Sunset Blvd, Digital Photography, 13 x 19, 2019, John Waiblinger.
John Waiblinger is a new media artist who explores masculinity and desire through his Post Photography compositions. Hailing from an academic background with degrees in English, Women’s Studies and Library Science, Waiblinger redefined himself as an artist in his early 60s, first exhibiting his work at the Los Angeles Center for Digital Art in 2014. Since then he has continued to exhibit in galleries and has an established group of collectors. In June of 2021 John Waiblinger will have a solo show at Tag Gallery in Los Angeles. To learn more about John’s work please visit his Website: https://www.johnwaiblinger.com/, and follow him on social media, on Instagram: @johnwaiblingerart
on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/johnwaiblingerart and Twitter: https://twitter.com/JohnWaiblinger.
#5, Colored pencils on paper, 10 X 13, 2017, Eddy Rhenals, from the Private Album Series.
TRICK
His trick arouses him
—or better, the arousable in him—
for one last round
before he goes. And half awake
to what he screws
or where, as well
as most
of life, and half aware
the end will come this way, a final trick,
he buries all his anger
in his butt.
Ken Anderson was a finalist in the Saints and Sinners first annual poetry contest. His novel Someone Bought the House on the Island was a finalist in the Independent Publisher Book Awards. A stage adaptation won the Saints and Sinners Playwriting Contest and premiered May 2, 2008, at the Marigny Theater in New Orleans. His novel Sea Change: An Example of the Pleasure Principle was a finalist for the Ferro-Grumley Award. The Statue of Pan (screenplay) is an Official Selection at the LGBTQ Unbordered International Film Festival.
#22, Colored pencils on paper, 10 X 13, 2018, Eddy Rhenals, from the Private Album Series.
Eddy Rhenals was born and raised in Colombia. After obtaining a bachelor’s degree in architecture, he came to the US in 2007 to study English. While studying English, Eddy took a photography class, which propelled him to a Bachelor of Science in Photography at Drexel University. In 2015, Eddy was recruited by the University of Delaware to join their MFA program. This multidisciplinary MFA program connected him with many artists and media that inspired an evolution and broadening of his photographic work. Eddy started using other media to illustrate his ideas and concepts such as drawing, painting, embroidery, and video among others, but always returning to photography as the base point of any work.
The Private Albums Series are drawings inspired by the "private" pictures that men share through gay social apps (mainly Scruff and Grindr). Eddy curates from the pictures that are shared with him, crops them so as to reframe the subjects, and to protect their identity. This project is a celebration of gay men and their sensuality, and how social media blurs the boundaries between the private and the public, and how we present ourselves to others.
Is it just my memory?
In the beginning
you couldn’t keep your hands off me
they roamed with confidence that they belonged
everywhere
in my pockets
under my clothes
no matter where we were
or who was watching
“Go on,” they’d say, “Don’t mind us,
just talk amongst yourselves.”
Then came lesbian bed death,
—proximate cause: your Catholic guilt,
or just preoccupation—and those hands went back
to work or to petting the cat
of whom I am inordinately jealous
or to pointing a finger of blame
at your brother or nephew.
But my hands
my hands still touch you when allowed,
lightly, so as not to overstay their welcome,
still part you when they dare, rarely,
making way for my mouth, still
write my desire for you.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
One Plus One Equals One
bless the cold sheets that send your toes
worming between my legs to get warm
bless the rest of you, kittened at my back
kissing my neck just below the hairline
bless your skin cool on my heat
your hand wandering down from my stomach
bless your breath coming faster
your breasts pressing closer
your body pulsing closer
bless our rise and release
our rise and release
bless our names on each other’s lips
then
bless the long night
and waking up entangled,
and that long division
that makes us, blessedly,
two again
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Descent into the maelstrom
my ears pop in steep descent
between your legs
I gently raise your flag
and you burst in my mouth
sweet and salty
like liquid kettle corn
my circles raise your sea foam
like whipped egg whites
and you suck me in
with a grip I cannot escape
I ride our ship
tongue-in-groove decks
as if I could rule those waves
at the mercy of the wild storm
in whose final wake
we float broken yet whole
in each other's arms
Deborah Ketai writes from the intersection of bipolar, bisexuality, and creative self-doubt, leavened with humor and wordplay. Her work has appeared in Think, North Dakota Quarterly, Eclectica, RavensPerch, Nomadartx, and many other venues. She and her wife live in Connecticut’s Naugatuck Valley.
Mermen" Oil on canvas 50 x 40 in, 2020, Imanol Luquin.
Your sweat
Your sweat on my skin
like an angel crying resin
the fragrance of your soul
serpenting among my hopes
may you stay above this neck
like a shadow glued to a foot
I might get by this transition
to refresh my abstruseness
of whirling around your body
likea god’ s perimeter
My eyes on your chasm
sliding into your beauty
your hard nipples as a bristly stinger
lacerate my pleasure
there must be a place
for this complicity we fidget in
there is!
in the echo of your kisses
finger snapping in the night
Aldo Quagliotti is an italian “poeti” living in London, UK. He's the author of Japanese Tosa (London Poetry Books) and Confessions Of A Pregnant Man (AllienBuddha Press). His poems have been rewarded in Italy, Brazil, USA, Canada, Ireland and in the United Kingdom. He has been selected for important anthologies such as Paper Therapy, Yawp!, The Essential Anthology, Murmurations, Poetical Word, Poetry in the Time of Coronavirus. Several webzines and magazines have published his work, such as INNSÆI, U-rights, Credo Espoir, Parouisia , Poetica Review and many more. In October 2020 He was chosen to represent the Poetry Corner at the London Chelsea + Kesington Art Week. He's a Gay activist and a fervid supporter of the BLM movement and women's rights. He holds a diploma from London College of Media and Publishing in music criticism, He also collaborates with music webzines like Peek-a-boo and Gigsoup, and offers genuine feedback to emerging authors/ musicians on his personal blog Quaquaversal. ( https://quaquaversalweb.wordpress.com/).
The Dive" Collage on paper 10 x 6 in, 2020, Imanol Luquin.
Imanol Luquin, Imanol's paintings are embedded with symbolism. His inspiration comes from oneiric images that express the unconscious. His uncommon imaginary goes by hand with the "ex votos" from catholic churches where symbolism and graphism are juxtaposed as a votive offering. Imanol attended Escuela de Pintura, Escultura y Grabado in "La Esmeralda" in Mexico City. You can view more of his work @ imanolluquin.blogspot.com and follow him on Instagram @ imanol_luquin@instagram.
All sad, all different
It used to turn me on,
when I saw a woman or a man
with suspenders and black nylons,
which emphasized the long legs
and what was in between.
Today we stay at a distance
and the future fetish
will be a mask,
black and erotic.
I wear a mask now,
as it should be,
and nothing else
for my friends,
which them beguiles,
no longer recognize me
and call me by the wrong name.
The new perspective:
Unknown and in more than 2 meters,
to present ourselves,
to keep your mouth shut,
and to leave it to the rhythm
of the hand
whether the black mask
radiates stimulation.
Maybe someone ejaculates
on his mask,
because working by hand
has now found a substitute
for other lusts.
Eadbhard McGowan is a writer of poetry, short stories and erotic literature and a member of several writer groups in Ireland. He has been published in over 140 anthologies, literary journals and broadsheets in USA, UK, Ireland, Japan, Sweden, Spain, Italy, Bangladesh, India, France, Mauritius, Nepal, Pakistan, Nigeria and Canada.
Haiku, Digital Photography, 19 x 13, 2019 by John Waiblinger.
Oiler (re-imagined)
As I rub
my low-slung Porsche
slow against the curb,
this dude squats to it,
shoves his slicked-back wavy hair
through my willing window
to thrust his stocky arm inside.
He grabs my piece,
then purrs:
For you, big man, I’d roll for free.
He plugs me through the night,
makes me believe he needs me,
moans words of heat I starve to hear.
And when he splits,
I’m memorably riveted.
My ass tingling like a twinkling star,
moustache fragrant with his second load,
sheets drenched with his third,
my mattress bursting
with the wildness of his air.
The bliss of his final token,
harbored in my throat:
a cock-sized ringlet
of oily black hair.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Socks (re-imagined)
Rusty bulldozes
wetsop beachsand
with his right heel.
Says:
Wonner what it is
bout smelly socks…
Digs sand out of his toenails.
…an homos?
Todd is surprised —
Rusty using the word
homo
so comfortably.
Wishes the hickeyneck bitch
on the beach behind them
would stop splatterblasting Roy Orbison —
It’s over.
It’s ohhhver.
OK —
So it’s over.
turn the damn thing off;
let a couple guys talk.
Todd says
Ohh yeah!
Feels his pecker go hard,
like tire rubber —
like the WELCOME mat
his dad wove out of
smelly old tire treads.
Yup, he says,
Smelly socks;
ya know a bunch
a all-American guys
playing for the win,
wanting to be the best,
wanting hairpie
for touchdowns,
dying for it.
Fuck me first
and I don’t care who
you do after that.
Us guys’re all in the lockers
steamy,
shiny fresh-sweat guy team talk.
He gropes his own thing.
It’s ready.
NOW.
Rusty lusts —
like the first time he ever touched it —
Todd’s whacker.
And he thought of the American flag,
bloodred head, whiteshaft, blueveins.
Oh
beautiful
for
spacious
guys…
Wants it again,
can’t just say it —
not out loud.
He sucks in sand, salt air,
and sniffs the yummy smelly socks.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Touching Off (re-imagined)
You would not recognize me; I hang out at the Wal-Mart parking lot. I’ve watched you there on Wednesdays.
I shadowed you in, stuck to your heels; brushed against your soft sleeve as you paused
at the fancy leopard skin panties that I knew you would not buy.
There is a certain vulnerable quirk in your gait, in your thick ankles, making you available to me.
I stink of tobacco. Now do you recall my presence as I jostled your basket, then said Sorry from behind
your ear as I came too close to your ponytail? I wondered why so much lotion? Why so many tins of aspirin?
I was so glad the checkout was slow so I could breathe the mansweat of your broad neck and bump
your firm fanny till I got off.
Will you be back again next Wednesday at ten? I want to sit on the warm hood of your truck
while you piddle the panties.
The Poet Spiel is internationally published online and in independent press journals with diverse works of personal conflict and social consciousness. Internationally published artist/author The Poet SPIEL savors the past, dares the future, swallows the present; steady hand, open heart, countercultural, passionate, sardonic, often absurd. Tom Taylor (aka The Poet Spiel). b. 1941. USA. American artist/author. As a child, the artist’s temperament was already edgy and precocious. For survival in the farm world he’d fallen heir to, making art allowed him to discover that he could freely create his personal child-view of a complicated world where everyone was bigger and smarter than he. Making art, as work, as play, as sustenance and medication, has rescued him from drowning in the chaos of his troubled and hungry mind. Amidst his 8th decade on earth, coping with losses associated with vascular dementia, art is the friend which has withstood the petty and the foolish, the graceful, the garish and the grand of a diverse career in the arts. It’s taken him a lifelong pursuit to become reasonably competent at understanding why he is the way he is and how to accept his Self. “Revealing Self in Pictures and Words” (find it on Amazon and Kindle) is the most comprehensive book about his life’s work from 1948 up to 2018, both poetry and pictures. He has published more than a dozen books. Learn more about his large body of books, short stories, poetry, spoken word and fine art at www.thepoetspiel.name.
#12, Colored pencil on paper, 7.5 X 10, 2018, Eddy Rhenals, From the Private Album Series.
#20, Colored pencils on paper, 7.5 X 10, 2019, Eddy Rhenals, From the Private Album Series.