the morbs


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I want more kisses. I was ten; glum, dim
child, full of shakes and flu-fevers. “Gain dull

wi’ th’ morbs,” you said, as you, my dear Grim
Grin Ghost, perched on my bed. They say feral

kids make feral ghosts. Perhaps. But you held
my hand, sang of Eynhallow the Prankster,

who slit you ear to ear. What you beheld
when you returned you told me in whisper,

in my fever. Spirits don’t keep secrets
from their lovers, not as the living do.

All I get are emojis and dearth. Ghost,
I don’t boast; I’m footnote to both spirits

and the living. Ghost, I want to kiss you.
I want your ruined, slit-slush lips the most.

The morbs is 1880s British slang for melancholia.

blue-fox acid


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All my sisters are feminists; all my
mothers gods. But, like in Recovery,

there are three passions that I still deny
I do: 1) Of the tricksters, that foxy

blue-fox acid drove all my low gnostic
thoughts. 2) Once cum was our libation;

now it’s sacrifice. 3) I was shaman
for you, infidel. Back when seraphic

truths felt down and dirty, I thought constant
carnal acts could free us, since chastity

was a curse. I was wrong both times, clearly.
Odd. These days there’s no talk of cock or cunt,

and though I have the blood of witch and nerd,
somehow, “lechery,” is just one more word.

what lasts


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I lost the graveyard today — Lilith’s tree,
Her owls and crossroads; all the souls and shades

I’d call on each night that would wait for me
because I loved them — are gone. For decades

I searched for connection to our dead kin;
though I’m not gifted with Sight, wasn’t born

to walk between worlds. Is a grudge a sin
when it’s over all that left you lovelorn

and lost? They came, tore down Her tree today,
smashed Her altar, stole my gifts. It’s what lasts

when Love is elsewhere. When Love is elsewhere
it’s what I need most. This isn’t dismay,

just a sign that Lilith still loves outcasts;
those of us who live on prayer and despair.



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Three times, before I was one, something tried
to pull me back. When the San Gabriel

fault-line shook. When the firestorm and landslide
consumed the Malibu hills. When I fell

in the deep end at the Lil’ Angels Fun
Pool. Yes. There were other attempts, later,

but those were my failures. For eleven
short months in L.A. earth, fire and water

strove to claim me. Some curses get to hide
from us. Call it misfortune, my mom did.

Before I was her mistake she called me
her bad luck baby; one who should’ve died.

I’ve no memories of being that kid —
just what came after, what taught me to flee.



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Gorged on hope you forget your place. Desire
won’t save you. If you’re the stuff of dreams then

you’re a safe flame for those afraid of fire
… a vague vulgarity. Who’d ever sin

on your behalf? There is no Orpheus
for you to sing you out of hell. Your place

is to warn others that all the lewdness
in the world feels most often like disgrace

and woe. Smut won’t save you. All this is true,
but I still give thanks for smut. I praise those

who’ve praised me with their libidos; who’ve taught
me lust sublime and passion’s true virtue …

I love that, despite all my griefs and woes,
despite feeling so broken and distraught.

sprung slow


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This hour. That hour. Staring at six normal
flowers someone brought you. My discipline,

when it comes to waiting in hospital
rooms, needs some work. All I do is listen

to your coughing wheeze while outside night struts,
all sprung slow and rooted with shadows from

the day. Once I thought that love was wheel ruts
in an old road … Or maybe a maelstrom …

Or some other metaphor. All I know
is that I’ll have to let go when you let

go. That’s love, too. I have no one to tell
this to in this room without a window.

Just six flowers and the reek of death-sweat
and a love beyond their heaven or hell.



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They don’t bring horned gods home. In forest, in
trance, garbed in garlands … a slow cavorting

flame in lush curled-black leaves. There’s no sin
to be the chosen one, no crime pricking

yourself on flesh callous as oak. Do you
still think of what we did as devotion?

Do your nipples still stiffen thick? Mine do.
Gods are man-made. I’m no different. Most shun

these acts in time, for I burn a queer fire,
my tongue pressed in the middle. I’m at odds

with how I was born: abandoned in green …
I don’t serve faith, only function. The “sire”

in your desire, which dies, just like old gods,
once it’s no longer so strange or obscene.



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I could not sleep in such heat and what dream
came was no dream. Santísima Muerte

parted her robes to press her wet blaspheme,
as priests call all cunts, to my lips. Doomsday

tastes like death in heat. “Tu madre,” she said.
“Chinga tu madre.” Once lust couldn’t carve

through this thick air, couldn’t slash through what bled
from these lips. Have faith, you said. See? You starve.

Who has fed you like I do? — The riot
in your heart knows what you want. The chaos

that dreams of dissection loves you, too. Press
that blunt tongue here, in my groove, my crosscut.

Stroke, you woke with that taste; lust born from loss,
born from death, lovesick, lifting up her dress.

As a personification of death and guardian of marginalized people Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte (Our Lady of Holy Death) is a folk saint found in Mexico and Mexican-American Catholicism. Chinga tu madre is, of course, one of the few things Santísima Muerte (Most Holy Death) can get away with saying, since death is the mother of us all.



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Locked in her bathroom, her dirty hamper’s
pheromones bewitching while our fragrance,

once stirred by my tongue sunk in your pleasures,
stirs in the air, too: skunk-spice-herb. Essence

of what we once were. I dream of hemlock,
hash and cum pooled around your collarbone

haunting cleavage once wrapped around my cock
bud of your cunt’s bouquet a low down drone

drenched. When she knocks on the door the fragment
that is you flees. Where? Somewhere far above

me. You forgot? I keep remembering
what we once were: lascivious as scent,

ethereal as a ghost who’s found love,
desperate as this bust-ass flesh still searching.



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I know the picture — this rubble was once
houses of prayer for a ruined city’s

people. Not all loss is the same. Absence
is pure fate for them, born for the Furies

that break city’s bones. You weren’t expecting
that. Fate was. Furies will help hook comely

scars in your flesh, nightmares in your dreaming.
Fate can’t help but love you, dear soon-to-be

survivor. All your talk of abstinence,
praxis and law means nix once Furies gut

man from man-made. Chaos is the virtue
gods call divine; all else is ego. Once

you claimed to be saved but from what?
Not this. Can you sense it coming for you?