, , , , , , , , ,

Suffered. Cheated. Mistreated. Nothing born

in a hothouse. A night-blooming pervert.


All-night pain’s blast furnace. Suck your forlorn

thumb just to keep quiet. “Southern Comfort/


hard fuck skag,” you sang; like Joan and Janis,

Bessie and Billie. Your song drips hot wax,


pelvis-jarring buckings. What is a kiss

compared to this pain? Synapses climax.


You cum all the time. Quietly. Your thumb

in your mouth. Buckings. Let it burn. Let it


burn. “If I can’t/ love myself let it/ burn.”

The sky crackles goes out. Shadow. Sodom.


Dance. Shake the bone-rattle, petite misfit.

Debauchee aslant. Singer of nocturnes.

in praise of yansa


, , , , , , ,

Your hair spills around the elastic’s fringe

the way pomegranate juice seeps between


my lips. Not that red, no; more burnt-orange

kinky. The gods have blessed you with obscene


tastes. “Molha tua boca,” you say. Wet

your mouth. Yansa is your mother, her blood


runs — “Minha flor que arde” — in your sweat,

your heat. Your flower of flame. First the flood,


call it Spirit, then the fire — She warned you.

Not with the tongue — A kiss there and all hell


will break loose. She knew what that toothsome rose,

sleeping among your burnished curls, can do.


Lambe-me,” you say. Lick me. Make me swell.

Overflow. Let the world end with curled toes.



In Yoruba faith and religion the goddess Oya has many names; in Latin and South America she is called Yansa or Iansa, personification of fire, winds, violent storms, death and rebirth.



, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Look at this mess. Leaning forward to lube

up your ass. Ease the curved plug in as you


kneel. Feel you shift around it. The flashcube

on the Instamatic. The Siouxsie Sioux


8-track. The neon dashiki. The joke

about finding fireworms in the cherry


pit. I still don’t get it. We’re friends who stroke

and pet and play. Friends who love the dandy,


dandyess, dandizette … Fret with the heart

string, it is always messy. You shall wear


that plug, lodged in the birthplace of fragrance,

within the core of your flesh. There is art


and craft to this; filling you like fool’s prayer,

dunce’s grace, like all that is not absence.

calm moments


, , , , , , ,

Tender, but tight enough. With rope, with cord,

with a leather belt. Tension in the knot.


Tension in the promise of being gored,

impaled, ruined. Danger of being caught


with clots of cum in your hair. Your father

downstairs. Your kid brother in the bathroom.


That’s not what we want from this mad venture.

In those calm moments as we pant, the bloom


of our bright ecstasy fading from our

eyes, our grins both daft and dear, I know that


everything has changed. We’ll rise from our tryst

with queer new hungers for worlds to devour.


You will sigh. I will kiss your “baby phat”

tattoo and slowly untie your clenched fist.

both lust and doubt


, , , , , , , ,

Fuck-meat. Messy, this sort of love. Others

get to live out their kinks and queer cravings.


What do you get other than a loner’s

hoodie and wireless vibrator purring


between your cheeks? Why do others love sleaze

so much when it scares you? Unseen, you slink


around your prim bedroom. “If the Furies

didn’t need sleaze neither do I,” you think.


But did they? To be pounded, split, to own

both lust and doubt. You have sighs and quivers


that you want to share. If that isn’t your

birthright what is? The truth is in your moan.


You want to love depraved sons and daughters,

be their fuck-meat. Fuck the chaste. Fuck the pure.

soft boys


, , , , , , , , , ,

Over the roofs there soon came the red wind

of late June, the one that twists, raises skirts,


shirts, my love for all the things that have sinned.

You cup his plump rump. “You spurt how perverts


squirt,” you sniff your fingers, slouched on the curb.

It’s odd how the hot air perturbs you more


than his sweat stains, my unzipped jeans. Perturbed.

Aroused. Whatever. There are few hardcore


soft boys — gluteus divinus — left

and you’ve taken us both, despite the daft


dry heat, weighing the sinew, brawn and heft

of each of our cocks while we spurt and laughed.


It’s Beltane, cock-suckers!” Wind in your hair

as you toy with my lips, his derriere.



, , , , , ,

Thin are the night-skirts and thin was your skirt

you’d meet me at the door in. Thin, short hem,


held in place with a pin. Coffee, yogurt,

chronic; breakfast out back. There was mayhem


in your breast as I brushed your breast, bending

down to take a dish. In the basement


with the worn-down washing machine running

I could feel it vibrate through your splayed cunt,


up through your hourglass curves, your unsurpassed

ass, your double belly. It’s a Tuesday


and may all our Tuesdays begin like this,

with cum. Let the neighbors be aghast,


this is not for them. Let us stretch our foreplay

out all day long. Desire calls and we kiss.

what the dead and chaste abhor


, , , , ,

What is this need: sex among the ruins?

We kissed in the remains of a school-house


by the gray marsh reeds, while the ghosts of nuns

ached and dead things crept in the weeds. Your blouse


undone, skirt on the floor. Slowly we bent

over a desk top with fingers at work:


stretching, coaxing, melting down walls our scent

mixed with willow, dust, sumac. With a jerk


you came, shouted, ¡Lilith!” wild with tonguing.

Just then all that the dead and chaste abhor


we became. Let ruins of grace that fuel

lust be a blessing. Let ghosts mark our coming


with sex stains gracing their world: warped floor,

battered seat and jack-knife carved initial.



, , , , , , , ,

We are swine, wild boars among the bluegrass

and salt-stained rocks. We are bitches, each teat


engorged, each rump distended. We are sass

and rage. Each foul word you use to mistreat


others — fucktard, ignoramus, nitwit —

that is us, too. Why does liberation


for you crave vile behavior? I’m unfit

to judge, clearly. Still, I love my cousin


even if my cousin doesn’t love me.

Today’s rebel is tomorrow’s tyrant


without this connection, without these ties

to each other that make us family.


We own the words that you use: faggot, cunt,

‘tard. So we defy you. We love. We rise.



, , , , , , ,

Millay-Lorca-Kerouac,” I announce.

Driving to Flint we play Fuck-Marry-Kill.


Edna?” you doubt. “Look at this ass. I bounce

when I strut” — I show off my tight Goodwill


britches, crotch frayed — “and when I’m on all fours.”

I love your truck with its [Off-road Princess]


[NDN Grrlz, please] and [My Pussy Roars]

decals. “Edna loved queer boys. She’d hit this.”


Federico?” “Love my bambino.” “Jack?” “Hate

Jack; the white crayon of art.” “A huge sack


of limp cocks?” “Yes, literature’s eight dollar

haircut.” You laughed. I like your laugh. Irate


raving aside, you’re a blessing: laid-back,

hep, steps beyond she and he, his and her.