harrowed hell

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She said: Nothing kinky. You said: Don’t break
my heart. Neither of you got what you asked

for in the end. Now she’s gone and heartache
won’t save you from what approaches unmasked,

naked in ways that you could only pine
about. Winter’s twisted passion will say:

She called you apu, daddy, but you’re mine,
I’ll call you enyém, all mine, little fey.

Once you’d have harrowed hell for her. Now hell
looms to consume you. These cold months don’t creep,

they rush thirstily to you in ways that she
never did. That’s also kink, like the smell

of ice on the wind, snowfall’s hiss: Don’t sleep,
love, just watch what I do to your body.

NOTE:
Those who possess a vague unworldly knowledge of their own doom are said to have the fey on them. In Hungarian, “enyém,” means mine and, “apu,” means daddy, as in, “apuci lánya,” daddy’s girl.

grisly sex

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For my birthday I give you a butt-plug.
Rubber and wide. “It’ll stretch you open,”

I say, as you hunker down on the rug,
pulling off panties stained with my semen.

All day at school you wear it, feel it throb
deeper each time you sit down. After class,

after your clit’s havoc, you want macabre,
grisly sex. I’ll pull the plug from your ass,

I’ll leave a gaped dark O where my cock shall
go … now it’ll fit when I press myself in

you. I want to fill you … full. “Naaa,” you say.
“What?” “Sodomy is eur sin: naa anal.”

That was that. Still, shame that for me it’s sin
that keeps sex from being a straight cliché.

Note:
This is a re-write of a poem that I had written a couple of months ago. I know not everyone enjoys anal sex but I will admit the reaction I got surprised me: “Ahm naa ganin tuh wark aroond wi’ sum metal up me arse.” I had never realized she spoke with such a thick Geordie (Newcastle) accent.

damn-cans

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Prayer stink of diesel fumes, heavy with spew
and retch and thirty-three sailors sublime

depth charge billow; surging, rippling through
lean meat hull. Old-school counting time;

the way any cult embraces its fate —
a hint of dark ecstasy. Coffin boats —

how the drowned baptized them. Damn-cans with hate
of brine crushing through the screams in our throats

and the rivets and the hull. Lone language
of war sounds like submariners at prayer,

counting down seconds until the next blast.
Would you speak love to me in such carnage?

Would you kiss me? or let the sea’s anger
hush me love while you stare numb and aghast?

red thread

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— after a loss.

If love is what we make of it, then what
counts is not who we’ve lost but everyone

waiting for us at the end. “Love, spirit,
baby cat, I’m so proud of you. It’s done.

You’re safe. Sleep. Wait for me. I will follow.”
“His heart has stopped,” the vet said. I woke to

a strange empty bed. No nuzzling. No
medicine to prep. No deep sing-song mew

for food. Maybe my faith (“Love, wait for me.”)
is wrong? Maybe there’ll be no one waiting?

It’s hard when all you have is a red thread
joining you two. My altar looks lonely

without him sprawled in a sunbeam, grooming
his dark coat, burning with flecked shades of red.

scoundrel

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If you love someone, set them free, we’re told.
If they come back then you’re not the villain

they claimed you were. Your: “I’m being controlled,”
seemed an odd grief, since your, “I won’t question

what you want, just use me,” started every
letter. Your mom in Tulsa said that I

was a scoundrel, making you do pervy
things in public. Perhaps. I won’t deny

that I loved your genius for not getting
caught in a world that calls what we do shame.

Yet your last words said how you loathed sexting.
Odd … but reason enough to stop this game.

Perhaps I’m bad. Perhaps you’ll learn to burn
on your terms. Either way, I won’t return.

eris

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When I awake the world pulses and throbs
angry and demanding. Once more I feel

frantic. Even the promise of blow jobs,
skag and mayhem does not please. What appeal

sublime excess brings feels dull when compared
to this ache. Once more I’m sick, dim and grim

when I want to be veiled, feral and scarred:
your own incubus itching for more. Dim?

Indeed. My neck contains not one love bite.
My mind is off elsewhere. My thoughts scattered.

Eros will not please tonight when Eris,
goddess of chaos, calls. Chaos in moonlight.

All else feels absurd. There’s no other word
for me but, “loss,” no other pain but, “this.”

plead

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Last night, two a.m. at the hospital,
with your loved one’s blood on your jeans. Ruin

and his screaming are still stuck in your skull
the next morning, all that noise while someone

tried to save his life. I brought him home. He
slept pressed close to my side. Can a tumor

grow and bloom so fast in days? They showed me
some X-rays. What difference does it matter

if it wasn’t there on Tuesday? It’s there
now. Death takes in threes: I lost Kriszti last

week and maybe J.R. today. Then who?
One more shock. Two weeks ago I would swear

life was good but pain is subtle and vast
and I can only plead: “not yet, not through.”

impulse

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There are other ways to satisfy you,
love. I was made for two things: poetry

and wet carnal heat. I’ve met others who
recoiled the one time I asked if they’d be

my well-fucked muse. I only ask it once,
love. If scratches and bite marks are not what

you want then go in peace since the essence
of a muse is impulse; do what’s asked or not.

I’m not asking for a martyr, just pain
induced orgasmic pleasure; a fuck-toy

willing for something new. Cum and sonnets
are what I offer. That and seven cane

strokes on your curved ass. Be bestial joy
in black boots, inspiration and corsets.

cabinet satyrique

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After a while guilt goes, depression leaves
and you become attractive once again.

You weren’t always this beaten soul who grieves
and blames just herself. You were a tribesman

of Pan, a priestess of Lilith. The world
saw joy in you, in what you haven’t felt,

you say, in years. This Hell, this Underworld
of yours, it can’t hold you once sorrows melt

and pains vanish. Outside, at dawn, a freak
with an antique box waits for you … count me

among your loves. Pleasure is our birthright.
It’s here, in this, “cabinet satyrique.”

It’s here, when both our tribes come together:
butch-armed tribad and fey-boy sodomite.

swollen

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I thirst where you seep. Where others haven’t
touched you. Where you don’t touch yourself either.

I love the wet grace found in cock and cunt,
in cum and kisses. All that flows, lover,

is ours. Bathe your body in river mud.
At night, on the bank, under a full moon,

between your raised hips, feed me your moon-blood.
What your body doesn’t want I’ll take. Cruel

to waste such a gift and deny my thirst.
Who else has stirred such swollen wet passions

in you? You seep like damp honey coating
my tongue. Soon, lick after lick, you will burst

into waves. Drown me. Cum like a fountain’s
geyser. Shake like a quake in the ocean.