gimme some

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Rueful for a dead lover. For three nights
I have been at the graveyard’s dirt crossroads

praying for a wanton haunt. No ghost-lights.
No arms that hold me down; kiss that explodes

in chill across my skin; voice in my ear
going, “shhh, baby.” I’ve abused this skin,

dripped blood and cum in the dirt; read Shakespeare,
Sappho, Blake out loud. All the discipline

I’ve learned keeps me coming back but I cum
alone. Each morning my Love-Crone candle,

Lilith root, Follow Me Ghost trick remains
untouched, sperm-sticky, contrite. “Gimme some,”

the song goes, “Dead girl/ Gimme some.” Rueful
for what must lay beyond these veiled domains.

potluck

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I am naked inside the room to match
my nude mood. I cannot rub the strangeness

from my sight as I pass the mirror. Thatch
of curls. Plump root. An ass to make Venus

jealous. I am a beast with sublime thighs.
You call me, “Daddy.” I call you, “Potluck;”

cumming with you is always a surprise —
Who else cock-slaps your face? With the havoc

of crude sex comes a crude enlightenment.
When you return from class I’ll press my face

in your ass, tongue your clit. May your grand mal
climax be rough like passion; be urgent

like love. I am vain but constant like grace
when you say, “Daddy, break your little doll.”

gristle

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We are still of use though the gash smells sour,
amethyst rot. We’re twitching devices —

sanded bones and stitches. The worms devour
all that the obsidian knife slices:

meaty scads and sheaves of skin. This butcher’s
love of gristle, of grotesqueness, of boils

that one picks at when they wish the blisters
to burst. The mirror knows how darkness spoils

when cast from its surface. We are of use
because we dream. The stone scalpel cannot.

The hand behind it won’t. Dreams of clabber.
Dreams of grubs in the lesion. We seduce

all that the suture holds dear: curdle, clot,
congeal. Dreams of May rot. Dreams of canker.

fatty batty

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Naked under your oil-soaked overalls,

I lead you behind the filling station

 

to peel down, press you up against the wall’s

rough brick. You love ball bearings, oil, engine

 

grease, rough fucks while your husband drunkenly

snores next door. We use one of his condoms.

 

A bit tight,” I admit as the frothy

acid begins to drip. When your cunt spasms

 

I shift to your “fatty batty” — molten

baby bhang and blue cheer. Your dreads hang down.

 

Your eyes closed. Your daughter will be home soon.

There’s an engine needing your attention.

 

Just now, though, you’re shaking, all pleasure-frown,

all unquenchable, all Saint Kitts monsoon.

colony

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Your path is in the sea, your path is in the great waters and your footsteps are not known. — from, Psalm 77

Rusty iron ore tramp steamer painted pink

with a great garden of vegetables up

 

on deck. A tribe of wayfarers, with ink

and love, to sail the steamer, to worship

 

the waves and all of us in it. Gorgeous

sea-rose, wide mid-ocean. A colony

 

of cats, of cast-off children, of purpose

other than all this land-locked misery.

 

Fresh food, fresh water, fresh love; the rhythm

of the voyage slumbers in us. Sea trance

 

and dream. I want part of this tribal blood

of friends and lovers — in a rust-bottom

 

pink ship. I want a myth and a romance.

I want a voyage both wild and sacred.

murk

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Fruitcake and sludge love, a love-smudge, dried crust

crusting my nails. Few ghosts come back with pride,

 

with tales. On our last shift you were tied, trussed,

crotch-rope spreading your pudendal cleft wide

 

under your scrubs. Release, in all its forms:

from me, from work, that cum-sticky murk smell,

 

cirque-slush fog. I know how a nurse transforms

with bliss of rope kissing her, “pumpkin shell.”

 

Bad joke. “Peter, eat her.” Very well: last

kiss, last shift through your cottons. Moist as cake,

 

as fruit — as the mistake we want and yearn

for, crusts our nails. In the future our past

 

falls from us — Call this the sort of mistake

that leaves behind only ghost-tales, rope-burn.

niña roja

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NIÑA ROJA, Red Girl. SANTA MUERTE,

Lady of Death. I pray to you: bring me

 

the ghost of she who told me to obey

my dream: “Love, come to the cemetery,

 

find my grave.” NIÑA, you know I’m sinful

in bed. MUERTE, you know that I’m honest

 

in my perversions. She came to me, full

of ghost blood and ghostly lust. Now my lust

 

keeps me awake at night. If she’ll return

once more I’ll bless my next nine orgasms

 

in your name, bring you cinnamon and burn

your red candles. NIÑA, shaker of limbs.

 

MUERTE, Saint Death, I beg of you, again,

bring this lovesick ghost back to me. Amen.

blood-cream

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In sight — it must be right. Feeding spectral

menstrual blood to me in a High Sex dream.

 

Gobbets from off dead fingers. Your menstrual

flow, these queer pheromones, love supreme

 

charm, still survived with your breath. This surprised

me. You’d died at nineteen — lust must feral.

 

I’d placed on your grave a lodestone baptized

in my blood and cum, spirit salt, candle

 

wax and prayer: “we will all the pleasures prove.”

You heard, followed. In dream magic the ground

 

is wet with your chamber lye, sky a flow

of need, binding me. Now feed. Your floods move

 

through me. I know. Blood-cream. I dream and drown

all numb. I know. Your dead girl’s cum. I know.

tempered

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Strop me twice. Make it hurt down my blue-ice

thighs and across my feet. Rope wound around

my wrists held high, wet anklets slick with slice.

On my pixie puck-curves welts unfurl, bound

from where the belt’s strop-strap struck. Turning screw

stone of my skin a bronze hue, tempered pearl

ochre. They say the devil wore a blue

dress, but any dress will do. You’re wet curl

below, wet at sweat and bruises that glow

on my cheeks. Queen Cliodhona’s grace guiding

each strop-strap slap, each swing of your arm. Wear

me rough, a glamour is upon me. Show

me fire-licked skin. Afterglow. Show me sting,

swung, stung. Own me stone down to my shorthair.

][][

Note:

Cliodhona (pronounced like Fiona but with a “cl”) is one of the Tuath Dé Danann (“tribe of gods”) in Irish mythology. A Fairy Queen associated with county Cork, the seashore and waves (the tide at Glandore is still called, “Waves of Cliodhna”). Passionate and violent in nature, tradition says that she abducted and seduced poets and bards of both sexes. The McCarthys and O’Keefes of Cork trace their lineage back to her.

shan’t

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Circe’s mercy — Witch’s itches — Schooled gore

I have not been myself of late. Coarse brute

 

force. Love-smudge. I want your sludge. I want more

of you — I am root’s charm. I am charm’s root.

 

Charm of carnage. Charm of harm. Kissing grim

under the tongue. That heavy green honey,

 

like from Delphi. I am not I. “Yes ch’em

yes.” No amber witness, royal jelly,

 

stone’s groan. Just plump rump. Itch that made Circe

moan, my mother of all craft. Does my sleaze

 

please? I am the other; all that you shan’t

have, but want. Toxic nectar, all dusky.

 

All for you. With luck we will fuck. We’ll squeeze

pleasure dry. Poison’s fun. Sibylline’s rant.

][][

Note:

Ես չեմ ես” (Yes ch’em yes) is simply, “I am not I.” I am fascinated with the phrase in Spanish, “Yo no soy yo.” However, Armenian is the language spoken by Lot’s daughters in lust so I use that here.