, , , , , , , , ,

Mischief-mad, hidden among the cushions,

you guide three fingers under your burqa,


biting back a tell-tale groan. Your oven’s

wet heat, stoked each night from ash to lava


while your husband snores near by, still tortures

you the way faith haunts your thoughts all day long.


When the first wet spot bleeds through your knickers;

when myrrh drips from, like honey in the Song


of Songs, your fingers –– then even mischief

isn’t enough. Mother-in-laws yammer


and whine, but you smolder: wet oven heat,

holy cum shrine. Your longing is as tough


as your soul’s flesh. Faith is only torture

in a world that wants you chaste and discreet.



, , , , , , , , ,

Some just loathe Ecstasy; like the Roman

who turned our Gorgeous Boy of Lust and Rage


into some frail sot. To fear masculine

beauty is to fear the divine. That age


that tried to switch Dion-(bow chicka bow

wow)-ysus with besotted ol’ Bacchus


ended bad. This isn’t heresy. My vow

is still to He Who Swaggers With Quenchless


Thirst. The one god not appeased by widespread

worship, sacrifice or floor pie. Altars


do not sooth him, nor prophets who soothsay.

Only madness in dance, in art, in bed.


No priests or holy laws. Only lovers;

we few who obey when we disobey.



, , , , , , ,

Slick from a randy varmint, your nipples

swell in your strappy tee as I watch you


take the pills that we found on the motel’s

bathroom floor. You taste just like witch’s brew,


rancor, a chloroform soaked handkerchief.

Ill pills freeze time then turn our lust heinous.


You are the color of storm and I grief.

On your back, your head lolls off the mattress


as I grind in. Your throat bulges, jaws twinge

as my balls smother your nose. You gag-retch,


spitting cum, bile and ache down your forehead.

Fuck fiend, you called me, words that made you cringe,


once … like love, or every time that I stretch

you wide; an act that you both long for and dread.



, , , , , , , , , ,

Panspermia: Life hidden in drifting

space dust; scatterings of queer DNA


awash in the high heavens. Begetting

the ones zealots fear on Earth. Castaway,


satyr, witchling; this would explain but not

excuse my lecherous bursts. The drama


of throat fucking in public. Your distraught

¡Oi!” as you wear my cum like mascara.


There is no ill will in our tribe. We hunt

all who love their carnal but odd essence.


Xenolibido. “Whores of Babylon,”

the saved sneer. No, try Betelgeuse. Try cunt.


Try cock. Try us all. But they won’t. Not once;

their junk genes come from dullest of god-spawn.



Besides being a great name for a drag queen, panspermia is a theory that life on Earth originated from alien DNA drifting on galactic winds, searching for a suitable environment to call home. The plot of the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers explains that the pod people came to Earth in the form of gelatinous creatures able to survive in the vacuum of outer space. I tend to fall on the side of astrobiology and ask for some actual proof before announcing that something is possible, but I do like playing with the idea in poetry. People who are very very keen on the idea of extraterrestrials tend to point to Fermi’s Paradox (which more or less states, “Empirical evidence is for Sucka MCs/ P-Funk’s Mothership Connection puts/ the xy chromosome in sexy”) and speculative fiction as to why they got a D- in high school science but an B+ in creative writing (naming no names, of course).

barco (iii)


, , , , , , ,

Dama de aguas oscuras, last night

I dreamed of phosphor under a starlit


dome. Far above such unending ghost-light

the gales harangued (as gales do). Your half-wit


brat sat in low, loathy dark; wheezing down

the last air in his rust iron coffin.


Lady of dark waters, they say to drown

is abysmal, but if I can return


to you through your blessed sea or ill ocean,

then I’ll slip my box’d boat through opal waves


to rest my grave under high tide and slow

sea-swill. Lay me, if it’s your will, all shrunken,


alone, calling this dream fate. Glow of graves,

Santa Muerte, lost in the tidal flow.



The Bony Lady, Santa Muerte, has many names; “Dama de las aguas oscuras,” Lady of the dark waters, is one of them. The idea of this poem actually came to me several years ago when I was reading about the early attempts of the Imperial Japanese navy to build their own submarine. In 1910 one of their first prototypes sank during a training dive in Hiroshima Bay. Although the water was only 18 metres deep it proved impossible for the crew to escape while submerged. The commanding officer, Lieutenant Tsutomu Sakuma, patiently wrote descriptions of his sailor’s efforts to bring the boat back to the surface as their oxygen supply ran out. All of the sailors were later found dead at their stations when the submarine was finally raised the following day.

barco (ii)


, , , , , , , ,

Santa Muerte, I cannot pluck banjo

strings like Sal, nor compose on a guitar


like my brother. I do have magic, though,

of a different sort. I scrawl in the air


and the words jell and congeal. Even now,

Dama del Mar, with husky, haughty lips,


I reel across the deck each time we plough

through ten foot swells; each time salt water drips


in my eyes while sliding down swales to surge

up each peak. Below, in the engine room,


womb warm and sacred, one of your altars,

heart and cunt of this boat, keeps beat: gale’s dirge,


squall’s lament. Make this submarine my tomb

and I will gladly play shaman to sailors.



, , , , , , , ,

Santa Muerte, escúchame. Pretty

Lady, hear me. It’s not alms that I crave


but a submarine for my poetry.

Submarino del poeta. With wave


and tide, with cat and book, I’ll learn liquid

-rolling verbs, new words for endless motion.


Is a boat too much? I’m not craving blood.

Mother mine, mi madre, if your children


in FARC have one, might I too? They call theirs,

Narco barco.” But mine will be your shrine


in the brine; a place to write, sail and pray

under a seafaring sky. Hear my prayers,


Pretty Lady. Mamá Roja Divine.

Grant me: Templo de la Santa Muerte.



We call her Our Lady of the Holy Death (Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte). She is a folk saint, unrecognized by the Catholic church but worshiped by both members of law enforcement and Narco cartels. Outcasts and outlaws are drawn to her for it is said that she answers prayers immediately and protects against violent death. I use several Spanish words and phrases in the poem. “Escúchame,” translates into, “listen to me.” “Narco barco.” is slang for any sort of boat used in drug smuggling. According to the BBC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) once utilized homemade submarines for that purpose, each costing around £1.3 million to build and could hold a crew of five.



, , , , , , , , ,

As I press down with my cock pressed into

the small of your back flames catch, your veils burn,


goosebumps shiver across your ass. You, who

Yeats called Hag, Cailleach Bhéirre, the Sidhe’s Slattern,


never despaired as he claimed you did. Crones

get laid like the rest of us. As I cup


your ass, tongue in your erogenous zones.

As you arch your back, your cunt’s tooth’d scallop


lips spread wide. As you rise the way souls grown

tongue-wise rise and turn and kiss me with that


haunted hunger I’ve never felt elsewhere

but as you cum. Taut g-spot. A Crone’s own.


We’re Yates’ Scary Fairy and Saucy Brat.

Rise like mischief, like Sidhe, Host of the Air.



The Host of the Air and Sidhe (pronounced, Shee) are two of the names given to the Gaelic fairy-folk in stories and legends. The Irish poet, W. B. Yeats, pronounced Cailleach Bhéirre as, “Clooth-na-Bare,” the name of an old school fae who wanted to die because she had grown old and no one would love her. Slattern is a Victorian word meaning prostitute or a sexually promiscuous woman.



, , , , , , , , , , ,

You got us, trolls. We’re the unhappy few

with sub-par brains. We got no savvy. Our


tribes of scribes? Dim-witted. Our no flow crew?

Sucka MCs. Our erotic lives? Sour


grapes. All that you accuse us of is true.

This is the safe way out. “Poet is Priest,”


Ginsberg cried. But trolls got no god. They spew

hate. They laugh when we take the bait. “Artiste,”


they sneer. “Poseur.” All that grief, misery

and fear that drives us means nothing to them.


Ire we’re seen, dead we’re raised, gods who return

for our love: all proof of our lunacy.


We’re fools, drunkards, dullards who think mayhem

is art, who think it means something to burn.



, , , , , , , , , ,

I signed you out of the Shiprock half-way

house to drive you to your rehab meeting.


You’d “come loose” again, so we skipped foreplay

and climbed into the backseat. “Anchoring,”


you called it; my cock buried in your ass.

Mud hook. Cumcocktion. Pain, sublimely raw,


pinning me between your twisting hourglass

hips, leaving you sprawled on top. “Yaadilah,”


you groan. Hints fill the air: creosote, sage,

far-flung thunder. Yaadilah. What The Fuck.


Anchoring you down is hard work. Not cold

turkey hard, of course, but still hard. Rough rage


fucking. Cum-smeared C-scar on your stomach.

Coming loose, the kids say. Gone, y’all, stone-cold.



In Dine bizaad (Navajo), “Yaadilah,” is the equivalent of, “What The Fuck,” in English. The town of Shiprock (Naatʼáanii Nééz) is home to Diné College as well as the Northern Navajo Fair.