, , , , , , , , ,

Behind the closed garage doors engine oil
fumes, touch of ganja, dust on the wainscot,

on a workbench piled high with odd gargoyle
lumps, unfinished tasks your husband forgot

about years ago. We’ve come here to play;
the grease spot on the floor mirrors our own

messy thoughts. Hair in rollers, negligee
cast down, my cock buried in the well-known,

well-loved well of your balampalampam.
This is, “kunou-monou;” what the obeah

vow, old-school sodomy. At sixty-five
strokes you shout, at ninety-five you melt. “Damn,

boy-boy,” you groan. “Damn, cum in me.” If we
sin its through love. If we love we survive.


I use Barbados slang in this poem. Balampalampam means a very large ass. Kunou-monou is a bewitching spell. Obeah is witchcraft.



, , , , , , , ,

Even as a kid, “Exile,” was a strange
and far out term. To lose your home was just

careless, I thought. But it’s happened and change
is my undoing. I pray but no lust

or gods dwell in this snip of Michigan.
No long lonesome train calls at three a.m.

No wet dreams or devils to stamp cloven
hooves and call me, “mine.” As far as Bedlam

goes, “Beer City, USA,” sucks. Perhaps.
Exile? That word. I don’t think it means what

I think it means. Isn’t this nostalgia
for times of plenty before your collapse?

Only you, fool, cast yourself out. Uncool
but true. Chastity keeps me wry and cruel.

soweto blues


, , , , , , ,

“Bibi,” was all the Swahili that your
grandchild knew. Here, in Babylon, married

to a banker, you liked it bent over:
slow and hard and deep. Our weekly trysts freed

you from a deranged world where, “Soweto
was just a song. At fourteen I had

no words for it, but deep and hard and slow
made your hips shake, made you cry, made your sad

eyes flood. Bibi, you moaned but at fourteen
your pain and pleasure all sounded like grief.

Even now I hear, “Soweto,” and hear
you cry as you came, pressing me between

cum-curled pubes. If that was joy it was brief
in a deranged world euphoric for fear.

Soweto Blues is a protest song, sung by Miriam Makeba, about the 1976 children’s Soweto Uprising and police brutality that left over 170 protesters dead.



, , , , , , , ,

With laps and droll slurps your harvest glazes
my chin. Chaos is life blood, you claim. No.

Chaos is fitful spasms, moon phases
that leave you to burn. Blood-fire, my psycho

killer, qu’est-ce que c’est, requires controlled burns;
like jazz, like bop, like, “a loo bop a lop

bam boom.” Caramelized, your uterus turns.
I peer over belly and breasts. To stop

would be crass. Cupping your ass in my hands.
Bringing you to my mouth. This is life blood,

indeed. I feed on bam boom. Your harvest,
best friend, expands you. My hunger demands

rough love. Who else has done this for you? Flood
and flame. Chaos and cum. First lick. Last thrust.

dillin’ doe


, , , , , ,

Voices cry out. Still hard, I clamber out
of bed to peer through the window. A thing

crouched out there, barely human, is about
to die. There are gods of pain whose blessing

only come through guttural moans. Awkward,
blind in the thrall of climax, submission

is the nightly struggle that the coward
cries out about. In the dark I listen.

Wrists pinned, back arched, behind me you struggle
against what binds you to this bed. You’ve cried

out, dead thing, too. Union denied each time
you can’t cum with hot wax and a frightful

dillin’ doe in you. Outside something died.
In here fear divides us from the sublime.


A “dillin’ doe” is an old-fashion term for dildo.

slow hand


, , , , , ,

Make it tender, you suggest. I stop. Think.
Shrug. A tender love poem? It could be

done, I suppose. But why? Love without kink
is love in name only. It’s like the sea

without waves; the only way you might drown
is through boredom. You must be difficult

in bed, you sigh. Perhaps, I say, then frown.
But who will ever know? Like the occult,

few have experienced my mysteries.
I leave vague tenderness to those begging

to get laid. I know a slow hand can please
when it’s a fist. Love lies in defiling

and sin; what you call ruin and hardcore.
Love lies in all that you fear to ask for.

after birth


, , , , , ,

Magic in the afterbirth, which I ate
the day that you were born. I was shadow

that the midwife brought in. It wasn’t fate,
you see, that brought you to me. We both know

that you’ve been in me all this time. This makes
me your grotesque parent. Born blind, second

sight is a gift, like that itch that still aches.
All this time you thought that you were destined

to be forgotten. Who would want a freak
like you? Desperate, sullen, you’ve search your earth

and dreams for something else. I’m still the shriek
that wakes you wet, like the day of your birth.

Only, though, if you want this. No is fine.
Without consent no god would call you mine.

sub play


, , , , ,

You said you don’t like kink, but when you do
you like bondage, group play, the stench of fear.

You’ve read about sex clubs and Masters who
love pain. I’d try that, you blush. With you, dear.

I’ve got off on fear, too, but my nasty
are in war films with submarines; that scene

where the crew despairs while the enemy
drops depth charges on them. All those obscene

faces in the dark, aghast, sublime stink
of dread. That’s an endorphin rush that no

sex club can match. Sub play, indeed. That’s not
kink, you say. That’s just hellish. Which is kink.

I think all perversions that lets us know
life is blessed are both dangerous and hot.

For those unfamiliar with the term, a depth charge is a bomb designed to be dropped from a ship or aircraft to explode under water at a preset depth, used for attacking submarines.



, , , , , , ,

This world is full of lost daughters, vanished
daddies, misplaced parents who never learned

love right. Some of us got praised, some punished,
when we followed our hearts. What our hearts burned

for was not shameful. Others disagreed,
they could not see how orgasms were keys

to our soul, how bliss freed us, how our need
to cum was also a divine gift. “Sleaze,”

they called it. “Sin.” True, passions can corrupt,
but so can hearts and daughters and daddies.

I’m proud of you. The struggle is real. So
is your faith. Be true, dear heart, and worship

to make your soul glow. Not with sin nor sleaze,
but with praise in ways only you will know.

ill incubo


, , , , , , ,

After detox, “fun,” changed. It wasn’t booze
that I missed. It was fucking anything

that moved. Self-preservation? That excuse
got lost on the dance floor. Now, sobering

up has left me adrift. Once I wanted
to save the perturbed; pitied those who’ve knew

this just as a curse. What ran in my blood
was lust for it all … if it were taboo …

if I were drunk. Now, now, now I can’t be
bothered. That’s bleak. Once I’d have told you, “dare

me; – we’ll put the ass back in massacre.”
I still have, “ill incubo,” inked on me.

Sober now I’m no one’s Bi-bone Nightmare,
Cosmic Casanova, Randy Hotspur.

In proper Italian grammar, “il incubo,” translates as, “the nightmare.” An incubus is a demon believed to have sexual intercourse with men and women while they sleep. Three days from now (5/18/2020) will mark 27-months sober for me.