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a boy and his green cat
a boy and his green cat
29 Thursday Nov 2012
Posted in Illustration and art, self-portrait
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Monthly Archives: November 2012
love like scabies
27 Tuesday Nov 2012
Give me one last kiss, I ask for no more.
I know that you see our love as bizarre,
grotesque. I wanted to taste battle gore,
to feed on war, my Witch-king of Angmar.
Alone, you have kissed my hungry lies, lips,
finger tips. I have conquered walled cities
for you. I, who was young and fair. What drips
here is only lust, the dark arts, furies,
my blood and disease. Love like scabies. Bliss.
Lover, my dark shadow in a red masque,
give me what I came for: one wild, sweet kiss
to last a thousand years. That I may bask
and die. Trampled. Recall our lover’s vow.
You, who have taught me my ways, kiss me now.
dogsbane [II]
27 Tuesday Nov 2012
“The oldest
song ever
sung” …
and I,
a boy
from Babylon,
can only hope
that
the one
who finds
me knows
how to sew
roasted
tar
and paper,
gun
powder and frosted
raccoon skin.
It is winter,
the stuff
of midnight
fables.
dogsbane
27 Tuesday Nov 2012
Swallows twittered all morning; at high noon
blackbirds sang amid the corn. At dusk down
the frogs with piping filled the black lagoon
and the bats, in flight, spoke of the nightgown
and the sticky toy. Let me sing about
going down behind your misty blood veil
finding your red-faced rose moon, your cunt’s pout,
my two fingers in. I love girls’ duck-tail
haircuts and packed strap-ons. Cut birds’ laughter
across the harp strings of the rain, I hear pain.
I sing for the grass. I chime for flower.
This boy is all spring showers and dogsbane.
Let me be your rain, your wild wind, bluetongue.
This is love, the oldest song ever sung.
sticky trinity
26 Monday Nov 2012
Tags
absinthe, bath house, ces couleurs pervers, Christ of the Phallus, Holy Ghost, homoerotic, sonnet
I have gone down on Christ of the Phallus.
I have sucked dry the Lord of Divine Hosts.
Let men brag about conquests. When Jesus
came he filled my mouth with the Holy Ghost’s
jizm. When he dribbled absinthe across
his god-like cock I prayed to the wild green
fire in its crystal shrine, Fairy-fuck sauce,
as I licked each massive ball squeaky clean.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. Hashish
and bath house gangbangs made for great threesomes,
sticky trinity. We were stoned, puckish,
immaculate. We were smutty pilgrims.
We found, between a prophet’s cock and ass,
all of faith sleeping in an absinthe glass.
doggy-style means nothing
26 Monday Nov 2012
Tags
Down in the sunless depths of clay she sank.
Shocked and flushed as a star for a bridal
dress. Now shrouded. A chain across her blank
breast. The dead have forgotten sex. Babel
Tower Tongue-Fuck Doggy-style means nothing.
The noise they make sounds like weeping waters.
Aghast, she was at the point of cumming
when Death took her, still tasting of reefers
and gin. Cunnilingus interruptus;
Limbo by any other name. How low
would you go? Who would school you in lewdness
if your soul depended on it? I know
all souls do. How low? Today you shall learn
all the ways I make sure that you don’t burn.
mojo hannah
20 Tuesday Nov 2012
Posted in video
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I’m taking four strands of your hair
And a five dollar bill
I’m gonna put it in a letter,
I’m gonna drop it in the mail
I’m gonna send it to a woman
That a friend of mine told me about
She’s a gumbo cooker and an alligator whipper
Make a dead man jump and shout
Talking about a woman named Hannah
Down in Louisiana
Oh, she’s a mojo worker
She’s gonna work that thing for me
She’s gonna hear my misery
And I know he’ll be coming on home soon
She don’t wear fancy stitches
All she wears is a man’s britches
And now and then she takes a little sip
She’s got a forty-five on her hip
She’s built up a reputation in the southern land
Saturday night about twelve o’clock
You know she voodoos the voodoo man
Talking about a woman named Hannah
Down in Louisiana
Oh, she’s a mojo worker
She’s gonna work that thing for me
She’s gonna hear my misery
And I know he’ll be coming on home soon
Mojo Hannah, she’s the best in all the land
Mojo Hannah, I know she’s gonna find my man
I’m gonna be sitting there by the railroad track
And I know, I know, I know, I know, I know
He’ll be coming back
I’m taking four strands of your hair
And a five dollar bill
I’m gonna put it in a letter,
I’m gonna drop it in the mail
I’m gonna send it to a woman
That a friend of mine told me about
She’s a gumbo cooker and an alligator whipper
Make a dead man jump and shout
Talking about a woman named Hannah
Down in Louisiana
Oh, she’s a mojo worker
She’s gonna work that thing for me
She’s gonna hear my misery
And I know he’ll be coming on home soon
She gonna work it
She gonna work it out
Work your mojo, Hannah
Work your mojo
Work that thing for me
Work that thing for me…
your witching spot
20 Tuesday Nov 2012
Tags
your witching spot
Yesterday
I salted
your mouth.
Today there is
a warm, briny
sea
between your legs
as you float,
soothed
by the kiss
of ripples
across
upturned nipples.
Your thatch
of hair a bed
of kelp.
Skinny dipping
near Santa Cruz,
the sea
shimmering
through you,
waves lapping
at your clit
just like I did.
And at each silk-
like stroke
you thrust
your ass up,
heave your hips
out of the water,
as if I were still
with you,
guiding
my tongue
to your witching
spot, as if
you were a sea witch
and all the ocean
your lover.
lo que me conecte a ti
16 Friday Nov 2012
lo que me conecte a ti
Against my pale
shoulder your dark
hand rests.
Against your dark
breast my pale
fingers pull
and tease.
I pray
to Ramses
and Taurus,
the bull.
You sing
songs about love
juice and other
squeezables
“work, boy,
put your tongue
into it.”
Now you
are above
me, lowering
yourself down
onto that simple
swollen link
that connects
me to you,
down until our
pubes touch,
down until our
bones rub
together.
Freud said men
fear the moment
of entry,
the disappearance
of the self
into the other,
the annihilation
of the ego.
Please, Freud
never got fucked
like this.
killing the fey
16 Friday Nov 2012
Posted in Poetry, self-portrait
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Tags
body politics, Dora-Mittelbau, effeminate, fey, Holocaust, homophobia, Paragraph 175, pink triangle, queen, self-portrait
Yoked to my lisp, I want you to know
this compulsive arching and pulling and
expanding of flesh at the gym burns
my flesh yellow. I live
in a town where lumbering, stiff
postures serve as reference, where
cropped “Are You Butch Enough?”
buzz cuts act as testimonial.
Where the gym’s trainer says: to be totally hot,
to be truly huge, you need this fat burner!
Get jacked! Get slammed!
I hear the body is
our only sanctuary.
Where men at the bars say: I may be gay but
at least I’m not a queen. Or fat. Or femme. Where
I feel that stare at my back: Hey faggot! Hey
faggot! Hey! How do they know?
I accept, I accept all this.
*
Yoked to my lisp, I want
you to know Hitler took us
Hundred-and-Seventy-Fivers
to stretch us out. Recall
Paragraph 175 of the German Penal Code
would have defined me
as one of the “unneeded consumers,”
one of the men “incurably sick” with effeminacy.
Is this why I’d try to reshape my body?
Since I’m judged not by an act, but
rather this sashay?
What do I do with these butterfly hands?
It might still happen. It will
have to happen. It happened before
(I was scared, I cowered, I swore).
I have studied these men: I may
be gay but at least I’m not a queen.
Did it happen to them? A queen?
Is that all I am? Here
in this suburban bungalow,
behind these drapes,
this cross, this little madonna (what was it
that they saw in our bodies?) alone
in a white room, my lisp singes the air,
infusions of smoke from the factory.
*
I accept, I accept all this. There is a word
I carry with me: mannweiber, “manwoman,”
a word used near Buchenwald, at Dora-Mittelbau,
where camphor and elms shivered over the lanes
leading to the underground cement factory
where we Hundred-and-Seventy-Fivers
were to be “bent straight.”
My body burns yellow to recall
when we were incurably sick. Hey,
faggot! my body burns, their words
branded into my frame:
mannweiber “manwoman”
mannweibchen “boygirl”
mädchenjunge “boybitch”
*
I’ve tried to live anonymously, I’ve tried to live
with it. I’ve
tried
under the spectator’s stare, and I feel
that stare at my back. I accept,
I accept, at least I am
a queen.
memories of my ghost sista 