Monthly Archives: October 2013

all erotic rebels

05 Saturday Oct 2013

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Don’t, they say. It’s fantasy. They don’t want
to know, they say. It’s dreams where everyone
suffers from plastic, Victoria’s gaunt
secret and sex is hot simplex-free fun.
Honey, they’d never let you in our hell.
Salvation for me ain’t no damn haven
where the saved are all erotic rebels;
always wet, always hard, always molten
fucking. Because when love fills you with grief
that can’t be consoled they say don’t. Their dream
demands that everything be mind-blowing
for minds that never are. Here’s my belief
that there is an end to hell. Don’t blaspheme
holy sex, don’t curse love, don’t damn dreaming.

roots

04 Friday Oct 2013

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“Then,” my grandfathers wrote, sweet, sweet men, “I
wiped my/ 9 year old ass I was/ bloody
copiously. ‘Congratulations,’ Sly
said, ‘you’re/ a man.’” That was what poetry
was like back then: lists of fucks. Oscar Wilde,
save us. And he tried. My fathers, sweet, sweet
men, heard him. Stonewall, being the grandchild
of the divine, brought forth Camp and the Beats
and cute men in natty dread suits. But once
I came to be the plague had destroyed fuck
all. I was raised by their ghosts so I walk
alone. I love ghosts, their sweet, sweet essence,
but one love is not enough. “It’s my luck,”
he said, “that I talk of both cunt and cock.”

the way love dogs bark

03 Thursday Oct 2013

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It’d been a night without words she hunted
in the dark gazed at the stars stared into
the flames she turned the spit among her blood
sisters who were now her companions, who
had been her rivals: girls’ blood, bloody souls.
Now the beast had been driven from hiding
and its fat sizzled and sparked in the coals
the way love dogs bark. One girl lay bleeding
near by, having stumbled during the hunt.
Rites of passage must always end bloody.
Tonight she’d taste another’s mouth, cast doubt
aside, grip their hips feel the heat, the weight
of one different than her; nervous to see
if she could make another soul cry out.

in love with sword blades and poppy seeds

02 Wednesday Oct 2013

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Almond’s almond husk, the green husk, the black
and the mottled underclothes still called kink
on you, beloved. Your crevice, your mossback,
exposed to light one more time. Let me think,
Amy Lowell called it fingering the smooth
kernel, grandma for all I write. Yes, fuck
Ezra Pound and all those who try to soothe
over his fascist ways. They’re just bollocks,
dear Il Duce. My grandma would never
put up with that bullshit. She knew the worth
of an almond, a clit, Modernist swine
who made hate new. I call you honey slur,
Mama Amy. Men laughed at your wide girth,
but fuck them, I call you poet divine.

only human

02 Wednesday Oct 2013

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I.
These scars exist to show that I survived.
That the things that you prized I overcame.
Only those of us who have been deprived
their hearts know their weaknesses. And the shame
that you called puberty, you called hormones,
was a door that I walked through on my own.
I’m still changing. You said that flesh and bones
can’t be denied; yes, the pain that you’ve shown
me, the scars that you’ve cut into my skin,
I can’t deny. I’m still changing and you
fight with dirty tooth and claw, since you can’t
change—you’re only human. What you call sin
is faith. What I call love you call taboo
and what I call my prayer you call a rant.

II.
so sad too
bad get
over
it

asshole …

lowland: prelude of things to come

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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I am in love with your hands, your fingers,
they have brought you more pleasure than I will
ever. Swift movements in the night where blur
and swish is called for, touch and stir, until
a coast of flesh, repeated broken beat
your chants, your prayers, bombastic solitude
when no one else would have you. Your discreet
pleasure, because it always is. Prelude
of things to come – like you. Show me your hands,
let me praise what you do effortlessly.
Grasped at length stroked, stroked – liquid gasp, your breath
in twos, threes, fours. Downs. Down in your lowlands,
where no one goes, I call that mystery.
Show me how you pray. Show me your small death.

war queen

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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Come, find me: others might have promised you
love but I’ll be the one who goes to hell
to win back your soul. Julius Caesar, who
crossed the Rubicon, loved a jezebel,
a war queen, a shy girl, promised as such
— “alea iacta est” — now the die is cast.
This is a promise I’m staking so much
on. War queen, Jezebel, Love: Hell is vast
and I am small, but I will go looking
for you. Orpheus taught me where to go.
I can fill the gods with tears. Our dreamland,
even our dreams, knows this song. I’m singing
you back, love. What is love to a shadow?
I’ll show you when I steal you from death’s land.

a few notes on cannibalism

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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“When the food runs out, the family reunion is over. It’s cool that out of all my relatives, I’m the only cannibal.”
― Jarod Kintz, This Book Has No Title

][][

I could bind you, bite you, beat you. Freaky
needs leave you in rags and used. Should I come

back? kiss away the bruise? But that’s what we
do on Friday nights out of pure boredom.

Today is Tuesday, kitchen day, and I
have been playing with spices: lemon zest,

basil, chervil. One day I shall hog-tie
you, rub thyme and marjoram on your breasts.

I am curious what you would taste of
if I felt a bit peckish. It is odd

how so few things shock anymore. Quite right,
the cannibal in you is not above

a tease. I’m a lovely cock tease. The God
of Death knows my infernal appetite.

filled my heart

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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Damaged. I don’t need to say anything
more but you know. All my poetry pales
before those two syllables. Heart breaking
how I learned not to give a fuck. Details
are all unimportant. All tragedies
are pain. But to not give a fuck? That part
hurts the most. Damaged goods. Before “sissies,”
“tomboys” and “fags.” Before fear filled my heart.

I own that now, for Damaged means wisdom.
It means that we took it all and survived.
I do give a fuck. If you’re reading this
then we survived. You and me. I’ve been numb
for a good long time. Damaged. They deprived
us of our childhood but we’re still us. Us.

again again again

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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But my mother’s mother, Maleficent,
widowed from her first love, and that love’s first
ripe fruit, moved through her father’s realm, torment
in her heart, her native tongue, being cursed
as all fairy tales curse us with ruin.
Again. Again. Again. “Find your magic,”
grandmother replied at each doubt—her one
dictum, fed with her green fire and sapphic
faith. She spoke so little of pain that we
forgot that she was a widow with no
regret, practiced in delight. I recall
all her stories, of heroines scrubbed free
of men’s curses. Tales where not one widow,
crone, step-mother died—just burned for us all.