09 Sunday Sep 2018
Posted in quote unquote
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The sea is a wilderness of waves,
a desert of water.
We dip and dive,
rise and roll,
hide and are hidden
on the sea.
Day, night,
night, day,
the sea is a desert of waves,
a wilderness of water.
09 Sunday Sep 2018
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Why does the sea moan evermore?
Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,
it frets against the boundary shore;
all earth’s full rivers cannot fill
the sea, that drinking still thirsts still.
09 Sunday Sep 2018
Posted in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet
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Tags
colony, ocean poetry, poem, Poetry, sacred voyage, sea fever, sonnet, tramp steamer, wayfaring
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.
08 Saturday Sep 2018
Tags
crotch rope, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, fruitcake metaphor, murk, oral sex, poem, pudendal cleft, rope play, sonnet
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.
05 Wednesday Sep 2018
Posted in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet
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Tags
ghost lover, holy death, niña roja, poem, Poetry, prayer, red girl, santa muerte, sonnet
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.
01 Saturday Sep 2018
Tags
all the pleasures prove, blood-cream, chamber lye, death tastes of menstrual blood, erotic poetry, i know, sonnet
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.
26 Sunday Aug 2018
Tags
BDSM, Cliodhona, erotic poetry, fae, Irish mythology, pain proves, shorthair, sonnet, tempered, Tuath Dé Danann
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.
24 Friday Aug 2018
Tags
Armenian translation, circe's mercy, heavy green honey, praise this sleaze, schooled gore, sibylline's rant, witch's itches, yes ch'em yes
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.
23 Thursday Aug 2018
Not that bent field stone, slick with dew, jasmine,
chicory — there are gods of those fields, scant
hairy things who watch you squat and piss in
the green flax. I wish to know what the ant
and the bee see in such jewel-weed. Not
that plush spot plump between your collar bones.
Not bone or field stone, not odd god, fleshpot
or urge (there is always an urge) that groans
thickset, clover seed to plant root in you.
Open your mouth. Root seed and suck, inhale.
Simple as not gagging. The way you pass
through a pallid field turned bronze. What shall spew
from me shall dribble down your chin, a pale
trail, a craving, splash, dew-dropping the grass.
21 Tuesday Aug 2018
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She stands before him clothed in garments of flaming fire, inspiring terror and making body and soul terrible, full of frightening eyes, in her hand a sword dripping bitter drops.
memories of my ghost sista 