screaming to god for death by drowning –/ one salt taste of the sea once more …
quote unquote
03 Friday Aug 2018
Posted in quote unquote
≈ Comments Off on quote unquote
03 Friday Aug 2018
Posted in quote unquote
≈ Comments Off on quote unquote
screaming to god for death by drowning –/ one salt taste of the sea once more …
03 Friday Aug 2018
Posted in quote unquote
≈ Comments Off on from, “childe harold’s pilgrimage,” by lord byron
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror — ’twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.
03 Friday Aug 2018
Posted in quote unquote
≈ Comments Off on “fish food,” by john wheelwright
Tags
fish food, john wheelwright, no evil, poem, Poetry, quote unquote
As you drank deep as Thor, did you think of milk or wine?
Did you drink blood, while you drank the salt deep?
Or see through the film of light, that sharpened your rage with its stare,
a shark, dolphin, turtle ? Did you not see the Cat
who, when Thor lifted her, unbased the cubic ground?
You would drain fathomless flagons to be slaked with vacuum
The sea’s teats have suckled you, and you are sunk far
in bubble-dreams, under swaying translucent vines
of thundering interior wonder. Eagles can never now
carry parts of your body, over cupped mountains
as emblems of their anger, embers to fire self-hate
to other wonders, unfolding white flaming vistas.
Fishes now look upon you, with eyes which do not gossip.
Fishes are never shocked. Fishes will kiss you, each
fish tweak you; every kiss takes bits of you away,
till your bones alone will roll, with the Gulf Stream’s swell.
So has it been already, so have the carpers and puffers
nibbled your carcass of fame, each to his liking. Now
in tides of noon, the bones of your thought-suspended structures
gleam as you intended. Noon pulled your eyes with small
magnetic headaches; the will seeped from your blood. Seeds
of meaning popped from the pods of thought. And you fall. And the unseen
churn of Time changes the pearl-hued ocean;
like a pearl-shaped drop, in a huge water-clock
falling; from came to go, from come to went. And you fell.
Waters received you. Waters of our Birth in Death dissolve you.
Now you have willed it, may the Great Wash take you.
As the Mother-Lover takes your woe away, and cleansing
grief and you away, you sleep, you do not snore.
Lie still. Your rage is gone on a bright flood
away; as, when a bad friend held out his hand
you said, ‘Do not talk any more. I know you meant no harm.’
What was the soil whence your anger sprang, who are deaf
as the stones to the whispering flight of the Mississippi’s rivers?
What did you see as you fell? What did you hear as you sank?
Did it make you drunken with hearing?
I will not ask any more. You saw or heard no evil.
03 Friday Aug 2018
Posted in quote unquote
≈ Comments Off on “they say the sea is loveless,” by d.h. lawrence
They say the sea is loveless, that in the sea
love cannot live, but only bare, salt splinters
of loveless life.
But from the sea
the dolphins leap round Dionysos’s ship
whose mast have purple vines,
and up they come with the purple dark of rainbows
and flip! they go! with the nose-dive of sheer delight:
and the sea is making love to Dionysos
in the bouncing of these small and happy whales.
01 Wednesday Aug 2018
Tags
cat's pajamas, crap soap, odds bodkins, poem, Poetry, shorthair, sonnet, tickless
This is a prayer. Our kiss hang in the air —
like clocks, it stops. Tickless. I have no more
ticks left to give. “By the curly shorthair,”
the kids say, “odds bodkins.” I still deplore
just how helpless I’ve become. It was not
love since I stood up and lovers lay down.
It was not sundown since I get distraught
at dusk and this was bright. Blood had caked brown
around my nostrils. Bruises filled the crook
of my arm. That cough. Easy as despair.
Easy as soap. “There are stains that baffle
soap.” That’s some crap soap, bub. Be suds that shook
the stain in the cat’s pajamas — this prayer:
it starts as a kiss, it ends as a yowl.
31 Tuesday Jul 2018
Posted in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on cupid’s malcontents
Tags
bust a cap, cocksure, cupid's malcontents, drama queen, poem, Poetry, self-portrait, soft boy, sonnet, totally rad
My trash-talk needs work. I want more than gloom’s
muzak, more than these chrome mall mannequins,
half-clothed, standing guard near the changing rooms.
Stripped, I abhor what I see. It frightens
me how I’ve changed. Once I reveled in loss,
desperate for your tongue. Transfixed with romance
halfway down my throat. I loved all chaos;
all of Cupid’s malcontents in hot pants.
I was all that I’d take a bullet for
because there will always be some foul dude
afraid of the fab, of soft boys, who’d bust
a cap in anything rad and cocksure.
Picture this: a queen standing hard and nude
in a changing room — hard and still in lust.
30 Monday Jul 2018
Tags
c'est bon, desert mint, haitian balm, Idlewild, poem, Poetry, red dirt, sonnet, telegraph boy
I want to smell the memory of you
passing on the street. Bells of Idlewild,
orange groves, nine paper roses, bayou
salt flats, the way you sang, You Wicked Child.
Wicked musk. First the cleft where your backbone
merged with your ass and then the sweat. The whine
as my hips grind. “Telegraph boy,” you groaned
out the words. “C’est bon!” Yes, it was good. Spine
bent, eyes wide, thighs akimbo. I walk bent
in boots but your scent is not here. Red dirt,
Haitian balm, incense. None of them were yours.
Or ours. A hint of desert mint, cement,
quisling’s room. It was the last scent that hurt.
Hospice’s razors, flu, IVs, bedsores.
27 Friday Jul 2018
Tags
damp gristle, euphoric heat, gore's soul, knife wisdom, left toe-cutting knife, poem, Poetry, slash season, sonnet
I want a darling not afraid of knives,
in love with the oil and the stone. Who knows
how to hone against bone. My flesh thrives
with pain, with slash seasons, with primrose
-hued welts. What do I need with a summer,
bastard dogwood galore? or an autumn
with lake storms pitching across the sour
waves? What we have is a fist, the wisdom
a fist brings holding a knife. I am yours
for the cleaving, for the euphoric heat
carved in. My skin is ornament enough,
and my will shall be done. Darling, let gore’s
soul guide you through all this gristle and meat
to my trifle of flesh, slash season’s stuff.
26 Thursday Jul 2018
Tags
ahoo, erotic poetry, love alone, masturbating to emily dickinson, masturbation, pink milk that rises slowly like someone masturbating between their knees, shlick, sonnet
Death leads me to these acts done in flagrance.
“After great pain” – Shlick – “a formal feeling” –
Shlick – “Cums.” Twitch. Petite death. There’s no science
to what stirs first. Vortex wakes, quakes. “Shlicking,”
you said. “Soft, sleek and fine,” you said. “Watch this:
my lit clit.” – Such bliss can only be sensed
along the edges: blood cycle, dawn piss,
star dust, love alone. That moment: hips tensed,
spine arched, knees flung all ahoo. I am full
of blessed sin, sacred sparks, every taboo
role that I know. In that blind moment cracked
-lips-crush-down-tongues-fail-to-pull-
away … But no. Of course. I (like you)
are alone in these solitary acts.
23 Monday Jul 2018
Posted in quote unquote
≈ Comments Off on quote unquote
Tags
embracing the erotic is a spiritual act, erotophobia, name what you oppose, quote unquote, sex in particular
EROTOPHOBIA: the fear of sex and the power of our bodies and souls.