Category Archives: Poetry

the sea queen’s daughter

03 Wednesday Apr 2013

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There is a legend told by the diving
girls of Okinawan, the Uminchu,
that the Queen of the Sea, while out floating
one day on the surface, gave birth to two
daughters. A goddess births only pearls,
of course, big as the moon. These two daughters
slept on the sea floor. Side by side, two girls
in their pearly forms slept. Then pearl divers
found Rin curled all round. Where her twin sister
was hid none could say. So they took her home,
combed her hair and called her Rin, the Sea Queen’s
daughter. And being the Sea Queen’s daughter
Rin was the essence of love and sea foam …
… and Our Lady of War and Submarines.

without

30 Saturday Mar 2013

Posted by in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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It was in a valley of sunflower

blooms when the maid, the mother and the crone

came to our door. They called you out. “Daughter”

is a word hard enough to shatter stone

so now all I have left are broken rocks.

I am fine with the rites and all we do,

but not this. First they cut off your dreadlocks,

tattooed your skull, gave you a sword, taught you

how to kill. My daughter now makes chaos

kneel and beg but was taken one spring day,

leaving nothing for my arms to hold tight

but air. I wait for you, love, so that my loss

might be found. You’ll always be my blessed, fey

child; not some blood-soaked woman, dying knight.

crime is bliss

28 Thursday Mar 2013

Posted by in Humor, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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"You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself" -- The Buddha

“You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself” — The Buddha

* * *

Crime is bliss. What do you need? Whatever

it is it is gone. The night kissed me, said,

“go and look for it.” But why would horror

want to be reclaimed? You were not misled

when they said life sucks. It does. Like people

who call themselves Buddhists — already they’re

doing it all wrong. I lost my Jekyll

(or was it my Hyde?) my thrill, my nightmare,

all that I could carry in a spare bag

and say, “hands up!” I don’t hate the Buddha,

just his followers. Take what you need. Greed

is god. Don’t feel too bad. If you need swag

you need swag. “Crime is bliss,” is my mantra,

because, apparently, that’s what I need.

* * *

You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself2

i took what’s mine

28 Thursday Mar 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Up there it’s a bastard: rain, tears, spit, piss.
I’ve had it all. Down here, though, each deep breadth
pleases; the sun is a beacon. There’s bliss
in this pressure per square inch. Crushing depth,
they call it. All the sky is full of blue
ripples. There are two-legged boys I know, shy
when they first meet mother. What’s that haiku?
“Mother I never knew,/ every time I
see the ocean/ every time.” Yes. Indeed.
Go down, love, I tell them. They taste like brine.
How odd that things made of bone and stone thrill.
I had a lover who called me “Jah;” smoked weed
floating on the surface. I took what’s mine
“I love you,” he said, as he kissed each gill.

err or err

28 Thursday Mar 2013

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I don’t want to be born. I want to be
made-up from a world of cryptic but bad
grammar. Make me bionic and hungry
for spare parts. Ink pens for lips, a keypad
smile. Where I walk loose change shall fall. I err,
for I struggle with my opposable
thumbs every day. It is in my nature
not to have any Nature in me. “Null”
is a good word. So is “methyl,” “sour”
and “carbon-based life-form.” Shall I compare
myself to a sodden day? I am damp
as a void. I mean, it takes an odd hour
to fill the wet gap in me. Err or err,
either way I’m as blank as a headlamp.

two shallow graves

26 Tuesday Mar 2013

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I went into the backyard and dug two

shallow graves; one for you and one for me.

I sure as hell don’t want to be with you

in a dirt hole for all eternity

if I fuck this up. When I hate something

it gives me focus. I’m a stumblebum.

Focus isn’t my strength. O heart, bleeding

won’t end a thing, but it’s a start. Seldom

do we get new starts. Heart, foolish heart,

you have been cut and pierced, starved and eaten.

You are a sad, little thing when you bleed.

I don’t care about revenge, the sweetheart

who broke me, anyone. Heart, you’re the one

I want dead; the last thing, right now, I need.

caliban among the ruins

25 Monday Mar 2013

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The sign said, “I couldn’t hurt you like you

hurt me.” Don’t be so sure. I’m Caliban

cast out among ruins; I never knew

how to curse before you taught me. Shaman

for the dead; that job does me no damn good

now. Who knew I had this violent hunger

in me to see you bleed? I think I could,

I could bleed you, drain you dry, and never

call it a sin … I think I’d like vengeance …

except that would mean bringing you back here.

To this world full of light like the first dawn.

So … no. The dead hate you. You’re a nuisance,

nothing more. Being unloved was your fear.

You weren’t, once, but now all that love is gone.

maleficent, mi amor

25 Monday Mar 2013

Posted by in .gif, Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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I’ve been called many things, but a “disgrace

to the forces of evil” made me stare

dumbly at her. I had helped her unlace

her bone corset, let down her crow-black hair,

bled the man, let her drink from the chalice.

What did she want? Her skin, with its green-fire

glow of a witch-queen, burned with her tigress

eyes, her four breasts. It wasn’t desire

I felt for my sister … much. After all,

evil is as evil does (I never

got that); she kept me around, her warm pet

good for snuggling with on cold nights. “Crawl

to me and make me cum, little brother.

I’ll drown you, fool. Amuse me. Make me wet.”

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scar

18 Monday Mar 2013

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When I trace the scars on her shoulders, thick
as my finger, grotesque tattoos that wrap
around each arm. When I kiss her lithic
muscles she starts to tremble. She could snap
my spine like that. She has killed thirty men
like that. When I play with her softest part,
the part I will not name, her talismen
I call a lifetime of love, my sweetheart
opens. It’s not words but other’s secrets
that that I won’t share. When I light her lucky
strike she groans the earth before volcano’s
blow. She clamps my face in place; her ringlets
tease my nose. I love her, from her forty
broadsword strokes to each of her missing toes.

lust’s fee

18 Monday Mar 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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the divine Tilda Swinton as Jadis, the White Witch

I do not believe you — you claimed that you
somehow could own my ass? Pfft. What folly
claiming that you would try to go undo
the gifts that Venus Furo gave to me.
She Of The-Cat-O-9-Tails never blessed
hauteur; you know, gods hate pompous assholes.
These scars come from defending my dreaded
mothers of war. There are ancient hellholes
that none of you self-proclaimed subs and doms
could dream up. Don’t talk about pain unless
you lop off two of your fingers tonight.
Call it lust’s fee. The gods cum in maelstroms,
proud child. Could you survive such a caress?
I did; which is why I’m a witch-queen’s knight.