Category Archives: Poetry

mi hija, el pornographer (soneto)

19 Sunday Aug 2012

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Fue cuando ella comenzó a traer su trabajo

al hogar que comencé a preocuparme. Caminando

por la cocina para encontrar a alguna muchacha

masturbando a un tipo, era mi hija, capturando

toda en la película, grita las instrucciones. Encontrar

el fregadero lleno juguetes sexuales apenas lavados. Un nuevo

tubo de lubricante anal en su monedero. “mirando a

otros coger,” ella me dijo, “es lo que mejor se hacer.”

No puedo avitar pensar que hay voyeurs

en todos nosotros. Incluso la palabra impresa

era una vez de otros. “Estarias sorprendido

qué todos lo que podemos hacer delante de otros,

dado la ocasión,” dijo ella. “es absurdo

decir que no amamos lo que desdeñan otros.”

mi-hija-el-pornographer-2

(It was when she started bringing her work home that I began worrying. Walking into the kitchen to find some girl jerk a boy off as my daughter, capturing it all on film, shouts instructions. Finding the sink full of sex toys just washed. A new tube of anal lube in her purse. “Watching others fuck,” she told me, “is what I do best.” I can’t help but think there are voyeurs in all of us. Even the printed word was once another’s. “You would be surprised what we all will do in front of others, given the chance,” she said. “It is absurd to say we don’t love what others despise.”)

funcionamiento violento en mí (soneto)

18 Saturday Aug 2012

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¡Usted canta hoy, “te quiero! Te quiero!

Te quiero!” ¿Y qué de él? ¿Guardó

ame en su lado? ¿fantasma gordo que

vaga su paisaje susurrado pararon para llorar

o reírle o hablar? Todos poseemos

secretos. Todos poseemos las pasiones que duermen.

¿Quién no tiene el impulso salvaje de acariciar

o de ser acariciado? Cuando usted piensa en el profundo

las raíces verdes que usted ha empujado en mí, suciedad húmeda

de mi corazón, la dulzura, la señal de socorro,

todas las sensaciones sutiles del desierto

ese funcionamiento violento en mí, le hizo una vez la conjetura

que le desplumaría de este suelo húmedo y porqué?

¿Quién le miraría marchitar y se descolora y muere?

 

sorrow

 

(Today you sing, “I love you! I love you! I love you!” And what of it? Did it keep love at your side? Did any fat ghost who wanders your whispered landscape stop to weep or laugh or speak to you? We all possess secrets. We all possess passions that sleep. Who does not have the wild urge to caress or be caressed? When you think of the deep green roots you have thrust into me, moist dirt of my heart, the tenderness, the distress, all the subtle feelings of the desert that run violent in me, did you once guess who would pluck you from this moist soil and why? Who would watch you wither and fade and die?)

smut by the sea

25 Monday Jun 2012

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Take me down in a tidal pool; swimsuit
around my knees. “Skerries beg/ the seal’s
bride,” we once sang. I am Neptune’s child: mute,
dark-eyed, insatiable. I sing the eel’s
want, the urchin’s need. I know of the sin
that can only be found under the moon,
down at ebb time’s tide. Take me; make my chin
slick from your spray. Even sex-starved Neptune
found joy sitting on the sand and dreaming
of what lay below. We are all sex-starved.
Let the great, gray seal colony — crying,
“lick me, lick me” — cry. I love a myth carved
into shifting sand; obscure and far-flung.
I love the selkie’s cock, the siren’s tongue.

my teenage horror moans

22 Sunday Apr 2012

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I’ll make a rude ghost — the kind who infects
crossroad brothels; anywhere the fragrance
of sex and fear sleeps. Skulking hulks of wrecks;
enthralled with jellyfish, phosphorescence
and the double-grin shark. A thousand years
of cock, hanging just so. Aeons of sprite
light, all that dreary pop-rock and cum smears
on my chin. I’ll make rude; ghost in skintight
trousers, tousled hair and alabaster
hunger. I saw The Devil in Miss Jones,
it made my grotty whore moans and toxins
all run amok. Dead lust is a horror
show. I traffic with fear and pheromones.
Lick me clean; I’ll make you cum in ruins.

wings and burning cheeks

16 Monday Apr 2012

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Demons do all look alike. They are round
with wings and burning cheeks. I love bucktooth
fangs, scholars and poets all, those hellhound
coke-heads, all my dead friends with a sweet tooth
for flesh. The heavens were made in sevens
and I fuck in threes. Water still burns nerves
whose one duty is to delight. Demons
do all look alike; the way that the curves
and lines in cocks and cunts blur together,
if you’ve been with enough. If you haven’t:
‘ello, virgin. There’s a reason spirits
shun you. Like how I shun burning water
and the living. We love all wet, mutant
lovers; hellhound fucks; dead coke-head poets.

lilith’s flamenco nuevo

12 Thursday Apr 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Feminism, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet, video

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Poet’s Note: Lilith was Adam’s first wife, an equal, kicked out of Eden for refusing to be man’s inferior. Flamenco is a style of music, song and dance from Andalusia in southern Spain, if Grief chose a style of dance, it would be the Flamenco. Duende is a Spanish term, the poet Federico Garcia Lorca described it as the artistic power everyone feels but no science can ever explain. In Jazz it’s called Soul.

* * *

And the jackals knew that a new woman
was in town. How could they not? The snakes dreamed
of the deep well of souls you keep hidden
between your legs. Our home, this wasteland, gleamed
like a song; where each hand-clap was a scream,
every heel-smack … an act of revolt. Eve
never danced the Flamenco; her bloodstream
never ran this lewd. Let the crude fools grieve;

the moon, La Luna, listens to me sing.
I have no Duende, yet still I .. i ..
i .. i .. i, mi corazón, my heart-string.

We dance as outcasts under promised sky.
We are the owners of nights of freedom
from which blooms the blood-blossom orgasm.

(I love this video soooo much! ¡y un coñazo!)

future little ghost

27 Tuesday Mar 2012

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Day and night, each passion has its haunted
future, its mysterious bedsheets, cum
dripping down the walls. Passion, like acid
in the blood, hints at what could be. Welcome
ghost — urge I did not act upon — sleeping
inside me like one who died upon life’s
threshold, never wept for, smiled at, haunting
me with what might have been. The good housewife’s
low moan, the saint’s climax, the moonlit mile
where the nastiest of our spirits reigned.
Even while asleep, your perverted smile
tells me that you’re dreaming about the stained
knickers of the dead. What could be lewder
than our future, little ghost, my sister?

banshee, mo ghrá

24 Saturday Mar 2012

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Note: The Irish phrase “mo ghrá” translates
as “my love.” The Banshee is from Irish mythology;
Bean si, meaning, “a woman of the side” or “a woman
of the fairy mounds,” usually seen as an omen of death
and a messenger from the Otherworld.

* * *

On a midnight walk I spied a shadow
with long white hair, sobbing at Bane Reilly’s
doorstep. They say that a Banshee’s sorrow
knows no end. Yet, it’s said that, “a fury’s
lust is the twin of a furious grief.”
And I, who traffic with spectral lovers,
sat down near. What is the point of belief
if we don’t act on it? There are monsters
in this world, but they wear skins of humans.
Only a man could make such a spirit
so sad. You and I, we are both orphans,
in one form or other. I’ve kissed kismet.
I’ve slept with death, Banshee love. It’s my faith
to share my love with you, my white-haired wraith.

thirsty ghost

23 Friday Mar 2012

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Even ghosts get thirsty. Come, share with me
a bowl of shaved mango ice and sweet bean.
I have the gift. I have proficiency.
I can traffic. I am the boy between.

Thirsty ghost, will you taste my love? my kiss?
will you taste my blood? I have more to share.
I can make you weak, small ghost, make you hiss
when you cum. And you will come. This nightmare
called thirst — suck greedy baby, greedy shade,
drain me dry — nightmares make us strange bedmates.
Loose your wild hair. Go down, lover. I prayed
for a thirsty love. Who said sex stagnates
after death? Take me deep inside — my breath,
my love — fill yourself with this little death.

luscious fear

21 Wednesday Mar 2012

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Note:

The strength of writing sonnets is that they are, by definition, short. You only get 14 lines to say whatever it is you want to say, each line can only have ten syllables in it (iambic pentameter) and there’s a rhyme scheme you have to follow (this one goes: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG). Because I’m more or less tone deaf I spend a lot of time counting out the syllables on my finger tips and trying to figure out how to make a sentence work that has whatever rhyming word in it the poem requires. Of course, sometimes you rework a line or sentence so much that while it might succeed as a correct line in poetry, when you reread it you think “damn, is that what I really think?” So, for the record, I’ll just say that love is more than the ability to cum or have an orgasm. There’s more to life than erections. It’s not that I advocate necrophilia, but rather, it’s hard to talk about a ghost lover without at least hinting at it. Oh yes, and I really like the word “luscious,” people should use it more in conversations. Cheers!

* * *

I love your lips, cracked; your eyes, all bloodshot.
Our lust is what gives luscious fear its life.
All night in my bed, we turned cold death hot.
Who loves you? Would just any man or wife
lick the grave dirt from between your cunt lips?
Cum for me. You came back for me. I came
inside you. The proof of our love now drips
inside you. When it’s love there is no shame.
Embrace the wicked light of a June moon.
Sing to me what the Dead know of the night.
And, my dark one, I want you to cum soon.
Cum like roman candles, burn like sunlight.
It was the way you slipped back into bed,
hungry, aroused, as if luscious fear led.