Category Archives: Poetry

blood feud

14 Friday Oct 2011

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I tell you this, revenge is not a sin.
Yes, the craven are always saying we
should turn the other cheek. But, then again,
they are the ones who caused more misery
in their short lives than all the rest of us.
You hurt me, then you left; as if distance
would then protect you. Child, from my malice
there is no escape. All this dark science
at my disposal shall hunt you down, blood
feud. Ten thousand dollars and the pinkie
of your left hand will placate my hatred.
Something to tell your wretched progeny;
that all karmic debts call for sacrifice;
that for grace your finger was a small price.

tão

23 Friday Sep 2011

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The problem with ex’s is that they keep popping back up into your life years after you’ve buried them and moved on. I know I’m damaged goods, but I try to live a good life anyway. I’m a hospice nurse and take care of the dying, but there are times when I can totally understand the allure of being petty and wanting revenge, wanting to be a rock star and be adored for no other reason than to show those that have hurt us just how the world honestly and deep down totally hates them. Then I want Congress to pass a law that says officially every song ever written about two-timing bastards was written with them in mind, and that the general public can beat our ex’s with sticks if they’re ever caught singing the blues. But mostly I want the little finger on their good hand cut off and wrapped in silk and mailed to me, just like how Japanese gangsters, the Yakuza, show repentance. After all, just like in love, if you’re not going to dream big you might as well not dream at all.

For the record, Good Vibrations is a sex toy store in San Francisco my ex and I use to go to.

* * *

Você dizia, que você teria me ama

até você morrer, mas você ainda

está vivo. Curious. Tão, quem fica condenado

ao Inferno? é um sistema de pontos? ou

é ele o ódio de outras pessoas? Porque eu

sou mesquinho, e você tem o Inferno

para pagar. Eu estou aqui porque da bagunça

que você deixou quando foi embora. Você

perdeu o direito de cantar o blues.

Um 100 anos de inverno tem definido

a alma da América, e Good Vibrations

está falido e o ar está cheio de agitação

de cães raivosos e vibradores. Mas você não

entende nada sobre isso, porque isso exige

uma consciência sobre as coisas que você

tem feito. Eu jogo com um pacote perverso

de cartões: O Sodom e Gomorrah de Tarot.

Eu quero minha libra de carne. Eu quero meu

dinheiro de sangue. Eu quero você

no Inferno, olho do cu.

eu quero ir e descobrir

23 Friday Sep 2011

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Eu quero beijos.

Eu quero velas, sangue,

o cheiro da manhã.

Vamos fuder no na encruzilhada,

vodu criança. Misturar nossa

o som do gozo com fantasma-

gemidos. Esfregue na nossa

pele, esporra, e magia negra,

beijos. Como fazer a nossa pele,

queimar durante a noite?

Eu quero ir e descobrir.

In English:

I want kisses. I want candles, blood, the smell of the morning. Let’s fuck in the crossroads, voodoo child. Mix our joy with the sound of the ghost-moans. Rub into our skin cum, and black magic kisses. How do we make our skin burn during the night? I want to go and find out.

rewind

13 Tuesday Sep 2011

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Me contorço sob você.

Nós filmamos conosco — frenético

ofegante em chamas — ficou

maluco. Rewind. Watch me.

Lambo meu suor. Puxo

teu cabelos, como rédeas

do cavalo. Nós filmamos conosco,

com todo meu esporra,

com meu coração todo.

In English:

I writhe under you. We filmed ourselves — frantic gasping in flames — it was crazy. Rewind. Watch me. Lick my sweat. I pulled your hair like reins of the horse. We filmed ourselves, with all my cum, with my whole heart.

the pope blames chick lit.

27 Saturday Aug 2011

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Mostly it’s hard to think about The Fall
or Eve’s Sin or Great Satan’s Odd Toenail,
rat rot disease, on most good days. The gall
of our bedtime stories is that female
prophets keep stepping up, trying to fix
things, though no one seems to give a rot’s shit
for their blood, sweat and queers. A few cynics
blame it on pornos. The Pope blames Chick Lit.
(true fact) but mostly I keep forgetting;
for we worship each other with our trust
and our deep inner parts recall gushing
spray, the comfortable odor of our lust,
passion’s birth, rebirth, we feed on friendship,
like new priests crying in awe at worship.

outlaws

26 Friday Aug 2011

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And how? And now it’s all about dumb-cum
sex, filth, onan, sad pussies and big old
balls in our poems. In the best poem.
Why else write it? Why else read it? I’m told
someone out there’s getting laid, but not us.
Not us poets. It’s hunger, not food, we
require. As Anne Sexton is my witness;
this is our own ballad of us lonely
masturbators. Outlaws know this hunger
like how the well-fed knows despair. Outlaws
love this searching, like a sleepless dreamer
or like a priest without a god. Because
who is devout enough to keep searching
for such an unobtainable longing?

uma galáxia de cicatrizes

01 Monday Aug 2011

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James Dean foi chamado “o cinzeiro

humano.” Seu peito era uma constelação

de queimaduras de cigarros. Uma galáxia

de cicatrizes. Lambi cada uma limpa.

Pode você recordar a dor? o trovão?

o fode? Outra pessoa amor. Eu disse

a ele: Star Man, me fode, estou nua.

In English, perhaps:

James Dean was called “the human ashtray.” His chest was a constellation of cigarette burns. A galaxy of scars. I licked each one clean. Can you remember the pain? the thunder? the fucks? Another person’s love. I told him: Star Man, fuck me, I’m naked.

o efebo

27 Wednesday Jul 2011

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Rapazes bonitos em jaquetas

de couro preto. O teu corpo

é vodka em minha boca.

Um licor que escorre sensual.

Nada pode se comparar a tua dor,

teu louco riso. Tua queima almas.

Cu meninos, você seduzir

as strap-on irmãs — o efebo,

o efeminado, supremo, culto e glória.

In English:

Pretty boys in black leather jackets. Your body is vodka in my mouth. A liquor that flows sensual. Nothing can compare to your pain, your crazy laugh. Your burning souls. Ass boys, you seduce strap-on sisters — the ephebo, the effeminate, supreme worship and glory.

money honey

27 Wednesday Jul 2011

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Como um místico,

eu te direi meias verdades

sempre no à meia luz. Uma

noitada boa. Você vai

desmaiar. Sou dessas

meninos que só dizem sim.

E, se tiveres renda, este é

o meu presente. Prazer

e música. “Eu sou um DJ,

eu sou o que eu jogo.” E você,

com teu camisa decotado

cheirando que a guardado

de tanto esperar.

minhas portas para o reino dos céus

26 Tuesday Jul 2011

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Uma ode à tua períneo. Naquela

estreita, deserta região, o istmo

que medeia paixão, sempre

esquecido, entre o norte e o sul.

Deixe-me fazer uma pausa — North?

South? In? Out? — todos os caminhos

vão em direção a Roma. Eu sou nenhum

arma de guerra, mas eu vou chamá-lo

de meu, esta área não tocada

por homens ou máquinas. Minhas

portas para o reino dos céus.

In English:

An ode to your perineum. That narrow, deserted region, the isthmus that mediates passion, often forgotten, between north and south. Let me pause — North? South? In? Out? — All roads lead toward Rome. I’m no weapon of war, but I’ll call it mine, this area untouched by men or machines. My door to the kingdom of heaven.