Category Archives: Poetry

bang-up globs blue as acid

28 Friday May 2010

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Blow out, you cocks, over the ill unchaste.
All fire can quench. You get what you deserved.
Bottled, glints in raw indigo liquor.
Let it spurt now, slap silly with lurid
pulsing spray. Bang-up globs blue as acid.
Irksome forms blurring to booted vapor.
Everything coming apart. Verved. Verved. Verved.
I blur. Apart. I cum. As in lay waste.
 
As in bits. Nothing is soften’d by love
only those crappy Troubadours and their
shitty ideas on love. Gimme foxglove.
I love poison bottled. One box’d nightmare
orgasm. Proof of what we shouldn’t wish
for, fire quench’d, and all damp flesh must perish.

ju-ju smut

28 Friday May 2010

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Aphrodite cooking “Bamboo Spirit”
in pots, salacious in the pawpaw patch.
I the aye-aye in the lewd cage. Tattoo
Earth God’s drinking dada-cocaine, murmur
hot and heavy Bauhaus. And my vulgar
Mama’s lecherous. Metal-hard taboo.
And my Jojo’s voluptuous, shaved thatch
that is only hinting at ju-ju smut.
 
I the aye-aye, yeah. “I love the nightlife,
I got to boogie on the disco ’round.”
The gods say drop your gat-gun and flick-knife.
The gods make your body their own playground,
little shut box, morning glories fusion
open hard the drip drip of fast motion.

KINKY PIG

28 Friday May 2010

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Men make the world old, grown cold and weary,
leaving sick whelp hearts that kink cannot change.
Half-men sing half-blues about their half-cocks
and all the little joys, wet as cyclone 

dreaming, sucked deep from yarrow-marrow bone.

My real Spanish fly, you in your dreadlocks
and I is I, a sign not there. Our strange
anthem: him a’hymn, her love drug dirty.
 
Kinky pigs have the blues before sunrise,
up in their tawny tongues. A song that longs.
Leather warthog, gutting out like one sighs
a song, cyclone that blows between the songs:

“Gimme a lovesick call. Blues before swine/

Nothing, no nothing, will ever be mine.”

chemical physics

28 Friday May 2010

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Broken mirrors in mudslide of cocaine
in your bathroom on laundered lingerie
folded up in rows. We laugh while neon
energy swarms in our vodka, sloe gin
fizz. As in chemical physics. As in:
“pass the dutchie on the left hand side, mon.”
Blood-shot eyes, I push the neon away.
Clone dead braincase. Rupturing our membrane.

Shatter the sink’s cold edge. Grab your hourglass
hips. Pull you in. Quintesensual skin.
Wober love-in. Doing lines off your ass.
Rubbing twenty fingers across your grin.
Down your neck. Across all that is thick
and plump. Chemicals make us fun and slick.

acid bastards

27 Thursday May 2010

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I love liquid beating drum. I love spurt
and jets of milk. I love closer, closer.
I love hot. I love acid bastards.
I love lithe blue. I love infernal blood.
“Darling,” you begin. “Picture me naked
before my typewriter searching for words
and the keys to put this down on paper.”
“Darling,” you begin. “There is still wet dirt
 
under my nails from the last time we met.”
I love how the sun lifts up the dill’s long
green stalk. I love how it gets its roots wet.
I love raw. I love how it’s never wrong.
I love breaking. I love swallow and spit.
I love more. I love knowing when to quit.

all the way

27 Thursday May 2010

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Billie Holiday, Lady Day.
April 7, 1915 – July 17, 1959

 

Palm pain calls the body’s fox-plump landscape,
henna to pink noon from stunning pattern.
In the great hour of her face, moods unfold
each in her feud with the darkening air.
Lame bride sings kisses, blows hair-hook affair
in her flaming fastbacks with our fivefold.
Shimmer the pain with the lover’s iron
shavings of firelit airwaves and escape.
 
City country. In the morning Harlem
ginger leaves, bends to the window. Sliding
fold out. “Stop right there.” A mountain, a drum
on the radio, Lady Day singing:
“If you let me love you a fool would say.
It’s for sure that I’m going — all the way.”

bushfire

27 Thursday May 2010

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I make blow dryers envious. Your skirt
pulled up at night glow glory hole. Breakthrough
motel sores. Open this wound, small pockmark
pats and scratches right above your bushfire
and thigh. What words or harder desire
does the night require of me? A birthmark
down your chin carving grins from your hairdo.
Purple pubes make it worth all the effort.
 
A new love. A new face. A new outfit.
This is it, darling. Sunlight pours straight-faced
while I’m buying a hairbrush. This is it.
I love how you look. I love how you taste.
Purple go-go boots and purple bouffant.
Come on over here and do what you want.

frankie says

26 Wednesday May 2010

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“Everything we write will be used against us,” Adrienne Rich

……..

And then autumn, a Pleasuredome’s blood crop.
In school we saw a film, Reproduction.
Little snake-feather poked the slippery
future. A boy with a burned tongue became
quickly half-baked. Burn green snake-feather flame.
Grunting and budding. Squirming with scollie.
Shoulders back, skies open and infection.
We Vogue vague. Big boom box: rhyme sweat/rhyme swap.
 
Everything you loved, everything you wrote
is used against you. Shadows of this Plague
passed us by. No more nostalgia syndrome,
all our anal sex a joke, quote, unquote.
We’re a long way from home. We Vogue. We Vague.
It ends here: Welcome to the Pleasuredome.

you and you and me

26 Wednesday May 2010

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We are part of something bigger, like you

and you and me. You dressed me up in pig
-tails and purple. Wrong. Let’s break in your new
strap-on. Let’s play Farmer and let the big
ram slam me, ma’am. Then you will lick me dry.
Like the song says: Lickety clit ain’t no
disgrace, girls gettin’ off all over my
face. “Do you want,” the girl on the porno
asks, “to cum down my throat or in my ass?”
Both! we three say. Let’s grind and jack, hammer.
Let’s be part of something bigger. Show me
how deep we can go. Fisting rude and crass,
slim-jim. The kind who say to fresh meat, “We
like you, care to join him and him and me?”

rubbin’ sticks n’ stones

26 Wednesday May 2010

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Life is short, she said, let’s have an affair.
Be my cock, selfish fist. Ox, how heavy
is thy yoke? and keep hands on our thighs, ‘k?
Through rough exits, into howling gales or
onto frozen seats, expulsion. Girl gore
linen clad bottoms bobbing on runway
wood heels. Rubbin’ sticks ‘n stones and beastie
boppin.’ All girlware, croon leading nowhere.

Then she will shine and be my kissin’ kin,

sista’ gazook. Inhale, sista’ girl smears
Detroit greasy. All this cityscape sin
gonna crash in, slim. Sista’ sick as tears.
Sick as smears. Sista’ pass the bowl. One whiff.
One puff. I rise, this fable waving stiff.