Category Archives: Poetry

mescaline is for the weak

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

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I’m not sure when LSD morphed into
acid, perhaps Pacman played a key role.
You have eaten it in crystals, liquid,
laced on sugar cubes, rubbed against your skin.
I like your skin. It’s shiny. “Mescaline
is for the weak,” you said. “Give me acid,
vodka, horse tranquilizers. The wormhole
in my head needs feeding.” Be my Voodoo
 
Chile (slight return). It’s all about our fun.
Our wait for things to happen; things impure.
Baring your dark skin to the flat, white sun,
huddled down on the striped towel in your
homemade paisley bikini. A lesson
while we wait for something fun to happen.

cleoparta’s last

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

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Please, not again. Not another grand dame:
“Magdalena Weeping” or “Ophelia
Drowning” or “Cassandra Telling the Truth”
Of course she’s telling the truth, she’s fucking
Cassandra, asshole. Where’s “Venus Shitting”?
“Cleopatra’s Last Belch”? “Ester and Ruth
Eating Pork”? (you know they did) “The Nausea
of Eve”? Nausea of us. Save us from lame
 
observations. Trite verse we already
have heard. Selling yourself for sex is fun.
Sniffing glue actually works. Chastity
sucks dead man’s balls. Love’s a bitchin’ suntan.
I’d trade ten years of poetic license
for crack-cocaine and good health insurance.

testify

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

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Tonight the bass blares: We’re up for the down
stroke. Your cunt dimly gleams, lighting the room
with wet girl glare, half cinder and half smoke.
I is not I. Jah flies into the air.
What love is this? Our queer love. This affair
of ours let’s us get down for the upstroke.
There is no bad rhythm. We just resume
our mad fucking. Cumming. Drowning. We drown
 
in each others’ cum. I can dig it, star
child. I wanna call this love, testify
funkadelic, CC. Let the guitar
glare. We dig. We’re astral and moon pagan,
waiting for the Mothership Connection.

twirl a penny

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

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Murmur that tells of April high in sweet
air the wind skirt blows, the brass weathercocks
all point south twirl a penny will buy her
violets and that makes you my own pervert.
Walk with me. Let the wind blow your short skirt
higher. Between her thighs she’s bald, smoother
than the moon. Gypsy moon. You want her “Box
Called Sin.” Your swampy parts. I want where heat
 
lightning always strikes. She belongs to no
one. Not the Bang Brothers. Not the nightlong
night. Still, you want. We lay on a ghetto
roof top. You pull off your top, pull your thong
to one side. You can cum when you’re can’t stop.
What else is there here on the roof top?

neon-cunts & cock-sprockets

03 Thursday Jun 2010

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Poets are dreadful fucks. Even back then
they were clueless, blaming the moon above
for their limp cocks. Heh, the English! The times
have changed but we’re still required to read
that cock-sucker Wordsworth in class. Please, bleed
all the fun from poetry with forced rhymes
that add zilch, nothing, nada. What’s this “Love
not, ye hapless sons of clay” crap? Again,
 
I say, these drip-dick lads are not worthy
of our time. I’ve fist-fucked Eros. I’ve let
Venus put her spliff out on my sorry
rawhide. Forget these daffodils. Forget
these two-hundred year old virgins. Poets
should be sick fucks: neon-cunts, cock-sprockets.

y’all make it so damn easy

03 Thursday Jun 2010

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Y’all make it so damn easy to dismiss
some of you poets as clueless. Back when
Wordsworth, et al., sucked: only a moron
would buy into how these guys portrayed
women: ‘How sweet,’ said the trembling maid,
‘doth the moonbeam smile to-night upon yon
leafy isle.’ This is all it took? grown men
pretending to talk like preteen girls? This
 
made you a poet? One of the Supreme?
Stop in the name love since Suffragettes
couldn’t come too soon. All this blaspheme
against verse. This is why certain poets
should be driven from the temple with sticks.
I’m through with their puerile shit, stupid pricks.

clara vere de vere

02 Wednesday Jun 2010

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I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:/ … In glowing health,
with boundless wealth,/ But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,/ You needs must
 play such pranks as these. — Alfred, Lord Tennyson
I want the heat of our first kiss — the joy
of my head on your breasts. Will you say no
as my cock hardens against your belly?
After all we have done have you forgot
how good it feels? making your honeypot
drip. Slide your panties down — all that keeps me
from where I’ve been and where I want to go.
Clara, you have raised such a wicked boy.
 
Clara Vere de Vere you’re not my mother
but I’d fuck you all the same. Hard and Deep.
Like this. Cum in your bum. Lover, lover,
lover.  Come. This world of ours will not sleep.
It grows dense with scents of sweat-fuck, bodies
on fire, roaring to us in the night breeze.

vagina dentata

02 Wednesday Jun 2010

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cultures have folk tales about women
with toothed vaginas, frequently told
as cautionary tales warning of the
dangers of sex with strange women


Teeth in your cunt? Take me, I’m yours, because

I want it nasty, girl. Always obscene

hunger is so hard to please. Please. Rougher

fuckin’ our cock and cunt will let us knock

boots: wet as dreams, long as a bullgod’s cock.

Is it wrong to say you’ll cum like thunder?

Cum like black heat? Let me unfold between

your legs, feel your sharp heat. Will your toothed jaws
 
let me explode deep inside you? — making
all tight things cum in a confused climax.
Life is short and sex is so amazing.
Make me bleed the way that acid flashbacks,
ice cubes, whips, candle wax all make me bleed
in you. I need you. I need you. I need —

slam back blackball

29 Saturday May 2010

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And mud swallows with throats that twist and wings
that beat and on their sung song the summer
follows and in the summer life is good.
Pilgrims from far isles see where out west
the larks mark holy spots and call them blessed.
I would never be a pilgrim. Priesthood
gives no salvation. I am a sinner
gratefully. Flesh is sacred. We’re sucklings,
 
fucklings, bullgods at stud, oak dappled all.
Swallows or spits, inhale antique weed. Dark
with eyes and gold with hair slam back blackball
whiskey. High it may be that the skylark
sings for us. There is not else save a shy
wee thing turning in the brightening why.

dionysus suckling

28 Friday May 2010

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Because she fed me on her flock’s goat milk.
Because I watched her squeeze each mud splattered
teat dry. Because the winds lifted her silk
from her shoulders. Because I leaned forward
and cupped her breasts in child-like hands. Because
I felt the dazzlement of her nipples,
sudden gemstones. Because she did not pause
at her work, just smiled. Because my muscles
tightened, stiffened, hardened. Because I did
not love her. Because I did. Because my
hands, all vulture, caught a flame, my skin peeled
back when she daubed milk on my lips, then slid
fingers over my mouth, tummy, cock, thigh,
and so I burst in her mouth as she kneeled.