Category Archives: Poetry

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.

my mother said to get things done

25 Tuesday May 2010

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Draw up your legs, gypsy girl. Throw me down.
Give me the hairy eyeball. Witchy-weird
thrashed flaxen. Red freaked hair flew in the wind.
We scythe her hackled, reaped curly-down thatch.
Delight had gone wraithen. Within her snatch
worlds formed, thundered smack surf. Her hair unpinned
biting lip, strung out in heaven’s high, smeared
under Mother Hubbard’s mud-stained nightgown.
 
My mother said — Bukkake — to get things
done – no! My mother said that I never
should play with gypsies in the wood. Fog clings
to her thighs. Cum and flotsam. My mother
said cum and flotsam — said cum and flotsam —
said cum — my mother said flotsam — and cum.

sugar sweet

25 Tuesday May 2010

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Blight, bone up, get a cool flat by the gram
up in Copenhagen. More dodgy scams.
More pot-rash shortbread. We’ll have a webcam:
“Gillian Goblyn’s and Maxy Mayhem’s
Jack Off Jill” (you can be Jill) It’s like hot
potato but with more body fluids.
Faith the cane jar across your ass. A dot
of blood on my tip. Showing your rosebud’s
godsmack to the world. It’s in our blood, our
mainer to a vein leading to centers
in our head. Su, su, su, sugar sweet, sour
taste and devour. On our rooftop, slurs
of luzz, it’s all on film as the magpies
gossip in eaves, in elms, in rushing skies.

fad and fumble

15 Saturday May 2010

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The waist of black linen longstockings pulled
thigh high over plump ribs clutching like ash,
girly cigarette, her cheeks, all ash-wooled
agleam, behind her chin and her length slash
kinky thatch. Hash and kisses with the big
bighty heels of clunky-clunky wooden
klompen. All her cogwheels, flicking in wig.
Splaying her rainbow under silk shaven
thatch. Lean in for a close look. “I’m the stuff
that blurs lines,” mouths latched, “all fad and fumble.”
Her wide grin peeked from between thighs. A puff,
a drag, you arrive in her mouth: sweet, dull.
Her tongue crazy bong-water, S-bending
knees, sucking hash ash, getting everything.

all buckram

29 Thursday Apr 2010

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All harsh love. Rough cat-o’nine-tails with thorns.
Your shaved prickly thicket between rage,
between cigar burns, between cuckold horns.
Between here you have sampled my teenage
tongue and ass, hawthorn and briar. I am
brushwood gone mad. What flower, what sea stone,
what smoke knows this pain? I am all buckram,
bull god, the gnarled oak, the hot wind, the groan
of its branches. The frightful night shuddered
and the dawn filled the wine with misspent glass.
Let the sun find her place in the sky, scar
its skin while your love besieged me, butchered
me, cut me, ripped my heart, my tongue, my ass
with thorns and kisses and your damn cigar.

from our clothes, our beds

29 Thursday Apr 2010

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Love does not arrive in a sweat-fuck. Love
arrives in empty beds, all passion’s boast
and self-praise scares it. Lemon and olive
trees bloom, spring has arrived in Gyumri, ghost
city of my soul. Love, we are apart:
parted from our clothes, our beds are empty.
You sit naked by the window. I start
writing lines, stop. My love and the city
I love are far away. We are older
now, no less bolder. You at the peephole
watching me bathe. Love was there and passion
was our birth-right. Never forget, lover,
all our sweat-fucks: that you swallowed me whole,
and I ruptured, an earth-god’s carnation.