Category Archives: Poetry

ill incubo

15 Friday May 2020

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After detox, “fun,” changed. It wasn’t booze
that I missed. It was fucking anything

that moved. Self-preservation? That excuse
got lost on the dance floor. Now, sobering

up has left me adrift. Once I wanted
to save the perturbed; pitied those who’ve knew

this just as a curse. What ran in my blood
was lust for it all … if it were taboo …

if I were drunk. Now, now, now I can’t be
bothered. That’s bleak. Once I’d have told you, “dare

me; – we’ll put the ass back in massacre.”
I still have, “ill incubo,” inked on me.

Sober now I’m no one’s Bi-bone Nightmare,
Cosmic Casanova, Randy Hotspur.

Notes:
In proper Italian grammar, “il incubo,” translates as, “the nightmare.” An incubus is a demon believed to have sexual intercourse with men and women while they sleep. Three days from now (5/18/2020) will mark 27-months sober for me.

call us

13 Wednesday May 2020

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The world shuns perverts. Perverts shun the freaks.
Freaks shun us. That’s fine. Not all of us need

boys or girls, bumpin’ uglies, the techniques
taught in, “The Kama Sutra.” Others plead

for love. We watch our video nasties:
“Glory-hole Devil Dolls,” “Ejacula,”

“Wankenstein.” We sleep alone and we please
no one. We’re so far beyond the stigma

of Slut that we’ve ascended. When we cum
it’s raw-bone enlightenment. Others whine

when their lovers are unfaithful. We grin
and sing: I. Me. Mine. ¡Ai! There’s the freedom

others can’t even dream of: I – Me – Mine.
It’s why the perverts and freaks call us sin.

under tongues

10 Sunday May 2020

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You long for stranger’s lips on your wet splayed
lips, a mouth on the mouth between your hips.

I yearn to learn each Old World term that made
your Ma squirm. Songs of sighs. Which word still drips

from your Bibi’s thighs, though tyrant English
tried to damn it? Words can be colonized

and then redefined, called sin and banished.
Words for cum, sensuous sucking, clits baptized

under tongues, parted lips. If I sang them
while your baby-phat nectar soaked my tongue

would you be my translator? Forbidden
words, deep, biting, dripping, like the mayhem

found in a poetry slam. – Words you shun;
words that make you blush and gush as one.

for grace

06 Wednesday May 2020

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“Just don’t bring home a white boy,” your father
bid. So you did. He was flippin’ flippant

when he said, “the devil is in my daughter,”
but I was, too, daily. We’d had blatant

need for veils: your hijab, my sonnet. Place
for grace. Safe space. Each poem was a road

home for us: “Fuck ass, let no wrath erase
our path.” In my bedroom more than faith flowed

where my tongue teased. Each kiss a phat freckle,
salvation. My palms on your breasts. Until …

fissures from your father’s need to control
us: his, “modest virgin,” her, “infidel

b-boy” – men who sew their woe; men who kill
joy all because of their own broken soul.

fractious

04 Monday May 2020

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Most of our lusts are hell-bent. Hot breath in
our head. Chaos flurry. Keen for a leer,

vile look, fractious love. They say that sin
is man-made. We get off feeding our fear.

We all have shreds of it riddled through us.
I felt yours when you came over. Nightmares

full of husband’s fists, mothers of violence
are just dreams. Some are as toothless as prayers

against rage. I’ve raved and craved that hate, too;
but my rage went inward. Ate me in ways

that you never will. Violence born bliss
still shames me, anchors me, sucks me in, spews

me out. Why such a craze for the male gaze?
We who insist that we’re above all this.

misdid

02 Saturday May 2020

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Flip the Bird was a bird, from Leeds, no less
and since it was the 80s – a junkie,

to boot. Junk is droll, you’d said of the mess,
when I finally pressed, your panties barely

hiding that odd smirk. Not the worst tattoo
that I’ve had to stare down while staring down

inside someone. “Perv much?” in faded blue
ink gave me pause. Once. Sex with the class clown

tends to be desperate: all your pussy-fart
jokes, that eyesore, Flip, your constant reference

to our age difference. I get it. Life sucks
for the misdid kids. I’m not smart. My heart

means well, but I remain a perv, class dunce.
All I have is mercy and messy fucks.

coddle

27 Monday Apr 2020

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In the end it’s barely there. Touch of heat.
Spark of grief. Why won’t such a tiny prick

set me gangling? Not the first to treat
me like this, but … it’s a bit bombastic

to say the last. I mean, a night not fraught
with pain is kinda weak sauce; and, my dude,

you don’t show me much. Is that all you got?
Stubbing your cigar out on my chest? Rude.

Tied down? Duct-taped while Dylan & The Dead
blare? That’s not torture, twitchy. That’s just tripe.

Count the scars. I don’t coddle amateurs.
It’s why these fingers have no nails. I’ve bled

better and you promised me a huge fright;
so damn proud of that tiny prick of yours.

schemes

26 Sunday Apr 2020

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You get sloppy. Your thoughts muddled, jumping
from hint to hint. How many evil schemes

have you half-hatched? One more undertaking
undone. Friends try to joke but something seems

infernally wrong. You’d bet your scrumptious
cloven hooves that lockdown out in Hades

is like this: promise of having promise
squandered. Even this poem does not please;

started weeks ago it sits on the page –
sneering – go on, make one more droll blow job

joke. You think you’re a horny devil but
you’re more Sucka MC. Your old-school rage

doesn’t age all that well. You’re quaint. Both slob
and snob. Say it. Sacred smut. Arse biscuit.

harbor

25 Saturday Apr 2020

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Storm-sheathed. I slip the squall back inside. Why
this rage? Cloudy outburst; your plum boughs bounce

on the bloom. Moody, you called me. Each thigh
splayed, now settle down – and watch how I flounce

on the floor each time you grind your crevasse
across my face. We all need harbors, space

to cool. Ride me like that leather and brass
gizmo, your wet glow maker. Grace. I’d trace

the way with tongue, but, amour, I’m cocksure
I’m broke. No excuse. If you must bend

in my blow, storm crow, where others fissure
and snap, that’s my fault. If you must endure

love then it ain’t. Just a gale without end.
Just one more tempest that you can’t harbor.

caught

24 Friday Apr 2020

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Fucking perversely, whoever she was,
close to home. Each noon the splintered windscreen

on your camper van fogged up. True, the flaws
in this affair were that you had to clean

the shag carpet each time; stench of vodka
and sperm and rocking Volkswagens don’t fool

people, even with Three Dog Night’s, “Mama
told me not to cum,” cranked high. Middle school

flashbacks, even now, are of your panic
at the thought of getting caught. “I can’t stop,”

you’d gag, my balls pressed fat against your chin.
We all cry out; even an ex-hippy chick

getting licked clean, acid in each teardrop,
heartache that you kept calling a love-in.