Category Archives: Poetry

fried

25 Tuesday Mar 2025

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Glazed frost spores on the water. I was drift

wood but ill will has washed me back to shore.

Anger still clings to my heart. Spores shift,

spores bloom, even now when I know the cure.

Ja, wrath and fears are inane. Ja, one numb

thought fills me: the lust tree of ash denied.

Darkness root covers me. I have become

hungry, a ghost dwelling in my frost fried

thoughts, hell of a rage cloud, ah desires.

I would drink so I wouldn’t have to dwell.

Antarctic; it means, “without bears.” Fitting.

Inward. Roots in fog. Forcemeat. Vice stung choirs

whinnied, then shied. Frost, indeed. That ice smell.

Margin’s djinn. A fond farewell, farewelling.

puck

23 Sunday Mar 2025

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That’s a crazy strong root work. With lewd psalms

scrawled on my hands. With the words that set Lot’s

daughters; mum lit, mum spit on their jaws, palms,

phat ol’ coccyx. That’s too …? “Bonnie & Trots”?

Far too Fanny Hill. A touch wrong? These runts

and cells divide. Master’s bed. Master’s beat.

Droll, your grandma called it, as in, “that’s Cnuts!”

As in, Lot’s daughters. Cave wet. Thick and teat.

Newborn. Nothing. Gained and scrawled on my hand.

Great gray chested. Scars upon czars. Crone’s zones.

Meaning? Raw root work. “A gumbo cooker.

Alligator hooker./ Make a dead man

jump and shout, woo.” Love, I’ll soothe away bones.

Cray thong. Lewdly palm. Puck. –– ‘gator hooker?

splayed

22 Saturday Mar 2025

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Our act sung between grunts and squeals. Hang

on. True to your profit and pride, you made

me weep before you died. Petite Fille Gang;

slept me dreams named me soul nailed me hue splayed

me shame. B-4. More tripe. More hype. Less floor

pie. Less said mass in my mouth. Pour ash. Speak

in tongues. Rend me like sackcloth. You speak more

when you cum. Tongue song. I’m here for the freak

carnage. Liebesgemetzel. Love. Slay. Sleep.

Our tongue sung act. “What the devil?” you hiss

as I try something new. Beetle buzzes

in the tin. The vibrator buried deep.

Our tongue sung bet. We go together bliss.

We go. We rest. We come as flesh to ghosts.

][][

Note:

Liebesgemetzel is a German term that means, “Love massacre.”

randomize

20 Thursday Mar 2025

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One for the road. Yes, I placed the barrel

of your pistol in my mouth. You were out

of the room. For the taste. Once. Gunmetal

lime. Fat germ lemon. Tart like sauerkraut.

Tart like the road. Death tastes all taste buds gone

wrong. You said it was like sucking cock, but

no. Life has a taste. This does not. Neon

cherry. Photon peach. My moppet mouth, gut

wound. I placed the barrel of your pistol

in my mouth. To taste defeat, randomize.

Haha, fool. Ha. “Till my Pussy sucks/ Air,”

you wrote. You were out and I put it mull

in my mouth. “Lick the moon between your thighs,”

Chrystos. Make you swamp-wet glut with prayer.

grrl

19 Wednesday Mar 2025

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“Am I pretty?” Trouble keeps following

us. Our love, love, is messy. We hunger.

We put the anger in danger. We sling

bling but to no avail. Trickster. Monster.

Kickstarter. This yōkai needs plastic

surgery. “Am I pretty?” You know how

this goes. Kuchisake-onna, tragic,

almost, Slit Mouth Woman with her Glasgow

Smile, starved for this, asking random cowards,

“Pretty?” Stray cat strut, what’s mine is now ours;

love your blood, your B-bones, your Gangsta-pearl.

Look at all these brokenhearted bastards

who shall never love. That’s not us. Our scars

tie us up tight, pigtailed, knuckled blunt grrl.

][][

Notes:

Yōkai are supernatural spirits in Japanese folklore. Glasgow smile is a wound caused by making a cut from the corners of a victim’s mouth up to the ears, leaving scars in the shape of a smile.

shore

18 Tuesday Mar 2025

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Blood tastes the same, I found, pressing my lips

first to one stump … then the other. Brackish

tart. Sour iron. Licking her breasts, her hips,

her chin. When it came to combing the fish

and crabs out of her hair I said my prayer,

the whole reason I came. If you can’t do

this, they said, who can? So I came, harbor

master. I came. You still call this taboo

because you lack faith. I call it the bone

crushing depth of the sea. I call it home.

I, whose blood tastes nothing like yours. I call

and call. On the shore. In the crash and moan

of the surf. I’ll lick your stumps clean. I’ll comb

drown your hair. I’ll down with my dead man’s crawl.

hints

17 Monday Mar 2025

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They let the Scurrilous Child imagine …

but they’re all ghastly teachers. Not one graced

with the Lore of the Flesh. Ours: a Common

Pornography. I’m down with the Unchaste-

to-be, with Alien tremors. Hints start

like this. Phantom limbs waiting to be bit

away. Scars prenatal, biding time. Tart

horrors of muscle: in spring they’ll commit.

Trust me: your sex life will be the, “dark times,”

that Brecht warned of. Like mine. Like all of ours.

You just don’t feel it, yet. Go dream about

future fucks; go search for wise pastimes

sublime, as wise as your love without scars.

I’m not here to tease, love, just to sow doubt.

sure

15 Saturday Mar 2025

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A fig cored in the fog’s nest. Sea kelp curls;

pubes with the long voice of water. Your thigh

marked with bruises. Drawn in the sea, the pearl’s

grave eye, in the tip of my tongue. Pinkeye

and cum, suncocked salt water down your throat

until you cough. Spew. Sex affects, you think,

what it touches. Salt stained bloat. Horny goat

weed cast adrift. Such spindrift of your pink

and plum channel wall. All this bliss, you turn

key, you corkscrew, must be out there. Glamour

like the tide. Neither age nor money nor

time shall dampen a good soak. Saint Sloane’s Burn.

You think. You thunk. Before, when you’re older,

salt glass, triton’s tidal fuck, and less sure.

kitsch

14 Friday Mar 2025

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Seven Seas. Seven Days. Seven Heavens.

Seven Circles. This is how you put Witch

back in Twitch. Ghost of hymens and omens.

You’ve found 5 of my wantons with queer kitsch

magic: my nipples rise to meet your tongue.

Unrest under cottons, Underoos, pink’s

stink of sweat. Rich la Dolce Vita wrung

young … or not. Of my 7 Slits, my links

back to flesh, five have yet to be cut … but

you knew this, cutty snark. I wouldn’t trust

Das Blade to just anyone. Malice bounces –

Et tu, gluteus? – “In a butt made to strut;”

the first rhyme you ever taught me. You thrust

fast. I? Flesh bloomed; came in Seven Twitches.

whipsawed

01 Saturday Mar 2025

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On the subway, splattered, your dastardly

dream-turned-shower, shed as a badge of hard

car-knocks, all keepsakes of nastiness. Tree,

for the taking. Sap queen. I go marred bard

when I whine. O lured god, green ya twee boss

hewed. Pallid. Heed, as in, heed my prayer for

– rancor splotches? – all cooed quivered across

your face? Flushed a canvas like flesh you gore

my cum wryly. My thrust into the ankh

rusk of dusk; dripping down your chin. Such crust

spotting car-knickers; an unclean and odd

godly. Less swank and prank, more filthstank, rank

as in – Indeed. My mussed thrust. My trussed

bonedust gone g’na’d. Roughshod, little god.

][][

note.

As personal puns no one else will get “g’na’d'” is from the Armenian word for go, “g’na,” (գնա/ guh-naw), which I then put in English past tense (‘d) because apparently this is something I do.