Category Archives: Poetry

fiasco

17 Tuesday Mar 2020

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Your dead breath on the neck as my hair stands
erect. “Why be ashamed of being dead?”

I asked. “I can’t hold you with wispy hands.
My lips are so cold when we kiss.” You said

you dread going down; all those small complex
movements that oral sex requires. “I know,

I know, death robbed me of my gag-reflex.”
To spit or swallow turned pure fiasco;

my cum flew through your face. Was that what lured
you in, though? Hope for one last kiss — the snips

and snails of my breath? What’s a, “little death,”
to the dead? The air tasted of frost poured

on grave dirt. You couldn’t baptized my lips,
so you stared, enthralled by my fleshy breath.

lèche-la

15 Sunday Mar 2020

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There is monotonous darkness and heat
under your bed. What adults fear they shun.

They took me away. Now nightmares will eat
you — not like how I ate you, that was fun.

Just why Trots and Cap’n Bill’s adventures
were,“Grand,” but ours were,“Smutty and Unchaste,”

I still don’t know. Was it the sex? Sex blurs
the line, they claim. So I know what you taste

like. Is that a crime outside of Utah?
As if. “Lèche-la,” you sang. What am I but

fable? Lèche-la: now they police even
your make-believe friends. What will you let gnaw

on you? Them or lust? There’s no shame in smut
or lust or hungering to be eaten —

Notes:
Trots and Cap’n Bill were characters created by L. Frank Baum for his Wizard of Oz series. Lèche-la is French for, “lick it,” as in, “lèche-la chatte.”

swaffelen

14 Saturday Mar 2020

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Virus and the silence of night. Wham, bam:
the song went — but from your open window

there are no voices. Kink from Amsterdam —
Bunny Boiz who beg for the peg; Bravo

Gals who throw their weight; all those beta brawls.
All that gone. Plague-time and the Freaks suffer.

No, not especially, just each one who mauls
you with a brutal hand. Call me, Father

Confessor; I heard you. I heard slapping.
Swaffelen, I thought. I heard your baby

talk peeps. Now nothing comes from the dungeon
of your bedroom. Silence is threatening

when you can’t sleep; when you’re one more Daddy
who just up and died and went to heaven.

Note:
Swaffelen is a Dutch term meaning to cock-slap one’s penis against an object or person. It was named as the Word Of The Year in the Netherlands and Belgium in 2008.

amor oscuro

15 Saturday Feb 2020

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[for Hart Crane]

I’ve had more than just ink in my mouth. Grail
tasting like brine when you let go — you freed

your hand then leaped over the tramp ship’s rail
to drown. You could’ve called me rent boy, greed,

nephew, hint of hope. I’d have given you
my youth and made a life out of rapture

and bare-backing. You didn’t want rescue,
though. You didn’t want to wait. I’ve never

loved the despair of urban sprawl enough
to call it epic — but you did, I’m told.

You saw, “amor oscuro,” as dead weight,
a curse. The void called. No amount of rough

sex would hold you back. I tried to hold
you — but no, you let go, you wouldn’t wait.

][][

NOTE:
Hart Crane (1899-1932) was a Modernist poet who wrote an epic-length ode to America called, The Bridge. He was also a chronic alcoholic, filled with homophobic self-hatred. While returning from Mexico, on the steamship Orizaba, he committed suicide by leaping off the deck. Dark love, or amor oscuro, is the term that the Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca (1898–1936), called his homoerotic desires.

fivefold

14 Friday Feb 2020

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We’re no burgundy brew crew; derisive
of how slow liquor takes to reach your clit.

We’ve clinched quicker means. Your conservative
spouse and his church clan claim, “effeminate

brats,” like me go straight to hell, boy. The glee
and joy we got each time we rolled your old

cuckold, sloppy drunk sick upstairs, while we
capered (plunged and hit deep, frothed your fivefold

lips, reared back to plunge again) like the brat
cats that we are: witch’s brats. Fuck buddies

with the Black Arts. Lovers of corpulent
terrors. Your husband can’t even, “begat.”

We’re progenitors of beguiling sleaze,
eldritch sex acts, love both odd and ancient.

][][

NOTE: Contrary to popular belief, a “witch’s brat,” is simply a male, of any age, who studies the dark arts under the tutelage of a licensed necromancer. Niccolo Paganini, the 17th century violin genius, was called, “The Devil’s Stepson,” and the “Witch’s Brat,” for his demonic and amazing musical virtuosity.

clean

07 Friday Feb 2020

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That queer scratchy noise; dead nails on floorboards
while my cat snarled, hissed, and backed away —

For a week we didn’t notice. The wards
were up. We were back; fucking like doomsday

was still nigh (please), grinning as I’d ravish
your mouth; feeling you gag on the chaos

of my flesh while begging me to finish
(please) on your face, rubbing my cock across

your outstretched tongue. Of course something crept in
during our shagged-out acts (please); something drawn

by me licking your bones clean. My cat’s wail.
The thing on the floor. For a week our twin

pleasures burned us clean, until doomsday, spawn
of our pride, what the kids called: “epic fail.”

godhead

03 Monday Feb 2020

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Cant (noun) 1) phraseology peculiar to a particular class or profession; 2) the private language of the underworld.

Slowly this language fills in the distance
between us. Once your clit was all the Braille

that I needed, a queer kind of bone. Once
I had no words for the suction cup gale

of your mouth: resting on your tongue love drips
down your chin. Feel how I swell full fathom

like hearts and tempests swell? Now place your lips
around my crown. Yes, suckle me down. Cum

translates into endless ways to love. Those
who drown in love live. Those who live can speak

the words only heard by shamans and bawds —
a queer kind of tongue. Will you spit what flows

in your mouth out or swallow? Let this freak
godhead fly: cunt’s cant of rent boys and gods.

voracity

14 Tuesday Jan 2020

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Dank, like sick. Huge, like “rouge jass.” The eldritch
horror sat on my chest and purred. Mouth, cunt,

budunkadunk; we all have ways in. Witch
without craft, shaman without gods; ancient

grudges have left me without familiar
or friend until, tossed in nightmare, I let

it in. Lich flesh. Lyke-Wake dirge. Corpse purr.
I’m all grease and juice and mutton bone. Wet

treat for ghastliness keen on all that smut.
Toothed lips. — Heinous anus. — Voracity

from hell. — Even if I’m only loved in
nightmare that’s enough, phatty bubble butt.

It’s still love hunched on my chest, teaching me
its queer language that has no word for sin.

cranked

13 Monday Jan 2020

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“Twenty minutes,” you gasp, dropping the phone.
“Beastly perversions,” as your dad calls this,

take time. This is just, “d’baw-chuh-ree,” thrown
in high gear. All that drenched, languid, “sk-hiss,”

rhythm we love gets cranked. Fury cums, it bursts,
leaving us sodden, like prayer. We all pray

in our way. I pray in you so these thirsts
and greeds might slow. No. Climax is doomsday

postponed. Once again that damned car pulls up
and I pull out. Once again we scamper

to get dressed. “¡Sodomite!” your dad christened
me. True, I swing both ways but I worship

with you. Love takes time. In prayer, however,
we cum like feral gods, fuck like legend.

fangled

12 Sunday Jan 2020

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“Neat,” I tweak. Rolling your nipple between
fingers and thumb. You bleat out weak-squeak noise

during recess. — In the girl’s bathroom. — In
the 3rd stall. Shorts pulled down; your thick tomboy’s

thighs clamped around what passes as my wrist,
spreading out inside you. For two whole weeks

you’d come for me, emerging with a mist
of dead boy’s cum and a newfangled freak’s

need for more finger fucking. — I’m your ghost
of a wallflower every time I, “eights,”

you. A thousand years of bliss stir in you.
None of your classmates have felt this, can boast

dead boys love them. Just you, when grief mutates
to need in the bathroom. Call this rescue.