Category Archives: Poetry

damn-cans

15 Friday Nov 2019

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Prayer stink of diesel fumes, heavy with spew
and retch and thirty-three sailors sublime

depth charge billow; surging, rippling through
lean meat hull. Old-school counting time;

the way any cult embraces its fate —
a hint of dark ecstasy. Coffin boats —

how the drowned baptized them. Damn-cans with hate
of brine crushing through the screams in our throats

and the rivets and the hull. Lone language
of war sounds like submariners at prayer,

counting down seconds until the next blast.
Would you speak love to me in such carnage?

Would you kiss me? or let the sea’s anger
hush me love while you stare numb and aghast?

red thread

14 Thursday Nov 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Passings and Death Notes, Poetry, sonnet

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— after a loss.

If love is what we make of it, then what
counts is not who we’ve lost but everyone

waiting for us at the end. “Love, spirit,
baby cat, I’m so proud of you. It’s done.

You’re safe. Sleep. Wait for me. I will follow.”
“His heart has stopped,” the vet said. I woke to

a strange empty bed. No nuzzling. No
medicine to prep. No deep sing-song mew

for food. Maybe my faith (“Love, wait for me.”)
is wrong? Maybe there’ll be no one waiting?

It’s hard when all you have is a red thread
joining you two. My altar looks lonely

without him sprawled in a sunbeam, grooming
his dark coat, burning with flecked shades of red.

scoundrel

12 Tuesday Nov 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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If you love someone, set them free, we’re told.
If they come back then you’re not the villain

they claimed you were. Your: “I’m being controlled,”
seemed an odd grief, since your, “I won’t question

what you want, just use me,” started every
letter. Your mom in Tulsa said that I

was a scoundrel, making you do pervy
things in public. Perhaps. I won’t deny

that I loved your genius for not getting
caught in a world that calls what we do shame.

Yet your last words said how you loathed sexting.
Odd … but reason enough to stop this game.

Perhaps I’m bad. Perhaps you’ll learn to burn
on your terms. Either way, I won’t return.

eris

11 Monday Nov 2019

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When I awake the world pulses and throbs
angry and demanding. Once more I feel

frantic. Even the promise of blow jobs,
skag and mayhem does not please. What appeal

sublime excess brings feels dull when compared
to this ache. Once more I’m sick, dim and grim

when I want to be veiled, feral and scarred:
your own incubus itching for more. Dim?

Indeed. My neck contains not one love bite.
My mind is off elsewhere. My thoughts scattered.

Eros will not please tonight when Eris,
goddess of chaos, calls. Chaos in moonlight.

All else feels absurd. There’s no other word
for me but, “loss,” no other pain but, “this.”

plead

10 Sunday Nov 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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Last night, two a.m. at the hospital,
with your loved one’s blood on your jeans. Ruin

and his screaming are still stuck in your skull
the next morning, all that noise while someone

tried to save his life. I brought him home. He
slept pressed close to my side. Can a tumor

grow and bloom so fast in days? They showed me
some X-rays. What difference does it matter

if it wasn’t there on Tuesday? It’s there
now. Death takes in threes: I lost Kriszti last

week and maybe J.R. today. Then who?
One more shock. Two weeks ago I would swear

life was good but pain is subtle and vast
and I can only plead: “not yet, not through.”

impulse

09 Saturday Nov 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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There are other ways to satisfy you,
love. I was made for two things: poetry

and wet carnal heat. I’ve met others who
recoiled the one time I asked if they’d be

my well-fucked muse. I only ask it once,
love. If scratches and bite marks are not what

you want then go in peace since the essence
of a muse is impulse; do what’s asked or not.

I’m not asking for a martyr, just pain
induced orgasmic pleasure; a fuck-toy

willing for something new. Cum and sonnets
are what I offer. That and seven cane

strokes on your curved ass. Be bestial joy
in black boots, inspiration and corsets.

cabinet satyrique

07 Thursday Nov 2019

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After a while guilt goes, depression leaves
and you become attractive once again.

You weren’t always this beaten soul who grieves
and blames just herself. You were a tribesman

of Pan, a priestess of Lilith. The world
saw joy in you, in what you haven’t felt,

you say, in years. This Hell, this Underworld
of yours, it can’t hold you once sorrows melt

and pains vanish. Outside, at dawn, a freak
with an antique box waits for you … count me

among your loves. Pleasure is our birthright.
It’s here, in this, “cabinet satyrique.”

It’s here, when both our tribes come together:
butch-armed tribad and fey-boy sodomite.

swollen

06 Wednesday Nov 2019

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I thirst where you seep. Where others haven’t
touched you. Where you don’t touch yourself either.

I love the wet grace found in cock and cunt,
in cum and kisses. All that flows, lover,

is ours. Bathe your body in river mud.
At night, on the bank, under a full moon,

between your raised hips, feed me your moon-blood.
What your body doesn’t want I’ll take. Cruel

to waste such a gift and deny my thirst.
Who else has stirred such swollen wet passions

in you? You seep like damp honey coating
my tongue. Soon, lick after lick, you will burst

into waves. Drown me. Cum like a fountain’s
geyser. Shake like a quake in the ocean.

tongue

03 Sunday Nov 2019

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Lilith — First Mother, First Lover — you play
roles. Let my tongue find your soul and your toes

will curl deep in the woods. I still search, pray
and call on you. Sometimes I hear echoes

of your pleasure. Sometimes it’s just a cool
light in the green darkness. At the crossroads

your owl took my words. I still think it’s cruel
that you never came, though the complex codes

of your prayers confuse me at times. My grasp
of your Armenian tongue is, “shat vat,”

at best. Perhaps I’ve forgot my own role?
I’m built for faith and pleasure, not grief. Clasp

me to you, love. Spread yourself wide. Now squat
over my face. My tongue will find your soul.

NOTE:
In the Armenian language, the term, “very bad,” is “shat vat,” (շատ վատ).

best

02 Saturday Nov 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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Today I took my cat back to the vet
so that they can try and save his kidneys.

Three days. They will labor against this threat
for three days. “We’ll try our best.” But kitties

die just like the rest of us and, “our best,”
often isn’t good enough. After three

days then what? For years he slept on my chest.
For years he was my love, my refuge, he

witnessed what no one else has, what no one
else will. Three days of waiting, of patience,

of fear, of, “I did my best.” Is it wrong
when we say that? Grief, not sin, damns us. None

who read this will come in time. Let absence
break me. Today here, love. Tomorrow gone.