Category Archives: Poetry

inferno

25 Friday Jan 2019

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

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I note how in rehab you sound drunken
with awe while going on about how sex

was fun back in Nineteen-seventy One.
Fun ain’t a word I use. “Savage.” “Complex.”

“Impaled.” Break me double until you feel
my heart beat under my ribs. Connected,

with cock, with fingers, with mouth, with that squeal
squirting, flesh tethered flesh. “Rage fuck.” “Blood

brutal.” “Holy like sin.” Still, you fear hell
so you got some quick faith, some religion —

that’s not my fate. Sex is the Inferno;
Lilith, the guide. Perhaps, in some motel,

somewhere, sex is fun. I don’t know. Your fun
has brought me only pain, ruin, sorrow.

perked

24 Thursday Jan 2019

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I taste of mud, pert meat, the moon’s eclipse;
being born still and cold until Lilith

breathed life into me, wrote the word, “Emeth,”
on a stone and placed it between my lips.

I still shimmer as I pass through heated air,
though my lisp anchors me here. One day soon

you’ll kiss me and taste the wasteland’s dark moon
while on your knees, while tonguing my curled hair.

Lockjaw and spittle. “Lilith’s Pet,” you said,
staring as your nipples perked. Like footprints

trampled in red mud, in blood, my kiss shall
leave its mark, tell you that I was born dead

in dearth and plague. I want to see you wince
taking me in, like sin’s gin, raw’s mescal.

][][

NOTE:
According to Jewish folklore, Judah Loew ben Bezalel (a 16th-century rabbi of Prague) created the automatonic Golem by shaping it from river mud and writing the word, “Emeth,” meaning truth, on its forehead.

high tea

23 Wednesday Jan 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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The Green Slime bucket read: gooey, drippy,
oozy, cold n’ clammy. It’s where you hid

all your Boogity Brown. Your mom forbid
you from seeing me, but after high tea,

after kisses, after school we’d sneak down
to the playground to loiter and giggle.

Adults, with their divorce and post-coital
despair, were odd things. I could hear you frown

over the phone after one more lecture
over what good girls don’t do. Cicadas

were just stirring in the bent magnolias.
You stirred, too; back in our skunk heat rapture.

Back when I was your strange, little squeeze toy
and you were my roaring girl, my tomboy.

written at 3:22 in the morning while flying through winter storm harper (somewhere over the midwest)

22 Tuesday Jan 2019

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Of course it’s magic: when the airplane leaves
the laws of gravity, that slight shifting

in my awareness. The sky opens, heaves
us up into it. Just then everything

flows, a tingling in my teeth and toes —-
vodka, cocaine, even the Mile High Club;

it all might happen. Like magic that shows
us how to escape. Millay’s candle stub

sputtered, burned out at both ends. My passion
seems a small thing up here, too. The sky rifts

around us. It’s not the will, it’s the means;
miles high in a box indifferent to sin,

to lewd moods, to all of desire’s gifts.
This realm of celibate gods, sexless fiends.

boisterous flesh

17 Thursday Jan 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Jaded, moi? All this still shocks, awe still shrouds
my bones. I have traipsed while on acid trips,

stood at the edge of fens with squall-gorged clouds
rolling in and thought of you naked, hips

deep in mire. Landscapes should all have a nude
you in them. —Savagely muddy. —Vicious

with wild needs, wild need. What unabashed mood
prompts us to bare witness? Our boisterous

flesh loves the earth and sea. I love your flesh.
Greens of hills, browns of marsh, gray bog swirled;

I still adore this despite my lewd thoughts,
always lewd thoughts. Love, these storm-fresh

skies still bring joy, though I’m far from my world
of Crones and Amazons, Queens and Sexpots.

off the lost coast headlands

17 Thursday Jan 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Strong winds, then squalls. Rain scooting over sea
while fog swallows me up, leaves me lagooned,

warped in wild-haired gray. The split-plank jetty
groans in the storm. I mean to be marooned

here, too. Waves, billow daughters, have promised
to have me one last time. They care nothing

for man-made gods, tedious laws. Their lust
is the sea’s — pure as fucking and drowning,

rough faith. You should be here. The sea has no
use for cum, not like you — streaks splashed hardcore

on your cheeks. What waves want is warmth, the spark
that moves love, moves my flesh like tide, lust’s flow.

I’ve been swallowed by you just once before —
now I’ll leave my heat mixed with rain-stained dark.

suckerish

13 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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You filled my mouth with copper, blood and brine.
Under your skirt, tongue in your moist split mound,

“t’avshya vosku hank’” — your velvet goldmine.
We’d been dancing, a waltz-grind. You had frowned

when the kissing stopped. Romance requires
restraint. Rise and fall of hips, amazing

pangs no nun ever warned about, desires
obscene. I didn’t notice how sopping

you had become until your thighs rested
on my neck. Gyumri is full of despised

daughters. I too am cast-off, suckerish
for the shamed. In with copper, brine and blood

I taste your mother-lode. Pleasure surprised
you. Your giggle was more than I could wish.

NOTE:
Gyumri is a city in northwestern Armenia where I lived for two years as a Peace Corps volunteer. Despite some progress in recent years women are still viewed as second-class citizens by many in that country. “T’avshya vosku hank’” (թավշյա ոսկու հանք) is the Armenian equivalent of “velvet goldmine,” Victorian slang for cunt.

dickory

13 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Coddy-moddy, fanny-nosh. The priest swore
it sin. Dickory-dock is prayer, I swear.

“I’ve done this,” you said. “I was ate before
I was seven.” You pouted: “No — not there.

Yes, like that.” I undid, unclasped, unbound.
I let fall until you stood stark in front

of the window. There are bodies hell-bound
in the dark that crave to be seen. Cock, cunt

and all-flesh in extreme. Who was the first
to want you? worship rough in your altar?

leave you sloppy? For years I was thirsty,
but then you found me and settled my thirst

— now I savor returning this favor,
this prayer, this sublime kiss that sets us free.

mustachio

11 Friday Jan 2019

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Just now we shall have bit of snug bit
of sniff: get my nose in it, in you. Breast

bondage, tit torture: with wax, teeth and spit,
with cords holding you still. I am a guest

here. Ill and lewd we walked the spit of land
between the Eel River and ocean. Gulls

and sea lions basked. Beyond the low farmland:
redwoods. Once, buried up to my knuckles

in you, we hid near tide pools, the billow’s
roar, your hiss, your husband dozed, his bong cashed.

Under your shirt: last night I marked my greed
and need. Just now I lap your lips, your toes

curl, sand caked. I’m a bad friend, all mustached
in your pubes. We both count on that, indeed.

pique

08 Tuesday Jan 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Visions of an inferno. Queer fire dwells
out there. Fire of the fallen is still fire

that loves you; down to your genes, to your cells.
I do not question what I call desire.

It’s the twist of vulgar gender that piques
me. The drive of geezerbirds and chickboys.

All that bright rich sky in a storm that shrieks
leaden control. Rebel angels knew joys

that their coup d’état brought. To rise. To romp
in flesh that we’re given. To love secrets

that fill the soul, fill up an inferno.
Let’s be messy children who love to stomp,

sing and burn; let’s be the flame that poets
dream of. This fire: make it love, not sorrow.