Category Archives: Poetry

niña roja

05 Wednesday Sep 2018

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NIÑA ROJA, Red Girl. SANTA MUERTE,
Lady of Death. I pray to you: bring me

the ghost of she who told me to obey
my dream: “Love, come to the cemetery,

find my grave.” NIÑA, you know I’m sinful
in bed. MUERTE, you know that I’m honest

in my perversions. She came to me, full
of ghost blood and ghostly lust. Now my lust

keeps me awake at night. If she’ll return
once more I’ll bless my next nine orgasms

in your name, bring you cinnamon and burn
your red candles. NIÑA, shaker of limbs.

MUERTE, Saint Death, I beg of you, again,
bring this lovesick ghost back to me. Amen.

blood-cream

01 Saturday Sep 2018

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In sight — it must be right. Feeding spectral

menstrual blood to me in a High Sex dream.

 

Gobbets from off dead fingers. Your menstrual

flow, these queer pheromones, love supreme

 

charm, still survived with your breath. This surprised

me. You’d died at nineteen — lust must feral.

 

I’d placed on your grave a lodestone baptized

in my blood and cum, spirit salt, candle

 

wax and prayer: “we will all the pleasures prove.”

You heard, followed. In dream magic the ground

 

is wet with your chamber lye, sky a flow

of need, binding me. Now feed. Your floods move

 

through me. I know. Blood-cream. I dream and drown

all numb. I know. Your dead girl’s cum. I know.

tempered

26 Sunday Aug 2018

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Strop me twice. Make it hurt down my blue-ice

thighs and across my feet. Rope wound around

my wrists held high, wet anklets slick with slice.

On my pixie puck-curves welts unfurl, bound

from where the belt’s strop-strap struck. Turning screw

stone of my skin a bronze hue, tempered pearl

ochre. They say the devil wore a blue

dress, but any dress will do. You’re wet curl

below, wet at sweat and bruises that glow

on my cheeks. Queen Cliodhona’s grace guiding

each strop-strap slap, each swing of your arm. Wear

me rough, a glamour is upon me. Show

me fire-licked skin. Afterglow. Show me sting,

swung, stung. Own me stone down to my shorthair.

][][

Note:

Cliodhona (pronounced like Fiona but with a “cl”) is one of the Tuath Dé Danann (“tribe of gods”) in Irish mythology. A Fairy Queen associated with county Cork, the seashore and waves (the tide at Glandore is still called, “Waves of Cliodhna”). Passionate and violent in nature, tradition says that she abducted and seduced poets and bards of both sexes. The McCarthys and O’Keefes of Cork trace their lineage back to her.

shan’t

24 Friday Aug 2018

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Circe’s mercy — Witch’s itches — Schooled gore

I have not been myself of late. Coarse brute

 

force. Love-smudge. I want your sludge. I want more

of you — I am root’s charm. I am charm’s root.

 

Charm of carnage. Charm of harm. Kissing grim

under the tongue. That heavy green honey,

 

like from Delphi. I am not I. “Yes ch’em

yes.” No amber witness, royal jelly,

 

stone’s groan. Just plump rump. Itch that made Circe

moan, my mother of all craft. Does my sleaze

 

please? I am the other; all that you shan’t

have, but want. Toxic nectar, all dusky.

 

All for you. With luck we will fuck. We’ll squeeze

pleasure dry. Poison’s fun. Sibylline’s rant.

][][

Note:

“Ես չեմ ես” (Yes ch’em yes) is simply, “I am not I.” I am fascinated with the phrase in Spanish, “Yo no soy yo.” However, Armenian is the language spoken by Lot’s daughters in lust so I use that here.

thickset

23 Thursday Aug 2018

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Not that bent field stone, slick with dew, jasmine,

chicory — there are gods of those fields, scant

 

hairy things who watch you squat and piss in

the green flax. I wish to know what the ant

 

and the bee see in such jewel-weed. Not

that plush spot plump between your collar bones.

 

Not bone or field stone, not odd god, fleshpot

or urge (there is always an urge) that groans

 

thickset, clover seed to plant root in you.

Open your mouth. Root seed and suck, inhale.

 

Simple as not gagging. The way you pass

through a pallid field turned bronze. What shall spew

 

from me shall dribble down your chin, a pale

trail, a craving, splash, dew-dropping the grass.

[cur][tailed]

21 Tuesday Aug 2018

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Bless dawn. Breathe in fumes: quagmire or morass.

Frenzy with bong, with thong, with rot that smells.

 

Not fit for each, for pressing on. Blown glass,

twisted cotton, a necklace of conch shells.

 

Mess of brawn. The stress of faun legs, satyr

hips, the slur of rapture. But I — rudely

 

stamped and curtailed — greet dawn with the glamour

of meat past prime. Let me dillydally,

 

me loaf. None are waiting for me. None want

to see me stoned, clad in only a lash.

 

Rattle of shells and glass. Rattle of brawn

and bone. If this is frenzy its the gaunt

 

haunt of throat-fucking sort. Like fame, like hash,

like all the horrors that we’ll ever spawn.

shushing-slush

20 Monday Aug 2018

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Gushing-gust. Rammed, slammed, damned as I can slow

downward thrust. From above. From such thick stem

 

lusting-lust heat, then seed. Round cheeks aglow.

Round chin in shambles with spit, cum and phlegm.

 

Bodies are round. Muscles are a myth. No

sinew, no bones, just bliss. Just lunacy —

 

that “rave” in crave. That moan quake. That widow

maker. Fat stem in quim. In cosh. In glee

 

as I plumb the depth of your throat. Convulse.

Gag. Try to stand up. “Back to your knees, cur.”

 

This is a game. I play to win because

you play to lose. To be used on impulse

 

with a thrusting-trust. — Fuck like a centaur.

Cum like a sphinx. Without grace. Without pause.

scrum

18 Saturday Aug 2018

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Fat “B” in “balsamic.” — As in, the noise

you make glazed — “B” in “burst” and “kablooey.”

 

“Oui, spurt.” Beastly comforts. Raspy tomboy’s

face gets splattered just the same. “Oui, rugby.”

 

“B” as in “butch” with “beef shoulders.” Notchy

hips. Half dollar scar from scrum, rucks and mauls.

 

Curvy sinner heat. Makes us kiss-crazy.

Makes you shimmy out of your shorts. “Oui, brawls

 

in bed,” you call this. Hunched blood apple. Stained

bruises. Broken rib. — You could break me. Bleat

 

me. Make me go blind. — What does the tattoo’d

“B” on your thigh mean? You never explained

 

standing in my bath. All bull-girl athlete.

Brawler of beds. Insatiable and crude.

cinders

13 Monday Aug 2018

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Rive as I reach your core — primordial

fornication sprung from the dripping roots

 

of the world tree, cum and splinter. Vernal

equinox. “Toute la nuit.” Dusk fruit’s

 

marrow. I know something about stirring

the tree’s flurry. I, too, have been lovesick.

 

These scars are not from others. The slicing

of my flesh I do myself, just to pick

 

at scabs. Burn stumps. Lightning strikes. I despoiled

that gap, gouged out half my soul. A rough ride,

 

Oui, but it can be done. You want passion

and I want …? to sink into your roots: coiled,

 

packed, tight. All my metaphors leave you pried

loose, pulped with cinders, tattered, all riven.

tatterhood

12 Sunday Aug 2018

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I have followed the asphalt of your spine’s

rough mile; on down by swelter-greased steepness;

 

by back alley’s cant; by your obscure shrine’s

massive quaking hills — into your darkness

 

— shivering dark. This red-tongue landscape.

Tatterhood. Gaped girl-thing in dark jungle.

 

I must gauge this myth by the span and shape

of your splayed-out hips, the taste of your skull,

 

where your fox-headed guide leads me to play.

To pray at your shrine — to out fox the fox —

 

to gauge your gape stretched lush and surreal.

I’ll breathe in your dark, your ideal. The way

 

city’s breath makes a park real — or a box

breathing in the ground makes broken bones real.