Category Archives: Poetry

sumptuous

13 Friday Sep 2024

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At hell’s gate the damned, in turn, pace and burn.

Harvest moon came too soon for them. For us,

though, Death herself holds up her skirts to turn

so that her clit shines between shorn, beardless

lips. Like you, my sumptuous grin hide ghastly

teeth. When I grimace chipped canines suggest

that I’d rather rip meat than eat dainty

morsels. Of course that’s wrong; I can digest

anything that comes my way –– omnivore

obscene. Marking you with love bites improves

your taste. What you call hardcore makes me go

all blood-rush famished. “Eat to the Beat”? Hoar

hound, please, our hips skip, then eclipse. It proves

that we’re not damned, just hell lit and aglow.

note.

“Eat to the Beat” is the title of a Blondie record.

manna

24 Wednesday Jul 2024

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

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This time nude in the sheets isn’t a turn

on. To wake after a long illness. To

rise with no more ache in the lungs, no burn

in the breath, no pain in the bones. The flu

makes its home in here, much how I suspect

Gods do when they take over; possession

being nine-tenths of the law. Prayers to protect

fall all muted, hushed. With windows open,

with bed sheets stripped, scouring a vague plague

stink from us. As they say, “too ill to Tease/

does not Please.” This sick sweat. This rotten egg

fetor. Mumbles in my mouth. My disease

infests the air. Disease? Please, junkie jones,

you say, sucking the manna from my bones.

carnivore

12 Friday Jul 2024

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calling me home. You’re slung low in my guts

the way gods cradle a newly minted

mortal. Kiss me and know just how riots

smolder, vexed by their own fire. Chaos feels

nothing like that, being form and formless,

like blood, like cum. Spreads your lips wide, ordeals

of the soul require a gaped grin. Transgress.

Honey blood dripping no less. Carnivore

your needs. Betray your paths. You know I will

follow you anywhere. Your rosebud, gaped

O wrapped around a stone tower. Sink core

deep. That’s my Chaos to you; deformed thrill,

gnarled and scintillating, my soul misshaped.

valraven

06 Saturday Jul 2024

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Twilight heat. Watching glowworms with no one

to share. I stand naked in the bathroom

and stare at my odd flesh. Scars mark ruin.

In bed I shuffle cards. Lewd heat. Lewd gloom.

I draw King of Wands while the night rooster

crows three times. Valraven reborn in fire.

Consort of the Triple Goddess; lover

without stain. Whose Cock-of-the-flock’s desire

do you think of when manhood rears its head?

None says mine, which is fine; rarely do I,

either. I’m the most unchaste celibate

I’ve known. I prayed that one of the lewd dead

would love me, but no. My toe-curling high

delights none, like summer heat without smut.

][][

Notes:

In Danish folklore, Valraven (“raven of the slain”) would eat the hearts of warriors slain in battle. As a metaphor for masculinity, it is a peaceless soul, restless, only able to calm its terrible hunger through the flesh of another. The King of Wands is a fire symbol, hard to control, attractive and dangerous.

lunacy

06 Saturday Jul 2024

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Your mom said good girls don’t go there. Bummer.

Last year you and four other girls dropped out

pregnant. Now you do, often; your daughter

snoozing in her crib, your hips crotched, girl scout

skirt pulled to your lips. Charmed, I’m sure; you smiled

at my tongue’s path from your C-section scar

down through phat flesh. You got, “daddy defiled

me,” inked above your ass. Bedroom-boudoir

with your bizarre mix-tapes. Cigar-sized spliffs.

Death was the breath that you sucked from my lungs

as I dived face first through you. Flesh slapped. Skin

bitten. Fingered and fucked. I miss those whiffs.

Scent of lunacy. Reckless as cum. Tongue’s

crow. We say gang-bang. Your mom says love-in.

unabashed

06 Saturday Jul 2024

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“Give them pleasure – the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.”
— Alfred Hitchcock


To the edge of the dream he comes; barefoot,
cloven-hoof, crooked goat legs. I do not know
his name, but from his pipes and his man’s root,
a cock from hell, garbled prayer-songs grow;
like a root, a tree, a mountain, vaulting
heaven and shadowing earth. To the edge
of the dream he comes; unabashed, playing
nightmare to my dreams. Passing a stone hedge,
a street, a market where ham-hocks and fish
dangle in the window, I follow. Dream
logic says I can do nothing else. Prayer-
songs on cobbles, his clip-clop, his goatish
delight that I’m there, to hear his obscene
song, to be the dreamer to his nightmare.

][][

Notes.

Aristotle said that for Heraclitus the soul was the “exhalation of which everything else is composed
of;” and Walt Whitman asked, “if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?”

roil

05 Friday Jul 2024

Posted by in A Girl and Her Submarine, Poetry, sonnet

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“Old man, you surface seldom.” ~ Sylvia Plath.

Waves make graves out of deep icy waters;

even for those who glide a full fathom

under the storm. Harborage for readers,

poets and all the used books that love them.

One day type, “libraries near me,” and you’ll

get me … for a while. La Sirène reading

Sexton. Port to port; a dream in the Gulf

Stream with books galore in the hold. Hauling

riches: chapbooks, zines, sonnets. Such sea toil

delights, ask Jonah. I’ve the sea hag’s craft,

soothsayer of the surf, cowrie shell’s boon.

Waves tell me whatnot, dreadnought, shoals roil,

rift. Blue-green crashing. Flotsam’s drift and draft

and books enough to calm any typhoon.

][][

Note.

I stole, “And like a dream in the Gulf-Stream/ Sinking, vanish all away,” from Longfellow. Also, it turns out a fathom is about six feet (1.83 meters), so when Ariel says, “Full fathom five thy father lies,” in The Tempest that’s only about 30 feet. I always thought it would be deeper.

chupamela

03 Wednesday Jul 2024

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If you can’t be a good example … then

be a dire warning. That’s me; Lesson Six

in: It could be far worse. There’s skin and sin

and then there’s blunder. Thunder of clit licks

and cum muffled in the salt-tanged asphalt,

rough grass, the heat from an abandoned gas

station … not some standard, big bang default:

silk sex on some wanker’s snot yacht, crass A$$,

dude ranch … not that I know about wanking

rich toy dudes; still, it’s nice to have standards.

“Chupamela,” you’ve groaned; but not with me.

See? I’m pure, “Stranger danger,” while rhyming.

Red flags are the salve to my freak’s pain, nerd’s

bane; that which drove me, swell hell, to Nasty.

][][

Note:

Chupamela is Spanish for, “lick my pussy.”

wrothful

02 Tuesday Jul 2024

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but the anus loves

poetry

& is prolific.

~ Erica Jong

This horned god pierces until your lips numb

and your nipples perk. Call this old school

sex, with lots of smiting and wrothful cum

crusting on your neck. You sigh high, “it’s cool.”

Is it? My knees hurt on concrete. Bound not

gagged. You flip up your flouncy dress, straddle

my tongue and hold on. Pornographic plots

demand a touch of pain. Hints of hurtful

bish, bash, bosh. Rest now on my mouth. “Bite

‘dis,” you slur, all kumquat backwash. The O

of your ass spread wide. Songs of buggery

and the leash. Satyrs rutting in moonlight

while the dead gods sigh. Fucking quid pro quo.

“Rough, rough,” sang the nefarious puppy.

][][

Note.

Quid pro quo is defined as, “a favor granted or expected in return for something” … like mutual masturbation.

orpheus

29 Wednesday May 2024

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The Tomb’s Fruit, the Fuck Doll, the Mystic knows

that the mouth holds endless whims: my wind swims

in these words. My spit. My ire. “Eat me,” flows

out of Alice. Go south. Hold the rough rims

of your grotto askew. Ask any cave-

dwelling recluse to show you and they will:

be it stalactite, uvula or clit. We crave

sunlight but embrace wild darkness. We kill

any end that’s not lonesome, so that, “Find

solace in me,” becomes deceit. This wind

whimpers. I mean, slap me, choke me, fuck me.

Take me like Orpheus: broken and blind.

Now come. If you can’t cum you can’t transcend

this dark south that the Tomb calls, “fuckery.”