Category Archives: Poetry

ills

19 Friday May 2017

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Ghosts rise and drink. Before the sulfuric heat

of the muggy gray sky (which never rains)

untwines itself from the dawn my heartbeat

murmurs and my hand shakes. Each new bloodstain

from the kitchen knife oozes down my arm

only to scab over. My body plays

host to a host of ills that plague and swarm

throughout me. I’m simply the obscene maze

that all things must flee from — Mama Lilith;

I’m shit-faced and you’re here with my meltdown.

Your twitch, my cut, all this must bleed. As host

to this chaos I’m your kith drunk on myth,

your kin sodden on gin — I won’t come down;

nothing comes down; not host-demon, not ghost.

rapt

19 Friday May 2017

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Perhaps while straddled. Perhaps in the gloom

of your nightgown; all that whiteness against

your breast. Perhaps in the small folds, the bloom

of heat where my skin pressed. Perhaps I tensed

when I should have relaxed. Perhaps we lapped

something queer from a gourd or a clay pot

that left us, in turns, both baffled and rapt.

Perhaps when it was time what you thought

you could do you couldn’t and simply choked.

Perhaps none of these. Whatever has brought

me here, love, doesn’t matter. Why regret?

Why so sad? Your cigarette has been smoked.

My wine drunk. Let’s share all that we’ve been taught.

Your pen. My ink. Our secret alphabet.

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mangles

05 Tuesday Apr 2016

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Tangled in the backseat, parked near the bridge,

I am in awe with the curve of your ass.

Under your jeans your telltale scar-tissue,

mortar-shell fragments, your brawny muscles

and the curved stump ending above the knee.

I’m a drunken beast on hands and elbows.

You’re all splorpy-wet from savage foreplay.

“Prends-moi par derrière. Jouis dans mon cul.”

Pressing your forehead against the window’s

glass you shudder at the depravity

of gore, being gored, once more light mangles

itself behind our lids — I would tell you

that I love you as our breath fogs the glass

but I don’t know those words in your language.

][][

Note:

In French, “Prends-moi par derrière. Jouis dans mon cul,” roughly translates as, “Take me from behind. Cum in my ass.”

— Babylon Crashing

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pomegranate

29 Tuesday Mar 2016

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Later you will tsk, rub away a speck

of dried cum. Today the floor needs mopping,

the sheets laundry. You sat in the bathtub

for hours scrubbing. Last night you were filthy.

I knew you wanted more; only took what

I could offer, I received your wetness

trailing down my chin. I could only twist

against rope that bound my ankle and wrist

I don’t protest — I just stared, your lewdness

glistened wide, your clit a pomegranate

seed on my tongue — you stood above me

fingers twined throughout my hair as you rubbed

yourself faster and harder murmuring

into my neck flooding all down my neck.

— Babylon Crashing

grotesque

16 Wednesday Mar 2016

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You like your fuck puppets cute and pig-tailed.

Boys call you, “Papi.” Girls, “Mommy.” I sweat

fugly. I slur. I’m grotesque: — yet, so few

ghosts stay to write your name in cum across

their drowned bellies like I do. There’s no cure.

I grind it in you slow and hot: — You’re ill

for days after. You’re ill enough to bleed.

Sick the way fire needs carbon. The sick need

the rope has for knots. “Make it tighter still,

leave a mark, something to look at when you’re

gone.” — just under the skin, aching for loss.

Bend me, break me, if you must. I give you

my bones, my vulgar flesh that you crave. Let

me be your drug, where all others have failed.

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we

26 Friday Feb 2016

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Today I drink and so do you. These words

enter you, they touch the dark light inside.

You’ve had lovers before. Some were bastards,

some not. They’re all gone. None stayed. None replied

when you called. But that’s not what you regret.

Your cunt milked him as he thrust both his thumbs

deep in your ass, cried out. You felt a jet

of his semen balloon out the condom,

shooting against your cervix. Today we

drink and pause over past lovers; all those

who did not stay. Today we are going

to get so fucking drunk. You are like me.

We have no real friends. We’re no one’s heroes.

This is not love — just a dark light — ghosting.

— Babylon Crashing

implement

18 Monday Jan 2016

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The tiles were so cold — You wanted torment,
like how god-dogs do it. Your muscles clenched

under your jeans. You’ve walked around, hellbent
that none of your friends would notice the drenched

little patch, the buzz of your discipline
implemented deep between your cheeks. You

peel down your jeans like you peel skin
down bone, down muscle. At each corkscrew

twist lick squeeze the silicon hammer’s head
spreads you wider. We two lay on the floor

of your mom’s bathroom — The acid hitting
just then. “Yeah, leck it. Me clit is blood-red.

Me arse — O! ahm a god! ahm a doog! Mooar!”
Torment, you had called it. Your toes, curling.

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patchwork

08 Friday Jan 2016

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You’ve made a fetish doll from me. From spit

and stains, from my hair and nails. When you said:

— “I want the moon on my tongue, now give it

up to me” — You knew that, when pricked, I bled

pale light; that when, hung, suspended, drugged to

my toes, you could taste how to fly on my

skin. You say it’s about conjure, that you

can drain me, just like that. But I defy

that limp rag. You can suck patchwork veins

all day long and you still won’t get it. Moon

light is a distortion of what we want

inside. All the stolen pubes and cum stains

in the world won’t save you, it’s why you’ll soon

come back to me: hungry, hollowed eyed, gaunt.

— Babylon Crashing

chapped

31 Thursday Dec 2015

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Just to see what it felt like, I took wax
from the stove and dribbled it, sluggishly,

through my thick pubes. Some say that they climax
quicker with pain. But the world is squirmy

with quick fucks. Tomorrow I’ll shave this mess
before work. Three years, gone — like that. Some say

that all they want is a slit-buzzed caress
from a talented tongue. The term, “foreplay,”

insults, who needs more than long lapping? Wrapped
up, as tight as we are — it’s a damn myth

that we somehow found peace. All my devout
prayer to your shaved stubble has left me chapped,

bleeding. This is not for me — and so, with
a jerk of the hair, I pull it all out.

sheds

14 Monday Dec 2015

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Tonguing, leaving streaks between your cloven
lips, the spots where blushes and bruises bloom,

even during your heavy flow. Back then,
you said, you’d hide away in the bathroom.

Blood in your panties, soaked into your jeans,
and how everyone smirked. In the old tongue

even the word for menstruating means
hidden away, dashtani. “I was young,”

you said, “and Soviet-era tampons?
I’d just stay home.” Now you press on my face,

here in the bathtub, as your uterus
sheds. I have streaks on my chin, red and bronze,

my tongue working you to a state of grace,
delving deep between your clit and anus.

][][

In Armenian, the word for menstruating, dashtan, (դաշտան), is the same root word for separation, dashtani (դաշտանի).