Tags
drunk as fuck, this bed,
clotted with another’s life
crusts, stains, motel room
clot
11 Sunday Jun 2017
Category Archives: Poetry
trails
11 Sunday Jun 2017
Tags
cold and dank, Madness, poem, Poetry, Skatalites, sonnet, stray cat, Toots and the Maytals, trails
Morning heat is drying out the ragged
bits of snail trails on my front stoop. The gin
at last kicks in. I was throwing up blood
last night, leaving me cold and dank, my skin
waxy. I love how silver fades away
in heat. I sit on my stoop, run a thumb
over the trail. Lick it clean. An old stray
curls at my feet; her purring a rhythm,
one that I follow. My neighbor calls out,
heading for work. This is how everything
should end. I’m lost in the Skatalites, Toots
and the Maytals, Madness. We all burnout.
We all fade. Snail trails. A stray cat purring.
Some of us are stars; some only tributes.
vegas
10 Saturday Jun 2017
Tags
hand sweats, Las Vegas, my pubes itch, poem, Poetry, sonnet, summer heat, the air bathwater warm, thighs splay
The heat rises. It’s nothing like spring storms.
Nothing stirs. Whose fur hangs dank? Who drowses
and sleeps half the day away? Heat deforms,
corrupts us. The sweat in my pubes itches.
I scratch and scratch until tufts come away:
soggy cum, soggy spit and tight black curls.
You sprawl nearby me. The way your thighs splay
makes me blush though our naked boy’s and girl’s
secrets mean little in this heat. We pass
a spliff back and forth. We drain our whiskey
and pour out more. Cicadas drone. The glass
in your hand sweats. Everything is raspy.
Tonight we’ll go out in the summer storm
with heat-lightning, the air bathwater warm.
uncouth
09 Friday Jun 2017
Tags
Afropunk, erotic poetry, off my tits, Riotgrrl, sonnet, Spanish translation, uncouth, Vulva Furiosa
I say, “She who starts with an abattoir’s
knife ends with allure.” That’s cheap. Perhaps. Love
curls in me, though: muscles, sweat, cum, bargain-
floor booze. You trace all my bruises and scars.
I’m off my tits on mandrake root, foxglove
and wormwood. Perhaps love is an omen.
Perhaps love begins as a Stone Butch; ends
in glory — We start all this with someone
who can break us by accident. My friend
who walks on goaty-girl legs and cloven
hooves, who says that she’s an uncouth butcher —
Hacker of meat — Curved fire — Gloriosa
blooms — Riotgrrl — Afropunk — “El olor
de mi coño” — Vulva Furiosa.
}{}{
note:
“El olor de mi coño” translates into “the odor of my cunt”
naturally
09 Friday Jun 2017
We want to know that the kink is still
there. Now? No, soon. I drink so that I don’t
think so much. Hashish, Vodka and Advil
deletes memories. Who says that I won’t
tell how I failed at the Slam; this stutter,
that lisp, no one wanted to hear such noise.
There was no beat, just radio anger
in my head. Those raw static wires destroy
rhymes which neither strut nor slide. Praise the holes
in my skull — What was kink but our hoodwink
over failure? — Nothing comes naturally
to me — Not even joy over our soul’s
loss, our grief’s flesh. Now? I don’t want to think
except for Absinthe, Gin and Peyote.
milking
26 Friday May 2017
Tags
BBW, bhang, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, hashish, kif, lactophilia, milking, poem, sonnet
You with the double-hung belly. You made
a sound like, “sissk,” each time I drained you dry.
We’ve played Asmodeus and the Milkmaid
far too often. For a week we were high
as fuck eating euphoriants — (bhang-bhang
and hash rolled in jam) which gave your breast milk
the odd taste of sweet kif, gin and ginseng —
while I sucked stains from inside your bra’s silk
after each of Harley’s feedings. Each romp
remained perverse; my head buried between
your thighs, fingers on your nipples, milking,
tripping balls, the bed shaking, you calling
out to the gods prayers devout and obscene
as you came; soaking my face like a swamp.
ills
19 Friday May 2017
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
Tags
baffled and rapt, poem, Poetry, rapt, secret alphabet, sonnet
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.
mangles
05 Tuesday Apr 2016
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on mangles
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.”
pomegranate
29 Tuesday Mar 2016
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on pomegranate
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.
