Category Archives: Poetry

dead chick

14 Friday Aug 2015

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“A silver Lucifer/ serves
cocaine in cornucopia
To some somnambulists
of adolescent thighs …”
— Mina Loy, “Lunar Baedeker”

][][

Back when I use to be alive and drunk
on stale sweat and beer. An amazon leaned

on her stick, fingers blue with chalk. Some punk
band screamed in the jukebox, “Lezzie Sex Fiend,”

I think, while another girl bent to take
her shot, her afro brushing the green felt.

Detroit girls in pool halls, full of the ache
of first love and adolescence. I’ve dwelt

among their shadows. It’s where you found me;
in the toilet stall, calling me “cousin.”

Because I’m neither drunk nor alive. “Lick
me here” — And I do. You taste beer-salty.

“Damn, girl, that’s nasty,” you say. “Shit, your skin’s
stone-cold — Cousin, you’re one fucked-up dead chick.”

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at times willingly

11 Tuesday Aug 2015

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“Delight in the video” — I don’t play

too many lover’s games. All that vanity

turned sour some time ago. Yet I obey

simple commands, and at times willingly.

It’s what you do in public. Curious

that you’ll take it far enough to almost

get caught each time, almost. It’s that boldness

that no one else sees in you. Like a ghost

you mark where you’ve been with dripping,

sticky fingerprints — After the vodka

tonics you type, “Hit Play.” The video

starts. Where are you? Pay toilet? Sitting

down, you smile — staring into the camera.

“This is for you,” you say, “watch: nice and slow.”

— Babylon Crashing

butch cockscomb crawl

07 Friday Aug 2015

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Quick, drink up. It’s on me, despite all this.
— Try my red lips like a surgical scar

quickly opened — when you lean in to kiss
you’ll find that my teeth, immense and bizarre,

gleam. Try posing me in a slitted-skirt
with thighs crossed as two girls begin to brawl

over nothing at Juicy Lucy’s Yurt,
where it smells like yak milk, cum and Pinesol.

Mostly I don’t step in. It’s not science,
just cheap alcohol. Try a Butch Cockscomb

Crawl. But tonight’s different — for there are some
who find cold-blooded pleasure in violence.

After the fight I took the two girls home,
despite all this, we made it a threesome.

deathblowjob

29 Wednesday Jul 2015

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I tell you, sex with a nightmare is odd
but fun. No, it wasn’t a monster squirrel

fetish; she was, in fact, a disease god.
— L.S.Diva aka Acid Girl

aka Small Disease God — I don’t know
exactly the disease she embodied,

a small one, I suppose. The term, “deathblow
job” was hers. Obedient bodies’ need

to feed did not excite her. “You’re immune
system’s failure is what I want,” she’d grunt,

her long forked tongue crazily twined with mine,
fingers touching the lump in my breast. “Soon,

soon.” I don’t mind being loved for my mutant
cells, who can say of cancer, “fuck benign.”

sleet caked

27 Monday Jul 2015

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“An wha will mak me fidgin fain?
O wha will kiss me o’er again?”
– Robert Burns (1788)

“Feck thes!” Our breath, clouded. The car’s heater
struggled, even at high — In the back seat

next to the baby-chair, you stripped off your
mittens, pulled your jeans to your knees while sleet

caked the windshield. “Ah got tae gie ye back
tae skale in ‘en minutes, we’ll make it queck.”

Guiding my head down, my shoulders hunchbacked
while your snow-boots pressed into my stomach.

It took you eight; leaving me sick, your cum
in my eyebrows. Even after you cleaned

me up I was a mess all day long —
I’m older now. I’ve heard the joke: “Th’ Mum

an’ Th’ Neighbur Bairn.” The punchline: “Sex-fiends
ur made an’ education isnae wrang.”

sufficiency that intrigues

25 Saturday Jul 2015

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It’s the self-sufficiency that intrigues
me. All those small, little acts that add up

to more. A friend writes about her blitzkrieg
sex life: hers is a world where she worships

only her own rapture. A cry, a puff,
a groan, a lament, an echo, an ache.

And the orgasm? Raucous enough,
oddly musical, what I might mistake

as a miracle. That long buzz and burn.
I have never been like that. It’s a shock

to learn that my own flesh and libido
could be somehow different, that I could learn

how these small acts work, that I could unlock
such fire, that I could be an inferno.

honeyed

10 Friday Jul 2015

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I loved that smile-scar of her C-section;
and yes, that boast of hers — that she once bucked

some guy out of bed when she came, that none
could hold her hips still — was all true. I sucked,

hard. My fingers went deep, and then curved up.
She was far above me as I knelt down

in her mom’s trailer. She ran, like syrup,
honeyed. It was noon but her Sear’s nightgown

was wet where my mouth had been. Her tattoo
shivered. Her nails dug in. She screamed. This bruise

is from then. The TV was on. I pried
my hand free. Her baby, somehow, slept through

it in the next room. Suddenly the news
said that Ella Fitzgerald had just died.

booze blood words

16 Saturday May 2015

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Liquid devils; it’s not other people
that I’m morbidly sick over, it’s what

they do. No. I mean, when I say, “devil,”
I mean, “words in a text;” and “liquid”? Blood.

Booze. All that I put in me. This is me:
after the shift I’m left with ugly shoes,

aching lack and words. Without dowry,
all my touchables go untouched. This booze.

This blood. These words. I bite my lip. I think
I’m a bitter deity, since I don’t

even get the chance to tell you about
who died at work, that I’m wearing your pink

boy-briefs, or that nothing (booze, blood, words) won’t
let me unread what fills me now: pure doubt.

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LOVE SONG WITH WITCHES

13 Wednesday May 2015

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babylon-crashing:

I.

Sleepless, magic night

your fingers and legs spread wide

exploring new worlds.

II.

There is no sin, just

a dark forest first

came the drum, da-da,

and then came the song.

III.

At fourteen I talked to ghosts with
black mud,

bud and cheap blood running in the
acid.

There was a glamour but I did not understand

anything that they were trying to say.

IV.

If you must belong to a tribe, come. No

one has loved you with lips and
fingers, laid

with you until the moon’s day-face
faded

with the dawn. None have brought you
lover’s gifts.

We are a tribe of never-was. We are

a tribe of all of us that might have
been.

V.

Hear me. This is no gift. Here be
witches,

vhukneri. This is your clitoris,

tslik. This is my tongue, lezu. They
call

this witchcraft, kakhardut’yun. A
shaman

must ride a long-tongued ghost to learn
all her

occult secrets. You, blood heart, must
ride me.

VI.

To be a corpse bride, to find a long
dead

lover, to have your crazy hair caught
up

in the air, saints preserve, in a
forest

first came the drum, then the song, for
I am

singing, I am drumming. No one hears
me.

VII.

At the crossroads you shall find all:
this song,

hashish cakes and shadows. Ride me, I
am

your drum, singing your way back home.
I am

a hard ride. Together we will go far.

><><><><

NOTE:

The foreign words I use are Armenian:

ՎՀՈՒԿՆԵՐԻ (vhukneri) =
witches.

ԾԼԻԿ (tslik) = clitoris.

ԼԵԶՈՒ (lezu) = tongue.

ԿԱԽԱՐԴՈՒԹՅՈՒՆ
(kakhardut’yun) = witchcraft.