10 Friday Apr 2015
“Kafé, kasita non kafela et publia filii omnibus suis” — an invocation to allow one to enter someone’s dreams.
Dreams are coming to
the heel just outside,
the shadow in my sly-boot
box says so. This, too, is
a love poem and like all
brief solutions is already
fading. Meanwhile go
nowhere, do nothing.
Every motion wasted.
Finger this hole. On my
lips a sticky residue: jizz,
junk, slicked back hair.
Fleshpot vespers. Spooky
bird. I will enter your dream.
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
Doc Martins, dry ice, gurgle, mohawks, one who crackles, pale like bone, poem, sonnet, witch
Right at the down stroke, with all your weight thrown
behind the blade, my arms raised to avert
the stroke, there’s a quick blur, pale like bone,
from two small fists, and the front of your shirt
(awkward) implodes. “Witch!” you gurgle; the way
schoolyard bullies splutter when at last laid
low. We love our movies about gun-play
but the thought that a girl could dodge a blade
or punch a hole through ribs is called bollocks.
Physics baffles us. My rain-reddened fists
unflex. I exhale, luster, turn elsewhere.
I tell you of Doc Martins and mohawks –
– of a dim slip-of-a-thing with thin wrists;
one who crackles, like dry-ice in the air.
09 Thursday Apr 2015
She shows us how to pierce the neck, the shaft
all a quiver in the airway, the man’s
eyes still agog. The poor bastard who laughed,
coughed just once and then flopped forward. Her clan’s
riders swept through the green cornfields, now flame.
All their arrows rose up and then came down.
Gravity, I love you. The sort of fame
she offers in a blood-splattered nightgown
is not for me. Poets do not amuse
her. I’m telling this backwards. She can slice
bone crazy. She has the mark of Venus
in one eye. Is such violence an excuse
to be enamored? Don’t care if the dice
roll tens; I’ll always bet on this princess.
09 Thursday Apr 2015
“The bud/ stands for all things” – Galway Kinnell
After loss then the libido snaps back
sick and mad as before. I don’t know why.
Knuckles push into moss until – hunchbacked,
straining – I pry the bud apart. My thighs
soggy sorrow burn all orange glory.
What gods would trust a mouth that makes such Os?
Thorny lips … that curl up around all three
of my fingers … a butterfly … that glows
when it dips for nectar — No, won’t go on.
What’s wrong? I feel like I’m faking it. Porn
on a Thursday. After loss why this brief
horniness? Once my fingers are withdrawn
let the bud close, leaving behind thorn,
moss-grown verge and grief. The gods’ own grief.
09 Thursday Apr 2015
Tags
dead little things, erotic poetry, gnaw at me, left toe-cutting knife, Milady de Winter, poem, sonnet
I love that my fear lives under my bed.
I’ve been down there: torn condoms, used needles,
and my left toe-cutting knife. All the dead
little things I’ve loved and abandoned. Skulls
that will always be prettier than me.
Loose teeth. I’ve swallowed at least six. The jaw
of one Milady de Winter. What she
did — no, spoilers, sweetie. The things that gnaw
at me aren’t what you think. The Internet
where I live: “None of us fuck, see? Sex is
ugly. None of your free, hippy love shit
here,” as Johnny told Nancy. It’s that threat,
you might become mine, I might become his.
Strange how just a floor can become a pit.
08 Wednesday Apr 2015
Tags
deep throating an ice cube, i love how scummy waves sounds, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the most gross water that's ever gone down my throat including lake erie
Just say, “scummy waves;” that’s the sort of kiss
I want. Something so foul that it sucks down
seagulls in its wake. There’s a dead princess
who claims she’s a Czarina. Her pocked gown
looks a tad Orthodox. We made out, once,
though it felt like deep-throating an ice cube.
That cold got everywhere. There’s a science
to it, like when I swam in the Danube;
something pulled both my legs wide. I could feel
each wave lapping. Everything should lap, dog.
And the puckering … and the — tie my tubes,
lip gloss. If you want this, make it surreal.
Like the dead who kiss since they’re only fog,
or the living with fondness for ice cubes.
08 Wednesday Apr 2015
Tags
doing satyrie shit, girlie-satyr, poem, Poetry, sonnet, twin cocked-minotaur, with flutes and fleas and dung
Pick me clean. Strung up I’ll never go down
on my best friend. Never gape or have her
sodden laundry slap my face. All these nouns
define me. I am more girlie-satyr
than twin cocked-minotaur; with flute and fleas
and dung between my hooves. I know the more
that I write today the less I will please.
I hate being someone’s gear-notch; hardcore
engine-grind. I shift. I shaft. Stranger’s love
poems bore me. So what? They still won’t
dig graves or change diapers. Hush. There’s a hill.
(there is always a hill) with birds above
where I sit and do satyrie-shit. Don’t
it just cut ya? like bones in a gristmill.
06 Monday Apr 2015
Tags
all the toys are put away, and then that happened, pegging strangers, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spring break
I yawn. I wake. I walk about bandy
legged without you staring at my scarred-up
leg or the tiger-stripes on my belly.
The crows bring hashish, vervain and julep
root to my window. The ants bring badger’s
foot. It’s good to be alone. All the toys
are put away. The urge to peg strangers
has dulled. I’ve wiped the lipstick off. This bruise
will fade in spring-light; so will all this tensed
rage. I don’t need sap to run with mischief
in my head. I’ve sharpened all the kitchen
knives. The shadows rub their muzzles against
my palm. I’m so full of myself; enough
to know I’m both antidote and toxin.
02 Thursday Apr 2015
“Ugly,” is what you would call me, if you
were to call me anything. I have one
who can touch the scars without flinching. True,
“I am lucky;” what they tell the burden
so it will stop feeling like one. Sometimes
I want you to see what I look naked.
Mostly I don’t. It’s not like the right rhyme
will make the world love me, or that my blood,
once spilled, would raise a Cain. Of all the shocks
that’s the worse. That all my fears get condensed
to this: I could go out, full of desire
through the rain, with crickets clinging to stalks;
through wind, with seas of Queen Anne’s Lace against
my knees; and I would still drown in such fire.
01 Wednesday Apr 2015
Carve me a toothpick; I have one curled hair
stuck in-between my incisors. These chapped
hips, this silicon knob with its horsehair
tail, these boots. Have I ridden you? or “tapped
your ass,” as Butch Lisette once claimed? Of course
not. Please forgive my friends, they are … so young,
obsessed with sending nude selfies. They’re coarse
little things, amusements. But you? Your tongue
itches to taste this, no? Peace. Come closely.
Pull up your trousers. Look out the window.
Be still, pet. What do you see? The merchandise
of lust; the night hums with it. But for me
I’m done with stroking needy libidos.
That’s how much I adore you: more than vice.
