Tags
curls, erotic, fire fly, ghost light, mirco poem, mire, Poetry
ghost light fire
fly down there
in miry curls
mire and curls
14 Tuesday Oct 2014
Category Archives: Poetry
grave miscreant
11 Saturday Oct 2014
Shiny grass. Smell the
noun’s shadow. Write
down: “I’m the grave
miscreant,” “Water that
cleans/, flowers that clean
as I go.” Hell’s pronoun.
Mother, each waiting,
for the other queen’s
brilliance, and I love
such queenly
brilliance. Drag, “St.
Michael slay that
old demon,” yet all
my brothers walk through
you, monstrous and
gay. Let us speak,
guest front and fast,
sweat out words,
untruthful land like day
like dew. There is no
beginning. Just this: cloth
burns, oil burns, kisses
burn. Dream of me. Canto
and love. We twist spliffs.
My lover, Zulu and
ghost. Braided and …
her coffin: irons
coppers and
“flowers that
clean as I go.”
][][
Shiny grass. Smell the noun’s shadow. Write down:
“I’m the grave miscreant,” “Water that cleans/,
flowers that clean as I go.” Hell’s pronoun.
Mother, each waiting, for the other queen’s
brilliance, and I love such queenly brilliance.
Drag, “St. Michael slay that old demon,” yet
all my brothers walk through you, monstrous
and gay. Let us speak, guest front and fast, sweat
out words, untruthful land like day like dew.
There is no beginning. Just this: cloth burns,
oil burns, kisses burn. Dream of me. Canto
and love. We twist spliffs. My lover, Zulu
and ghost. Braided and … her coffin: irons
coppers and “flowers that clean as I go.”
prayer bed
09 Thursday Oct 2014
Tags
erotic poetry, hell waiting, phantasmic orgy, poem, Poetry, prayer bed, sin that you can snort, sonnet
“honey, I know something about
talking with ghosts.”
– Yusef Komunyakaa
My bed can always
accommodate one
more; this ain’t a threat
or bet, it’s a damn
promise. Like all
the stone-cold dead
fortune smiles on
a phantasmic orgy.
A gram of sin that
you can snort
down; even ghosts
can have sticky
fingers. Slack-jaw
we blame love
each time things go
wrong. I have
the host’s job of
not placing blame.
Those who slut-
shame have their
own private hell
waiting. My prayer
bed is vast, even
you’re welcome.
You’ve come from
such a far distance,
lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe
your feet with my hair.
I’ll lick you back to life.
I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash
away the dried
cum and snot.
][][
My bed can always accommodate one
more; this ain’t a threat or bet, it’s a damn
promise. Like all the stone-cold dead fortune
smiles on a phantasmic orgy. A gram
of sin that you can snort down; even ghosts
can have sticky fingers. Slack-jaw we blame
love each time things go wrong. I have the host’s
job of not placing blame. Those who slut-shame
have their own private hell waiting. My prayer
bed is vast, even you’re welcome. You’ve come
from such a far distance, lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe your feet with my hair.
I’ll lick you back to life. I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash away the dried cum and snot.
one lame whinny
09 Thursday Oct 2014
Tags
Carthage, one lame whinny, poem, Poetry, Pop-Art Hannibal, Punic War, sonnet
[H]oney carnage Carthage
Hannibal deep in mud,
his horse, one lame whinny,
hobbled, watching her rider,
a man churning, weep
as Rome pulled out.
The Delphi oracles sang
a capella; for the gods
had grown deaf, could
only question the melody
of the worshiper, not
the words or tone.
But there were no
gods here, just
the bloody swarm of
bees in Hannibal’s ears,
splish-splash of his limbs
quivering with boggy
earth, wax comb carrion,
raked horse-hide,
braying. Carnage
and honey. What
else is there? Clash
of arms and then
peace. Death and
then a birth. Deaf
gods and that terrible
whinnying.
][][
[H]oney carnage Carthage Hannibal deep
in mud, his horse, one lame whinny, hobbled,
watching her rider, a man churning, weep
as Rome pulled out. The Delphic oracles
sang a capella; for the gods had grown
deaf, could only question the melody
of the worshiper, not the words or tone.
But there were no gods here, just the bloody
swarm of bees in Hannibal’s ears, splish-splash
of his limbs quivering with boggy earth,
wax comb carrion, raked horse-hide, braying.
Carnage and honey. What else is there? Clash
of arms and then peace. Death and then a birth.
Deaf gods and that terrible whinnying.
][][
notes:
Hannibal (247-181 BC) was the Carthaginian general who crossed the Alps with war elephants to invade Rome during the Punic Wars. The Oracle of Delphi was the name of the priestesses who served at the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, located on the slopes of Mount Parnassus, in ancient Greece.
xenolith
09 Thursday Oct 2014
Tags
a mosquito's song of pain, Claribel Algeria, miscreant ghost, poem, Poetry, sex-mad wraith, sonnet, xenolith
Ahora/ en esta hora/ crepita
más la muerte/ que la vida.
–Claribel Algeria
Under the patio’s
intricate leaves she
strolls off, clutching
quick Faust, her
pupil, to her breasts.
Finito. The man
deceives himself that
he’s unique, that
his cleaved skull
won’t be used as
a smashing
drinking cup,
and that, “Now/ at
this hour/ death
crackles more/
than life.” If I
were a defrocked
bishop and you
sin, would you
still bite hard?
Folklore says it
just takes a soul,
a mosquito’s song
of pain, and it’s done.
But what does myth
know? eh? myth?
myth! yes? But I
have no faith, no
books, no calling.
Bite me. Hard. Blood
slows. Eyes blank.
Heart – tie me
to the xenolith,
make me strange:
miscreant ghost,
sex-mad wraith.
][][
Ahora/ en esta hora/ crepita
más la muerte/ que la vida.
–Claribel Algeria
Under the patio’s intricate leaves
she strolls off, clutching quick Faust, her pupil,
to her breasts. Finito. The man deceives
himself that he’s unique, that his cleaved skull
won’t be used as a smashing drinking cup,
and that, “Now/ at this hour/ death crackles more/
than life.” If I were a defrocked bishop
and you sin, would you still bite hard? Folklore
says it just takes a soul, a mosquito’s
song of pain, and it’s done. But what does myth
know? eh? myth? myth! yes? But I have no faith,
no books, no calling. Bite me. Hard. Blood slows.
Eyes blank. Heart – tie me to the xenolith,
make me strange: miscreant ghost, sex-mad wraith.
][][
note:
a xenolith (ancient Greek: “alien rock”) is a rock fragment which becomes trapped and swallowed within a larger rock.
song of claws tapping
07 Tuesday Oct 2014
Tags
claws tapping, damn that's tight, I'm judging you, licking licks all night, poem, Poetry, polish my blue horns, sonnet, tramp stamp
when I bend over
tattooed on my lower back
runes: l-o-v-e
][
[S]udden love won’t
dark jazz be heard
deadbeats in my
fingertips white
sun beaten ice
red clouds gold
threads in my sax
I can bleats on
them drums grow
wings let the keyboard
slice you down
the middle sing,
then, song of claws
tapping, rap-rap-
rap. What you need
right now is more
than just love. What
sort of outlaws did you
expect, child? I raise
one eyebrow, snort
down miasma, polish
my blue horns until
they shine. There is
beauty in jack
hammers, echoes. That’s
me in the spotlight.
That’s me. How high
the moon? My tramp
stamp scorns you
for judging. I want
risk, go bareback,
licking licks all
night and say,
“damn, that’s tight.”
][
[S]udden love won’t dark jazz be heard deadbeats
in my fingertips white sun beaten ice
red clouds gold threads in my sax I can bleats
on them drums grow wings let the keyboard slice
you down the middle sing, then, song of claws
tapping, rap-rap-rap. What you need right now
is more than just love. What sort of outlaws
did you expect, child? I raise one eyebrow,
snort down miasma, polish my blue horns
until they shine. There is beauty in jack
hammers, echoes. That’s me in the spotlight.
That’s me. How high the moon? My tramp stamp scorns
you for judging. I want risk, go bareback,
licking licks all night and say, “damn, that’s tight.”
[clit] [spark] [return]
03 Friday Oct 2014
Tags
cunnilingus, gear moaning blues, ghost lover, Holy Spirit, La Llorona, poem, Poetry, Slag Pile Annie, sonnet, spit-drool sparked
Kissing rust between
thighs to make that dead
clit spark return veiled
in blues gear that
screams circuits twitch,
they all know it: A
to Zed ghosts are not
in machines, they are
machines that must
rot and rust alone
in the dark. Holy Spirit?
La Llorona? Slag Pile
Annie? What shouldn’t
survive is the spark.
Power fades. All suns
die. Yet we defile
the night with electric
lights. We are tools.
Thinking apes are
machines and when
we die who knows
not you. I went down
on a ghost once, it
was like licking raw
wire. Spit-drool sparked.
I held her there; until
her low sigh of bliss
faded … like a machine, almost.
][][
Kissing rust between thighs to make that dead
clit spark return veiled in blues gear that screams
circuits twitch, they all know it: A to Zed
ghosts are not in machines, they are machines
that must rot and rust alone in the dark.
Holy Spirit? La Llorona? Slag Pile
Annie? What shouldn’t survive is the spark.
Power fades. All suns die. Yet we defile
the night with electric lights. We are tools.
Thinking apes are machines and when we die
who knows not you. I went down on a ghost
once, it was like licking raw wire. Spit-drool
sparked. I held her there; until her low sigh
of bliss faded … like a machine, almost.
no defeat hate
29 Monday Sep 2014
Tags
Alala, amazons, no defeat hate, poem, Poetry, something comes, sonnet, The Morrigan, war goddesses, why would you cut off your breast?
But why would you need to cut off your breast to shoot an arrow? Not one female Olympian in all the archery competitions ever has resorted to self-mutilation to get where she is.
Have you even used a bow and arrow? I pull the bow string back to my ear, not my seventh rib.
][
A gray blade again
and women fighting down
in the upper hall. Sisters
of bronze and horse tail
helmets. After the drumming,
after the fall, defeated
Amazons
were marched
through fields of suet, bloody
rain, slime-dark pools. Now
I care for ancestors – Sal,
Ruth, Menhit, Alala,
the Morrígan sisters – a nurse’s
work. They wait; horrors
and a Journey to the West
and they wait. Each must
go leaving me behind.
Drumbeats I can’t hear.
Rattle of swords. Something
comes, to claim these souls.
There is no defeat. Hate
burns. Love cools. I
care for sisters, athletes,
fighters. Here comes
the taps, here
comes the drums.
][
A gray blade again and women fighting
down in the upper hall. Sisters of bronze
and horse tail helmets. After the drumming,
after the fall, defeated Amazons
were marched through fields of suet, bloody rain,
slime-dark pools. Now I care for ancestors –
Sal, Ruth, Menhit, Alala, the Morrígan
sisters – a nurse’s work. They wait; horrors
and a Journey to the West and they wait.
Each must go leaving me behind. Drumbeats
I can’t hear. Rattle of swords. Something comes,
to claim these souls. There is no defeat. Hate
burns. Love cools. I care for sisters, athletes,
fighters. Here comes the taps, here comes the drums.
static-skull [remix]
25 Thursday Sep 2014
Tags
– scratch, as gasp, as
in a line in the air
like this one beat. Tight-
breath, the sought-for-thing
coming. Splinter-
tip, talking is despair;
tearing of tongues. Child
making “das Crying”
noise. I come, following her
lisp. Brain-cased,
cysts and foggy-
mind. What does a daughter
of Eve do when all lust
crumbles? Plague-faced
with cracks. Vapor-
hour mud. Low water
yet Woolf held
herself down. “I can’t even
write this/ properly.
I can’t read.” I drop
DJ’s needle on scratch-
ruined records
and a drunk’s beat; I write
words that no one
will dance to. One more
dazed static-skull fop,
gag me on Virginia’s
sinews, whipcords –
static-skull
25 Thursday Sep 2014
Tags
fuzzy brain crank case, heroes, I am a DJ I am what I play, my memory is dying, poem, Poetry, sonnet, static skull, Virginia Woolf
– scratch, as gasp, as in a line in the air
like this one beat. Tight-breath, the sought-for-thing
coming. Splinter-tip, talking is despair;
tearing of tongues. Child making “das Crying”
noise. I come, following her lisp. Brain-cased,
cysts and foggy-mind. What does a daughter
of Eve do when all lust crumbles? Plague-faced
with cracks. Vapor-hour mud. Low water
yet Woolf held herself down. “I can’t even
write this/ properly. I can’t read.” I drop
DJ’s needle on scratch-ruined records
and a drunk’s beat; I write words that no one
will dance to. One more dazed static-skull fop,
gag me on Virginia’s sinews, whipcords –
