Category Archives: Poetry

hellbent

15 Tuesday Jul 2014

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MARIAM1

Tonight let the rat steal the rice. The moon
is in love and even the starving flea

will be pardoned. Tonight, hunger, roughhewn
like love, goes down smooth. We’ve all been hungry.

We’ve all wished somebody would speak secrets
that are simply obvious. Big sister,

where is your story? Why aren’t the poets
singing about you? Mama warrior,

let me braid up your hair. I have no tongue
for tune, but for you I’ll sing any song.

Tonight, saddle up. The moon is absent
and the rat is full. No one else has sung

what you do. Sister, you’re my blood, headstrong
fairytale made flesh; violent and hellbent.

thrive

12 Saturday Jul 2014

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lovers of the wand

And I imagine that this is how we
need to be: nude, warm, huddled together,

willing to survive anything with me …
Me? We! Except there is no we, lover.

No us. Nothing folded like paper in
onto itself. Nothing to protect us.

Just old skin and bone minus voltage, sin
and salt water. I’m a child of Venus,

Bacchus and Dryads. But you? Who knows now.
Who cares what you call yourself. I did once.

Songs that the hurt always sing. You’ll survive
and go off with someone else. Will your vow

sound just as hollow? Like hell, your brilliance
is to make a corpse look like it can thrive.

sin and sleaze

12 Saturday Jul 2014

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Why does lust burn yet my new underwear
makes you wet? Why is it that when I lick

you here you moan, yet when I lick you there
you say, “No, not that! It’s dirty. That’s sick!”

It’s all sick. That’s the whole point. I asked you,
once, what you think of when you masturbate.

Pretty things, I found out. Nothing taboo,
but that can be fun, too. I was once jailbait,

just like everyone else. My fantasies
involve good and evil; it’s the one thing,

save a straight line, that’s not found in nature.
What I call divine you call sin and sleaze.

Where I pray you won’t go. You say, “Making
love,” not “Fucking.” I say, “I’ll take either.”

lick me here, swamp thing

05 Saturday Jul 2014

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waiting for thunder
lightning along your green tongue
kiss me here, swamp thing

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plagued by spring fever
wind parting long curling grass
licking red marsh earth

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it won’t ever end
it won’t get any better—
this need to be loved

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under all these stars
addicted to dark matter
Cthulhu, I cum

cropped marshlands

03 Thursday Jul 2014

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forest_god

From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust

clear and erect into coming twilight.
How did Freud ever pass through such forests?

They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.

Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates

flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.

Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along

my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.

arias, orgasms and weed

19 Thursday Jun 2014

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Gelding, dwarf star, that carmine snip where dye
soaked in. Where fiber and leather were cut

away. Prayers sung. Eunuchs and castrati
pray just like every other sinner, but

their cries carry weight. The heft of lightning
weighs the same as what Farinelli gained,

perhaps lost. The boy soprano singing
on stage at the Beijing Flying Dragon

Opera House. Lustrey crying with need.
We’ve been sweating in our bed. What choice

do we have? The radio is on. Lulled
by high arias, orgasms and weed.

Lulled by an impossible boy. His voice
shook the bed. You gasped and the world trembled.

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note:

Farinelli was a celebrated Italian castrato diva of the 18th century and possibly one of the greatest singers in all of opera.

spoolies

18 Wednesday Jun 2014

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I’m spellbound, but oh a woman denied
And the hills are alive with celibate wives …
— “These Things Take Time,” The Smiths

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service with a smile
“how can I stop?” Cupid’s child,
cum and hair Spoolies

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fuck the Heart Sutra
Italian sex comedies
and Enlightenment

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first taste of delight
under the dryer, laughter
and finger fucking

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note:

Sometime in the dim 1950s hair Spoolies were, and I quote, “the hair curlers for professional pin curls.” I suspect my grandmother wore them when she went to the hair salon and let all hell lose.

sex slush sounds

17 Tuesday Jun 2014

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geen fairy

sticky night weather
finding sister’s vibrator
under her pillow

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summer wild clover
slippery tongue, cicadas,
clit buzz, sex-slush sounds

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green moon reflected
in my absinthe glass; anise
nightmares and daydreams

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the year’s last dark moon
tomorrow our secret tryst
finally exposed …