Category Archives: Poetry

cum slush and stubborn flesh

11 Friday Apr 2014

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From down here the sea’s surface is the sky,
waves are clouds, seaweed marks where you got bored

and left me. I hate you — but I know why
you did all this when I fell overboard —

just to watch me drown. I am still drowning,
just as memory falls, stone through depths, sea

green to blue to black, as we did. Kissing
until your cold flesh robbed me. You robbed me.

I gave so easily — a heart that beats,
cum slush and stubborn flesh. I licked your gills.

Your cock was otherworldly. Who cheats
death cheats life. I need neither. Drowning thrills

but not as much as what you took: love, joy,
slam-bang blowjobs. Flesh from a living boy.

xenomorph, darling

09 Wednesday Apr 2014

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Quench your thirst — I want to feel your heavy
cold breasts on my back when you mount me; scrape

your claws across my skull as you hold me
down with one hand, exposing the soft nape

of my neck to your teeth. My dull, mammal
blood — I’ve never let anyone do this

before. Love is so had to find. People
say that they’ll work for it, work for this bliss,

but how many really do? The perverse
shall soon inherit. Those who have tasted

strangeness are set free from all the world’s shame.
We few, we lucky few. Love has no curse.

Love is our birthright. Love, lap up my blood;
lick my lips, nothing else will taste the same.

cradlesong

07 Monday Apr 2014

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“telling lies/ well, that’s no surprise” — the Go-Gos

You want it like I do: burning monsters
surged in fevered swamps. Rising grabby grasp

into my valley red/ into Rapture’s
blood/ Fierce girl’s mouth/ I am every last gasp

you cum/ laughing/ perfected. What we do
is sin/ touch-and-go/ these ridiculous

elder things/ man-masks! how burdensome “you
are,” how hard it is to breathe/ Lustrous

daughters/ make me your sister’s swamp/ wild wrong
beating/ Anger’s bone that violent flame-brute/

heh, my Mama’s joy, her anguished left hand
birthing until she cried this cradlesong/

this calm/ We are a muddy substitute/
a false boy-god’s brat/ childhood of sand.

strangelove

03 Thursday Apr 2014

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“to the subtle air breathed/ by beings like us who walk this sphere,/ the change onward from ours to that of beings who walk other spheres.” — Walt Whitman

Stand here; where dry sand becomes cold and wet.
Crouched in your confirmation dress. Feel this.

From the wave’s deep grave, from the endless threat
chafing and chained in those breakers, the bliss

of the drowned, the wild curl, spasm, panting —
do you get it? Tell me, can you explain

the force at work here? What do the living
understand? Long after your first blood stain

soaks through your knickers, long after the change,
what will save you, greedy virgin? Romance?

Take a lover, still the sea will surprise
you, grab you, consume you, fill you with strange

love. As if your human lungs stood a chance,
as the waves touch you, as they lick your thighs.

plastic and lecherous

02 Wednesday Apr 2014

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Nightmare, do not go. Stay. I’m curious
how you work. Your pieces parts. So much bronze

and steel, molded plastic and lecherous
flesh. You have war’s crude tongue, the Amazon’s

love of conquest. When you dance your long skirts
swirl up around your ass and your teeth peek

out; the teeth between your legs. And what squirts
forth when you get excited is unique

to all the body fluids that I’ve ever
licked up. Watch me go down on you now.

What’s so alien here? We both get wet
and moan, we both orgasm much harder

than what our sleeping bodies should allow.
Come, Nightmare, I don’t want to wake up yet.

miss thing

02 Wednesday Apr 2014

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I do not know how old you are, only
that the living bar their doors every night

against you. Once I asked you to show me
where you came from; a home made from starlight’s

fairy tales. You said Orion. Miss Thing.
Lovely, lovely Miss Thing. You’re their evil

that comes begging on two legs. When you sing
birds weep. Your tongue can encircle my whole skull.

When you press your six breasts against my chest
and your cool breath fills my lungs, I don’t care

what you are. Saint or devil, it’s the same.
They called us evil, but to me we’re blessed.

The truth that you taught me in this affair:
never apologize, never feel shame.

ether

02 Wednesday Apr 2014

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“That weren’t no D.J.
that was crazy cosmic jive”
— David Bowie, Starman.

][][

Every night I go into the ether,
outer filament, and call to the lost

children. I’m neither mother nor father,
no one’s sister. Still, they come, with star frost

in their hair, for the universe is sin,
a crumb of a thing. Like the abandoned

ones in their fairy tales, I take them in.
Dry their tears. But they’re not mine. The frightened

ones, damned, wretched, screaming without a sound.
None of you will ever be mine; though years

from now, when you’re old, you’ll recall with pain
all my kindness and how once you were found

you ran away, once I took all your fears.
You’re still not saved, star child, simply mundane.

baffle

02 Wednesday Apr 2014

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Living pheromones filled the air, something
mortal, Earth-like. It baffled her. Close by

she lay in the grass watching, observing,
as the man-thing’s blood-hard cock swung high.

As the woman-thing knelt down as if she
would dine on every inch: suck up veins;

swallow the great flood in her mouth; bury
him once more deep in her throat. What explains

humanness better than this? We do this
because we’re divine souls. Let the grownups

forget. Forget that we fuck to beget
rapture’s kiss. Forget even what a kiss

is. Sex confuses me; I raise myself up
and find that once more I am soaking wet.

noon’s high

02 Wednesday Apr 2014

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There once was a girl, much like you, only
less so. She fell from the sky. The sky fell

from her. They say that she was forged, that she
clanged and clanked as she walked. White static-hell

was her voice. An ambient engine purred
in her skull. When she kissed all the streetlights

of Prague would go mad. She was a queer bird,
as they say, an odd duck. She was twilight’s

gloaming. Sun’s rise. Noon’s high. She was— but wait.
That’s not what I want to tell you. She came

down to me, this Star child. This fairy tale
about hate. Because others always hate

the one thing that they can’t break, own or shame.
It’s what she is: lewd, alien, female.

rip

01 Tuesday Apr 2014

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My spine twists as I roll beneath your nails.
I’m so awkward, but you taste like Spirit.

I’ll roll you up, let you run through my veins
in a cab; if I could paint I’d paint smut,

I’d paint your future: two fingers deep in
until you grab my wrist and hiss: “not here.”

So you’re sixteen and deadlier than sin,
I just had to ask, tell me if it’s real;

as the radio says; as the boom box
commands. Everything I’ve said has been told

by far better souls than mine. I still drip
like blood, like snot, like love. When all the cocks

and cunts are revealed — like these center fold
gods — we the divine will say, “let it rip.”