Category Archives: Poetry

edge of my skin [2]

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Dec 17, 2013 (4)

Dec 17, 2013 (3)

Dec 17, 2013 (2)

I still remember your touch, after all
of this time every time I close my eyes

I go back again to that night; the small
softness of your fingers, all those dumb lies

I said to keep you as you grazed my skin
with your lips as our tongues touched. How could I

have kept you safe from my zealots? Cretin
you should have called me, not lover. Defy

us, we who burn witches and call it truth.
We who preach hate and call it love. Wake, wake,

love, in this aftermath, although entwined
around you, our Eden ends. Faith, like youth,

knows all. How can I claim that my heart breaks
when I let — when I’m a child, vain and blind?

edge of my skin

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

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Dec 17, 2013 (5)

Dec 17, 2013 (6)

Dec 17, 2013 (7)

Remembering that night makes desire
shake once again. I play it over in

my mind — the thrill of memory sets fire
to my nerves — I’m on the edge of my skin

aching to be set free with your mouth, hand,
tongue all that makes me feel that we did this

before, we’ll do this again. I expand
down your throat. When you part your grave-fresh thighs

I kiss all that I can find. Science still
can’t teach us if orgasms aren’t or are

human sublimity that we call faith.
I know that you came through the door to kill

me, I know that I love you: thief, bizarre
ghost girl, libido, love, barrow wraith.

calling this evil

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

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Where did you read this crap? Some fake shaman
selling pure bullshit by the pound? Nekros

means “dead.” Manteia means “divination.”
But the opposite isn’t medicus,

as in “healer,” it is fraus, as in “fraud.”
As in refusing the world of Spirit.

As in calling this evil; that sad, odd
faith that refuses all that does not fit

easily. Black? White? Dualism sucks.
If you don’t call on the dead to guide you

who do you call? The man-made gods who burn
witches? That’s like turning to the eunuchs

for sex advice. Embrace the dead, you who
will be one soon. Watch. Listen. Fucking learn.

an open letter to south sudanese president salva kiir

16 Monday Dec 2013

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Dec 16, 2013 (3)

It is Saturday and I read
that you are putting down
a coupe attempt, I hope

it goes well but that is not
the reason I am writing

to you. The Nigeria Liquefied
Natural Gas Prize
for Literature has awarded

another award to someone
who is not South Sudanese

but somehow someone
thought that “Nigeria Liquefied
Natural Gas Prize” seemed

like a good title for a literary
award. Poetry is symbolic, it
can’t stop bullets or feed

starving children but it will draw
the world’s eyes to anything it touches.
It is time that the South Sudanese

have their own poetry movement,
artists drawn from every village,

every city, every refugee camp
who will let the world know what
is happening. I am not Sudanese

but I do know how to say “Mwen
renmen pwezi” in Juba Arabic.

A nation of poets will capture
the imagination of generations to

come. If there is anyway I can
help in bringing this about please
let me know. Blessings and cheers.

Z

a devil’s reply

16 Monday Dec 2013

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your lips slightly bruised kiss the demons run
when a good man comes with primal urges

with a seventh son of a seventh son
with your mama’s blessings on your curl-fuzz

your first pubic hair your first change bad boys
who say stay away taste these crimson lips

you can’t help yourself and the noise the noise
of the rough bite on your bottom your hips

suck you are your fingers in I know I
know it’s serious more than metal fills

gag your throat hard next time both of my thumbs
to bruise your first curl a devil’s reply

to one who consumes vodka morphine pills
consumes everything when a good man comes

the lie that runs

10 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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A film, as in flick, as in cinema,
as in a tale, once told, that would change us,

change the world. But that’s not film’s role. Dogma
dictates that our art will make us famous,

that we’ll work in ivory towers, prattle,
publish and die beloved. I don’t want that.

Who makes films for the transgendered? muscle
women? tomboys? femme toys? Who makes hellcat

art? Who’ll smash the patriarchy with blood
money stolen from Hollywood? I touch

on this as if I had a clue; my lie
that runs on discontentment and hatred

of an art movement that promised so much
but gave so little while bleeding us dry.

][][

“buy my album and make me a millionaire. I want a house in the country.”
— Johnny Rotten from The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle (1980)

“punk isn’t dead, just boring”
— London graffiti (2009)

queen brute

08 Sunday Dec 2013

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Dec 08, 2013 (1)

That is not me talking. Those aren’t my lips,
fingers, tongue. I stepped aside. I let in

and then exhaled out. Possess you. Eclipse
you. This Ancient will prevail. Ancient skin.

Ancient name. Ancient dreams. Balsam, wet root,
limestone. Those weren’t my scents. That wasn’t my boast.

They all came when I stood down. This queen-brute
dressed up in a kimono. This girl ghost

who came back from the other side. Karma
means not a thing. No one is saved. Ancient

soul from before time who will make your death
rattle sound like a low hallelujah,

the gasp of surprise and awe a moment
before orgasm, faith’s very last breath.

Dec 08, 2013 (2)

holocaust angel

06 Friday Dec 2013

Posted by in Armenia, Poetry, sonnet

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Maybe my problem (I stop, think about
that and laugh. Then) is English. In Paris,

perhaps, I might find a teacher without
students, a great grandchild of the rootless

tribe that escaped Der-ez-Zor. Holocaust
angel, I’ve seen photos of you holy

in a torn sack dress. I’ve seen your bones, frost
white, dug up across Erzurum, Ani,

Van. Teach me French, teacher, then the ancient
tongue. The one that I wish to know. I wait,

I wait, I wait. In English there are none
who will speak. I don’t want to be silent

like a photograph. I wish to translate
this whole dark world into Armenian.

][][

note:

Let’s call this an obsession. The whole problem with wanting to learn a language that no one who lives near you speaks is that it is very hard to find a tutor. There use to be an Armenian community in Grand Rapids, Michigan, but not any more. I know this because in the city’s museum there is a display of a store run by an Armenian shop-keeper. But whoever they were and wherever they went to I do not know. One day I will meet an Armenian-speaker who will love poetry as much as I do and help me translate all the dark poems of my heart into the language I want to love but can’t speak. One day …