28 Thursday Nov 2013
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on autobiographia literaria
child of a russian night
witch and spanish poet
in a world of picture-
perfect porn I am curious
about the desires
of the unlovable
and the doomed;
those of us who
dream under the light
of the dog-star.
24 Sunday Nov 2013
Tags
dark honeyed air, drown in it, guitar, ocean's outrage, poem, Poetry, sonnet
… then we were nearing the end of the song.
The sea calmed; each note turned hushed and sublime
and then faded away … I am not strong,
but my strings are tight; full of tears each time
you play me. You have no soul, nothing lies
inside. I’ve seen it drip from your mouth, run
down your chin, melt out of your hollow eyes.
Each time you squeeze me tight these songs summon
mermaids who live in my dark honeyed air.
Each time I sing tales of the sea-gypsies
I find new words for the ocean’s outrage.
My waves are chaos. Sometimes they enter
all your harmonies … they make me vicious,
one day I’ll drown in lascivious rage.
][][
notes:
“Well she’d held a bass guitar and/ she was playing in a band.
And she stood just like Bill Wyman,/ now I am her biggest fan …”
—The Smithereens, Behind the Wall of Sleep.
22 Friday Nov 2013
Tags
love affair with the living, my heart huuuurts, poem, Poetry, something organic, sonnet, Sylvia Plath
I want to keep you. I want to swallow
you. I want to do your laundry. I want
to feed you all your meals. I want to know
the taste of your sleeping eyes. Do not haunt
me like this. What am I to you? A dumb
toy? You do not do. You once let me kiss
each crumb from your mouth. You fed me on crumbs.
I feel my heart—it beats—hurts. What is this
need for something organic? something warm
to sleep on—the breasts of a trespasser
returning from alien dreams—let dawn
creep in. Even I can be a newborn,
screaming about this ghostly encounter
of ours, screaming until my voice is gone.
][][
“you do not do/ any more … ”—Sylvia Plath
21 Thursday Nov 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on cold tongue on warm flesh
Tags
art, Buzzcocks, cold tongue on warm flesh, death changes nothing, erotic pain, ghost lover, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Of course I believe in hell—What’s worse
than this? Wanting one you know you shouldn’t?
No, that’s what we all do. It’s that old curse;
finding out just what a vile and blatant
bastard you’re stuck with. That’s lamentable.
That’s a joke. That’s the one thing we all say,
“this must end.” I was inconsolable
when you left. I was wretched on the day
you came back home. It’s hard not to despise
someone who takes my love for granted. Death
changed nothing; you’re still a pig when you touch
me. Cold tongue on warm flesh, between your thighs,
your cock filling me. I can feel your breath
coming in quick gasps. I hate you so much.
][][
you disturb my natural emotions/ you make me feel I’m dirt/ and I’m hurt
and if I start a commotion/ I’ll only end up losing you/ and that’s worse
—buzzcocks, “ever fall in love with someone you shouldn’t’ve?
21 Thursday Nov 2013
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on dawn obscured crept in
Tags
accidental drowning, art, dawn obscured crept in, exquisite corpse, poem, Poetry, red grave dirt, sonnet
White teeth, rosebud mouth, lipstick; nothing hints
that you’ll find my skull this pretty, pulling
me from the shark’s maw. She left red clay prints
on the floor where she threw her soiled clothing,
sashayed about naked. Her elbows propped
under her chin, two bare stick-like legs
displayed wide beneath the table. Her cropped
hair looked fresh. Gunshot wounds, witch burnings, plagues;
all my loves have tales to tell. Dawn obscured
crept in to pool nearby, her ribcage cast
odd blue shadows. Without thinking she poured
a shot of gin, slugged it down, sat aghast
as it dripped down, a dribble and a spurt,
between bones, mixing with the red grave dirt.
][][
notes
I was once told in a dream the manner in which I would die—-drowning at sea and ending up in a shark’s belly. Over the years I’ve found people laugh when I tell them this, which is odd since most people in America die from heart disease, cancer and strokes … all rather terrible and unglamorous ways to go. At least with accidental drowning I’ll be in good company with the likes of Natalie Wood (actress), Percy Bysshe Shelley (slushy, in-bred poet), Dennis Wilson (drug-addled Beach Boy), Virginia Woolf (superstar), Brian Jones (not as super as Woolf but still a star) and Joe Delaney (American football player and saint). Plus, the Great White Shark is my spirit guide and if I have to end up being anyone’s Sunday brunch I’d much rather go to someone I love and respect.
21 Thursday Nov 2013
Tags
alien, art, finding love is hard, hentai, poem, Poetry, Ryoko, sin, sonnet, Tenchi Muyo, xenomorph erotica
Just how many of us can make monsters
scream with delight? I’ve met shadows in deep
blue shades, hungry for love between blurs
of vinyl record scratches. If you can sleep
you can dream. Dream of love in the ruins
of “what shouldn’t be.” Of “sin.” Of strong drink.
Let’s get drunk. I tell you, the aliens
of my life are exactly what you think,
creatures that want to be tied up firmly
have your upturned hand raised towards a krypton
green ass. Have fingers creep slowly due south
between horned knees. She is blushing, I see;
there is a plea in her eye and smile on
what I can only assume is her mouth.
20 Wednesday Nov 2013
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on ruin is not for you
Tags
Achilles, Ainia, amazons, art, Fall of Troy, Greek myth, poem, Poetry, Queen Penthesilea, ruin is not for you, sonnet, woman warrior
Sister mine—what she calls liberation
is just one more example of lapis
red extermination. You are captain;
you’ll fight with Penthesilea at Troy. Princess
Ainia ordered you to spare no one;
so what makes you different from Achilles?
I have been lost in mist, grayish brown, dun
light let me sooth-say from papyrus. Please,
sister mine, listen. Do not be martyr,
warrior or her fool. Be the wild night’s mare.
Gallop to me. Ruin is not for you.
Let me wash your feet in saffron and myrrh.
Troy and Princes Ainia will fall—Swear
that you won’t, too. Please, swear that you won’t, too.
][][
notes:
For the background of the picture I used an ancient Greek pot showing the Fall of Troy.
Princess Ainia was an Amazon who was the personal enemy of Achilles. Due to this, she brought her forces with her and fought against the Greeks at Troy. Her name means, “Swiftness.”
Queen Penthesilea was the daughter of Orithia and the god Ares. She was known for her bravery, her skill in weapons and her wisdom. During the ten year long siege of Troy she killed many Greek warriors, including Machaon and the Achilles the Greater. Her name means “She Who Compels Men to Mourn.”
18 Monday Nov 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on clematis and poppy king seed
shaman of clematis and poppy king
seeds reads the four genuine directions
found deep inside the pistil opening
with blue heat would you follow these omens
to the land of the dead just to bury
your nose in its flaring cobalt? giving
birth to demons we are the ancestry
of our future smut the dead leave judging
to the self-conceited shamans know who
will talk who’ll fuck who’ll give us the answers
the dead summon us come come a well-hung
sapphire ring re-sizes itself for you
could you wrap it around your two fingers?
could you wrap it around your bluest tongue?
18 Monday Nov 2013
Tags
blood acid drain-o, cunnilingus, junkies, Nancy Spungen, poem, Poetry, punks, SId and Nancy, sonnet
It was the summer that my friends wanted
to be poor Nancy Spungen with track marks
and ripped fishnets we were tripping balls blood
acid drain-o paranoid as if narcs
would bust us as if I could fill my lungs
with your breath your bloodshot eyes a command
urging me begging for tastes bites lips tongues
pressure please I’m bleeding without my hand
on your breast naked under your leather
jacket “never trust a junkie” Nancy
said in the alley skirt pulled to hips blunt
tongue in deep where are you now my lover?
we were kids wanna-be London junkies
without needle marks it was all different
13 Wednesday Nov 2013
Posted in Illustration and art, Passings and Death Notes, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on the problem with words
Tags
death in my family, emptiness into, funeral, my grandmother passed away, poem, Poetry, sonnet, sorrow
][][
—– —– —- emptiness into emptiness into
this, which did not die. How can I be brave
when all this now stops? All that we once knew
must go … go down into darkness of grave
dirt — words stop, too, they’re heavier than earth;
right now I can’t shape them. I am a nurse.
I know about the science of death, birth
and all that lies in-between. What is worse
than this? needing but being unable
to find words, emptiness into — I know
I need my words about my grandmother
when we all gather at her funeral
but our matriarch is dead, she must go
now, wait for all of us to come to her.
note:
On Monday morning, November 11th, my 92 year old grandmother passed over. I will be off-line for a while, I must fly out to California and help my family prepare for the funeral. Almost everyone on my father’s side died before I was born. Up until now no one on my mother’s side had died, This isn’t the poem I shall read, but it is the poem about not knowing what to say.
I hope everyone is well. Cheers.
memories of my ghost sista 