Category Archives: Poetry

the way love dogs bark

03 Thursday Oct 2013

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It’d been a night without words she hunted
in the dark gazed at the stars stared into
the flames she turned the spit among her blood
sisters who were now her companions, who
had been her rivals: girls’ blood, bloody souls.
Now the beast had been driven from hiding
and its fat sizzled and sparked in the coals
the way love dogs bark. One girl lay bleeding
near by, having stumbled during the hunt.
Rites of passage must always end bloody.
Tonight she’d taste another’s mouth, cast doubt
aside, grip their hips feel the heat, the weight
of one different than her; nervous to see
if she could make another soul cry out.

in love with sword blades and poppy seeds

02 Wednesday Oct 2013

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Almond’s almond husk, the green husk, the black
and the mottled underclothes still called kink
on you, beloved. Your crevice, your mossback,
exposed to light one more time. Let me think,
Amy Lowell called it fingering the smooth
kernel, grandma for all I write. Yes, fuck
Ezra Pound and all those who try to soothe
over his fascist ways. They’re just bollocks,
dear Il Duce. My grandma would never
put up with that bullshit. She knew the worth
of an almond, a clit, Modernist swine
who made hate new. I call you honey slur,
Mama Amy. Men laughed at your wide girth,
but fuck them, I call you poet divine.

only human

02 Wednesday Oct 2013

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I.
These scars exist to show that I survived.
That the things that you prized I overcame.
Only those of us who have been deprived
their hearts know their weaknesses. And the shame
that you called puberty, you called hormones,
was a door that I walked through on my own.
I’m still changing. You said that flesh and bones
can’t be denied; yes, the pain that you’ve shown
me, the scars that you’ve cut into my skin,
I can’t deny. I’m still changing and you
fight with dirty tooth and claw, since you can’t
change—you’re only human. What you call sin
is faith. What I call love you call taboo
and what I call my prayer you call a rant.

II.
so sad too
bad get
over
it

asshole …

a few notes on cannibalism

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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“When the food runs out, the family reunion is over. It’s cool that out of all my relatives, I’m the only cannibal.”
― Jarod Kintz, This Book Has No Title

][][

I could bind you, bite you, beat you. Freaky
needs leave you in rags and used. Should I come

back? kiss away the bruise? But that’s what we
do on Friday nights out of pure boredom.

Today is Tuesday, kitchen day, and I
have been playing with spices: lemon zest,

basil, chervil. One day I shall hog-tie
you, rub thyme and marjoram on your breasts.

I am curious what you would taste of
if I felt a bit peckish. It is odd

how so few things shock anymore. Quite right,
the cannibal in you is not above

a tease. I’m a lovely cock tease. The God
of Death knows my infernal appetite.

filled my heart

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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Damaged. I don’t need to say anything
more but you know. All my poetry pales
before those two syllables. Heart breaking
how I learned not to give a fuck. Details
are all unimportant. All tragedies
are pain. But to not give a fuck? That part
hurts the most. Damaged goods. Before “sissies,”
“tomboys” and “fags.” Before fear filled my heart.

I own that now, for Damaged means wisdom.
It means that we took it all and survived.
I do give a fuck. If you’re reading this
then we survived. You and me. I’ve been numb
for a good long time. Damaged. They deprived
us of our childhood but we’re still us. Us.

again again again

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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But my mother’s mother, Maleficent,
widowed from her first love, and that love’s first
ripe fruit, moved through her father’s realm, torment
in her heart, her native tongue, being cursed
as all fairy tales curse us with ruin.
Again. Again. Again. “Find your magic,”
grandmother replied at each doubt—her one
dictum, fed with her green fire and sapphic
faith. She spoke so little of pain that we
forgot that she was a widow with no
regret, practiced in delight. I recall
all her stories, of heroines scrubbed free
of men’s curses. Tales where not one widow,
crone, step-mother died—just burned for us all.

this wine that i uncork

29 Sunday Sep 2013

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She brushed against him, kissed the devil, sucked
his fat bottom lip into her mouth, flicking
her tongue once, twice; each kiss causing havoc
all through his body, essence bubbling
up, then nipped, then suckled. Virgins were her
biggest weakness. She wanted to taste all
of his fourteen years. Awake the geyser
no one had yet to tap. Little boy doll,
I’ll take what is yours into what is mine.
I’ll make you sob. She raised one arched eyebrow,
posed. It’s done like this, she said, as she bent
catch of his breath down on her knees. This wine
that I uncork, fill me, gag me. Cum now,
son; and with that he spent and spent and spent.

whores my mothers

29 Sunday Sep 2013

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I’ll go, rescue you from hell. I have squeezed
the sleaze that says there’s snakes in your tresses,
serpents in your pubes. I’ve been down there, greased
and lubed the garden of your thighs. Bitches
be my sisters. Whores my mothers. Sluts be
my aunts. Wrap me in your gorgon hair.
I’m cold. I like the way you stare at me.
Hard eyes on fire. Beyond false-faith and prayer,
beyond good and bad, there is love. Men build
buildings and call themselves gods. But this bliss
doesn’t come from that. Medusa, don’t drown
in male rage. They say that they were thrilled
to kill you. We don’t need monsters in this
wicked world. Let’s burn all their buildings down.

the cynical kind

29 Sunday Sep 2013

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when it comes to smut and poets you shut
up if you’re doing this just to get laid
you are making it far worse i love smut
and its morals something that you degrade
like born-agains do to faith your hopeless
need to control fear but fear like a blow
job keeps us believing in this faithless
world it keeps the fires of the libido
hot you getting laid is the least of our
concerns aphrodite would be displeased
with you instead escape this trap this bind
shrine maids do it but you all who devour
their lust are their lust the only diseased
sort of passion is the cynical kind …

bleeding fuck

29 Sunday Sep 2013

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I’m glad that you go mad, sometimes, despite
all the beauty that you’re still buried in.
Here is your map and flying goggles, night
witch. Here is No-Man’s Land. Erotic sin
mandates that you get caught while doing this;
but our people won’t be able to bring
back your body. Today, stay sane, princess.
See this symbol of the fuck? The bleeding
fuck. Now take off and fly. Kiss me, kismet.
Just this once stop being his wife, mother
and friend. Come back to me. Your bestial
hunger piques my interest. You’re my rosette
stone, one awaiting an interpreter.
Flesh and blood, you are undecipherable.