Category Archives: sonnet

dogsbane

27 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on dogsbane

Tags

, ,

Swallows twittered all morning; at high noon
blackbirds sang amid the corn. At dusk down
the frogs with piping filled the black lagoon
and the bats, in flight, spoke of the nightgown
and the sticky toy. Let me sing about
going down behind your misty blood veil
finding your red-faced rose moon, your cunt’s pout,
my two fingers in. I love girls’ duck-tail
haircuts and packed strap-ons. Cut birds’ laughter
across the harp strings of the rain, I hear pain.
I sing for the grass. I chime for flower.
This boy is all spring showers and dogsbane.
Let me be your rain, your wild wind, bluetongue.
This is love, the oldest song ever sung.

sticky trinity

26 Monday Nov 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on sticky trinity

Tags

, , , , , ,

I have gone down on Christ of the Phallus.
I have sucked dry the Lord of Divine Hosts.
Let men brag about conquests. When Jesus
came he filled my mouth with the Holy Ghost’s
jizm. When he dribbled absinthe across
his god-like cock I prayed to the wild green
fire in its crystal shrine, Fairy-fuck sauce,
as I licked each massive ball squeaky clean.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. Hashish
and bath house gangbangs made for great threesomes,
sticky trinity. We were stoned, puckish,
immaculate. We were smutty pilgrims.
We found, between a prophet’s cock and ass,
all of faith sleeping in an absinthe glass.

doggy-style means nothing

26 Monday Nov 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on doggy-style means nothing

Tags

,

Down in the sunless depths of clay she sank.
Shocked and flushed as a star for a bridal
dress. Now shrouded. A chain across her blank
breast. The dead have forgotten sex. Babel
Tower Tongue-Fuck Doggy-style means nothing.
The noise they make sounds like weeping waters.
Aghast, she was at the point of cumming
when Death took her, still tasting of reefers
and gin. Cunnilingus interruptus;
Limbo by any other name. How low
would you go? Who would school you in lewdness
if your soul depended on it? I know
all souls do. How low? Today you shall learn
all the ways I make sure that you don’t burn.

rojo bambu (soneto)

29 Wednesday Aug 2012

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

≈ Comments Off on rojo bambu (soneto)

Tags

, , , ,

August 29, 2012 [2]

Primero compré un lanzamiento del bambú rojo, menos

que un pie, y tomó abajo anguila-como la lámina

con la manija de la quijada del boquete. Debo confesar

tomó un día para tallarlos. Estoy asustado

tres eran todos lo que podría dominar. Entonces encontré

el viejo pote de arcilla formado fuera de nightshade

y sangre. La llené y después encendí un redondo

encienda abajo de punto bajo. Tallé una pregunta y puse

en un desecho de madera, lo fijó para arder: ¿quién

hay fuera de? Los fuegos crackled hasta que

A.M.E.X.Q. fue deletreado. ¿Qué blithesome

el alcohol es usted, amor? Después: Le espero.

Mi corte de bambú pasado era rezo: ¿cuándo

usted vendrá? ¿Alcohol de la prisa – cuándo usted vendrá?

][][

(First I bought a shoot of red bamboo, less than a foot, and took down the eel-like blade with the gap jaw handle. I must confess it took a day to carve them. I’m afraid three was all I could master. Then I found the old clay pot fashioned out of nightshade and blood. I filled it and then lit a round fire down low. I carved a question and laid it on a wood scrap, set it to blaze: who is out there? The fires crackled until A.M.E.X.Q. was spelled. What blithesome spirit are you, love? Next: I wait for you. My last bamboo cutting was prayer: when will you come? Hurry spirit — when will you come?)

mi hija, el pornographer (soneto)

19 Sunday Aug 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

≈ Comments Off on mi hija, el pornographer (soneto)

Tags

, , , ,

Fue cuando ella comenzó a traer su trabajo

al hogar que comencé a preocuparme. Caminando

por la cocina para encontrar a alguna muchacha

masturbando a un tipo, era mi hija, capturando

toda en la película, grita las instrucciones. Encontrar

el fregadero lleno juguetes sexuales apenas lavados. Un nuevo

tubo de lubricante anal en su monedero. “mirando a

otros coger,” ella me dijo, “es lo que mejor se hacer.”

No puedo avitar pensar que hay voyeurs

en todos nosotros. Incluso la palabra impresa

era una vez de otros. “Estarias sorprendido

qué todos lo que podemos hacer delante de otros,

dado la ocasión,” dijo ella. “es absurdo

decir que no amamos lo que desdeñan otros.”

mi-hija-el-pornographer-2

(It was when she started bringing her work home that I began worrying. Walking into the kitchen to find some girl jerk a boy off as my daughter, capturing it all on film, shouts instructions. Finding the sink full of sex toys just washed. A new tube of anal lube in her purse. “Watching others fuck,” she told me, “is what I do best.” I can’t help but think there are voyeurs in all of us. Even the printed word was once another’s. “You would be surprised what we all will do in front of others, given the chance,” she said. “It is absurd to say we don’t love what others despise.”)

smut by the sea

25 Monday Jun 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on smut by the sea

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Take me down in a tidal pool; swimsuit
around my knees. “Skerries beg/ the seal’s
bride,” we once sang. I am Neptune’s child: mute,
dark-eyed, insatiable. I sing the eel’s
want, the urchin’s need. I know of the sin
that can only be found under the moon,
down at ebb time’s tide. Take me; make my chin
slick from your spray. Even sex-starved Neptune
found joy sitting on the sand and dreaming
of what lay below. We are all sex-starved.
Let the great, gray seal colony — crying,
“lick me, lick me” — cry. I love a myth carved
into shifting sand; obscure and far-flung.
I love the selkie’s cock, the siren’s tongue.

my teenage horror moans

22 Sunday Apr 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on my teenage horror moans

Tags

, , , , ,

I’ll make a rude ghost — the kind who infects
crossroad brothels; anywhere the fragrance
of sex and fear sleeps. Skulking hulks of wrecks;
enthralled with jellyfish, phosphorescence
and the double-grin shark. A thousand years
of cock, hanging just so. Aeons of sprite
light, all that dreary pop-rock and cum smears
on my chin. I’ll make rude; ghost in skintight
trousers, tousled hair and alabaster
hunger. I saw The Devil in Miss Jones,
it made my grotty whore moans and toxins
all run amok. Dead lust is a horror
show. I traffic with fear and pheromones.
Lick me clean; I’ll make you cum in ruins.

wings and burning cheeks

16 Monday Apr 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on wings and burning cheeks

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Demons do all look alike. They are round
with wings and burning cheeks. I love bucktooth
fangs, scholars and poets all, those hellhound
coke-heads, all my dead friends with a sweet tooth
for flesh. The heavens were made in sevens
and I fuck in threes. Water still burns nerves
whose one duty is to delight. Demons
do all look alike; the way that the curves
and lines in cocks and cunts blur together,
if you’ve been with enough. If you haven’t:
‘ello, virgin. There’s a reason spirits
shun you. Like how I shun burning water
and the living. We love all wet, mutant
lovers; hellhound fucks; dead coke-head poets.

lilith’s flamenco nuevo

12 Thursday Apr 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Feminism, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet, video

≈ Comments Off on lilith’s flamenco nuevo

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Poet’s Note: Lilith was Adam’s first wife, an equal, kicked out of Eden for refusing to be man’s inferior. Flamenco is a style of music, song and dance from Andalusia in southern Spain, if Grief chose a style of dance, it would be the Flamenco. Duende is a Spanish term, the poet Federico Garcia Lorca described it as the artistic power everyone feels but no science can ever explain. In Jazz it’s called Soul.

* * *

And the jackals knew that a new woman
was in town. How could they not? The snakes dreamed
of the deep well of souls you keep hidden
between your legs. Our home, this wasteland, gleamed
like a song; where each hand-clap was a scream,
every heel-smack … an act of revolt. Eve
never danced the Flamenco; her bloodstream
never ran this lewd. Let the crude fools grieve;

the moon, La Luna, listens to me sing.
I have no Duende, yet still I .. i ..
i .. i .. i, mi corazón, my heart-string.

We dance as outcasts under promised sky.
We are the owners of nights of freedom
from which blooms the blood-blossom orgasm.

(I love this video soooo much! ¡y un coñazo!)

future little ghost

27 Tuesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on future little ghost

Tags

, , , , ,

Day and night, each passion has its haunted
future, its mysterious bedsheets, cum
dripping down the walls. Passion, like acid
in the blood, hints at what could be. Welcome
ghost — urge I did not act upon — sleeping
inside me like one who died upon life’s
threshold, never wept for, smiled at, haunting
me with what might have been. The good housewife’s
low moan, the saint’s climax, the moonlit mile
where the nastiest of our spirits reigned.
Even while asleep, your perverted smile
tells me that you’re dreaming about the stained
knickers of the dead. What could be lewder
than our future, little ghost, my sister?