Category Archives: sonnet

sick

10 Friday Sep 2021

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I’ve been chasing the septic, the abscessed,

the wild and purulent. Disease is a grand

stand-in for lustfulness these days. A quest

for what others give away free. Not bland

pornography –– Promises of what might

happen. Let them exhale. Even the most

chaste and vestal can still hack & cough. Light

me up, dead man, with fever. Some still boast

of their prowess; as if the age of swing

might go back as before. Not with these lungs.

Not with this immune system. When I pull

on your hair and say, “you’re sick,” I’m being

literal. When I start to speak in tongues

that just taint I’m spewing, by the soulful.

just

31 Tuesday Aug 2021

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The day done gray. “Of the gods,” Aeschylus

said, “Death alone does not crave gifts.” The rest

love their altars and praise; become jealous

and ill-tempered if crossed. For Death the blessed

and the sinner are the same and worms feed

on them all. “Death shall be Death forever,”

Sappho said; unlike us, love, with our need

to see ourselves in what we praise. Lover,

love me now before I become just dust

of ten thousand years. My gift is coaxing

of my tongue – stroking foam – sucking obscene

– tasting what you crave. Let the righteous rust

since Death won’t care if we do everything,

nothing or just hardcore bling in-between.

][][

Notes:

Aeschylus was an ancient Greek playwright, known as the, “Father of Tragedy.” Sappho, “The 10th Muse,” was master of the lyric poem. I like what Kenneth Rexroth said about her art, “There has been no other poet like this. Wherever enough words remain to form a coherent context, they give one another a unique luster, an effulgence found nowhere else. Presentational immediacy of the image, overwhelming urgency of personal involvement — in no other poet are these two prime factors of lyric poetry raised to so great a power.”

verve

20 Friday Aug 2021

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How the fuck does someone fuck in something/ as bent and broken shaft, as dried as pools

no ink flows from, as a poem? Fucking,/ even the Platonic Ideal, has rules

that we must follow. Instead follow this/ as I rise, aroused. It’s been one hundred

twenty-three days (nombre magique!) amiss,/ blissless, frantic, sick. Some cocksucka said

there’s no world soul, no anima spirit,/ no blessed words. By clits, cocks and balls, these scrawls

rise with me. This is the ideal: shortest/ distance between us——words. We, who submit

to lust’s divine plan. Recall what befalls/ cocksuckas who scorn the verve of Logos.

][][

Notes:

Logos is a Greek philosophical term that says a divine word (reason) governs the universe. Likewise, World Souland Anima (Spirit) Mundi are other concepts of Logos. Plato’s Platonic Ideal states that the idea of an act or object is, “more real,” than the object itself. In this case the concept of fucking is more real than the act itself. Finally, I love numbers that arrange themselves in patterns (12:34, etc.) Nombre magique is French for, “Magic number.” It’s good to be back 🙂

fool

16 Tuesday Mar 2021

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You look sad, Auntie. We’re shadows, azure-

eyed, made from lust and stardust and despise

 

blood and afterbirth. Fools fear our power

to peel off our pelts. Fools fear change, disguise,

 

the way floods deform and do not deform

dry earth. But, Auntie, what use are nightmares

 

if you can wake up? Why try to transform

when we can slaughter? We don’t need more snares

 

Fools keep slipping free from. Call Onibaba.

She’s a friend. She has farseeing vision

 

and short cruel knives. Fools call her, “Hag with Tusks

and Fangs Chitter-Chatting in her Vulva.”

 

Fools fear her carnage; her love of carrion;

how she sucks both down to their very husks.

][][

Notes:

In Japanese folklore Onibaba is a female demon.

bygone

15 Monday Mar 2021

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Not Pan, the Goat herder, the Goat fucker,

lover of Goat porn. Nothing sleeps within

 

the trees here. Those gods died with their timber

hacked from bygone groves. Still, a thing moves in

 

the dark these days. Even you, as faithless

as you are, feel it. Your limb’s lust each time

 

voluptuous Plump Rump Callipyge Venus

calls. The other old school booty. Sublime

 

curves in this cleared land. Venus spreads her cheeks

while I tease with cock and thumb. Rude, sacred

 

prayers are still out there; just not Pan, the Goat

fucker. Who’ll teach you new techniques

 

if you’ve lost your faith? Fill my head, she said,

with prayer. I’ll gag on your cock in my throat.

][][

Notes:

The Romantic poets (Shelley, Byron, etc.) spend a lot of time moaning that ancient Greece’s eden, Arcadia, is lost to us in this modern era of cynicism and technology. According to the Greek historian Plutarch, Pan (protector of shepherds, seducer of nymphs and inventor of the syrinx panpipes) is the only Greek god who actually dies (and with him, Arcadia). According to myth, a sailor on his way to Italy heard a divine voice hail him across the waves: “When you reach the harbor at Palodes, tell the world that the great god Pan is dead.” Why some myths become popular while others don’t (especially considering Lord “I’ll Fuck Anything That Moves” Byron) I have always been fond of the stories about the Callipygian Venus, who the Romans called: “Venus with the Beautiful Ass.” Hers is an Arcadia that will never be lost.

chars

07 Sunday Mar 2021

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Next time you’ll count the scars. There will be more.

Grizzled, you’ll think. Frost burn. It takes time

 

for me to undress. Stitches hold my gore

in place for now. This pain isn’t sublime,

 

the sort that shamans use. It’s not De Sade’s

doomsday, either. First time I saw someone

 

tear at their clothes as they transformed gnawed

at me for weeks. I will be fifty-one

 

in less than a week. If I come back all

grizzle gray and limping will you confuse

 

me for the Moon? I can read all the scars

on her face. Can you read mine? This queer scrawl

 

that spells my fate each time these stitches ooze

fevered flames. Heat that grizzles. Heat that chars.

tell-tale

22 Monday Feb 2021

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Mischief-mad, hidden among the cushions,

you guide three fingers under your burqa,

 

biting back a tell-tale groan. Your oven’s

wet heat, stoked each night from ash to lava

 

while your husband snores near by, still tortures

you the way faith haunts your thoughts all day long.

 

When the first wet spot bleeds through your knickers;

when myrrh drips from, like honey in the Song

 

of Songs, your fingers –– then even mischief

isn’t enough. Mother-in-laws yammer

 

and whine, but you smolder: wet oven heat,

holy cum shrine. Your longing is as tough

 

as your soul’s flesh. Faith is only torture

in a world that wants you chaste and discreet.

bakkheia

28 Thursday Jan 2021

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Some just loathe Ecstasy; like the Roman

who turned our Gorgeous Boy of Lust and Rage

 

into some frail sot. To fear masculine

beauty is to fear the divine. That age

 

that tried to switch Dion-(bow chicka bow

wow)-ysus with besotted ol’ Bacchus

 

ended bad. This isn’t heresy. My vow

is still to He Who Swaggers With Quenchless

 

Thirst. The one god not appeased by widespread

worship, sacrifice or floor pie. Altars

 

do not sooth him, nor prophets who soothsay.

Only madness in dance, in art, in bed.

 

No priests or holy laws. Only lovers;

we few who obey when we disobey.

lolls

27 Wednesday Jan 2021

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Slick from a randy varmint, your nipples

swell in your strappy tee as I watch you

 

take the pills that we found on the motel’s

bathroom floor. You taste just like witch’s brew,

 

rancor, a chloroform soaked handkerchief.

Ill pills freeze time then turn our lust heinous.

 

You are the color of storm and I grief.

On your back, your head lolls off the mattress

 

as I grind in. Your throat bulges, jaws twinge

as my balls smother your nose. You gag-retch,

 

spitting cum, bile and ache down your forehead.

Fuck fiend, you called me, words that made you cringe,

 

once … like love, or every time that I stretch

you wide; an act that you both long for and dread.

xenolibido

22 Friday Jan 2021

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Panspermia: Life hidden in drifting

space dust; scatterings of queer DNA

 

awash in the high heavens. Begetting

the ones zealots fear on Earth. Castaway,

 

satyr, witchling; this would explain but not

excuse my lecherous bursts. The drama

 

of throat fucking in public. Your distraught

“¡Oi!” as you wear my cum like mascara.

 

There is no ill will in our tribe. We hunt

all who love their carnal but odd essence.

 

Xenolibido. “Whores of Babylon,”

the saved sneer. No, try Betelgeuse. Try cunt.

 

Try cock. Try us all. But they won’t. Not once;

their junk genes come from dullest of god-spawn.

][][

Notes:

Besides being a great name for a drag queen, panspermia is a theory that life on Earth originated from alien DNA drifting on galactic winds, searching for a suitable environment to call home. The plot of the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers explains that the pod people came to Earth in the form of gelatinous creatures able to survive in the vacuum of outer space. I tend to fall on the side of astrobiology and ask for some actual proof before announcing that something is possible, but I do like playing with the idea in poetry. People who are very very keen on the idea of extraterrestrials tend to point to Fermi’s Paradox (which more or less states, “Empirical evidence is for Sucka MCs/ P-Funk’s Mothership Connection puts/ the xy chromosome in sexy”) and speculative fiction as to why they got a D- in high school science but an B+ in creative writing (naming no names, of course).