Category Archives: sonnet

lunacy

25 Saturday Jul 2020

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Your mom said good girls don’t go there. Bummer.
Last year you and four other girls dropped out

pregnant. Now you do, often; your daughter
snoozing in her crib, your hips crotched, girl scout

skirt pulled to your lips. Charmed, I’m sure; you smiled
at my tongue’s path from your C-section scar

down through phat flesh. You got, “daddy defiled
me,” inked above your ass. Bedroom-boudoir

with your bizarre mix-tapes. Cigar-sized spliffs.
Death was the breath that you sucked from my lungs

as I dived face first through you. Flesh slapped. Skin
bitten. Fingered and fucked. I miss those whiffs.

Scent of lunacy. Reckless as cum. Tongue’s
crow. We say gang-bang. Your mom says love-in.

breathless

21 Tuesday Jul 2020

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I say, I am proud to be worth beating.
Love gets irksome. Today I’ll get broken.

I say, my limbs are good strung, like stretching,
but with more gore. I say, what hurts is fun;

that quick stroke, devil gone breathless, one hand
gripping. I want bruises across my hip,

dig? With your wrist, sharp red. Let it expand
with each stroke. I say, I pray to the whip

and all metal that cleaves, carves and slices.
I want it between these ribs, push in slick,

then down. I want to hear these bones of mine
shiver, splinter, crack. Grin like a corpse’s.

What pain curses it blesses. Horrific
leads to holy; my demon to your divine.

heat

20 Monday Jul 2020

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Twilight heat. Watching glowworms with no one
to share. I stand naked in the bathroom

and stare at my odd flesh. Scars mark ruin.
In bed I shuffle cards. Lewd heat. Lewd gloom.

I draw King of Wands while the night rooster
crows three times. Valraven reborn in fire.

Consort of the Triple Goddess; lover
without stain. Whose Cock-of-the-flock’s desire

do you think of when manhood rears its head?
None says mine, which is fine; rarely do I,

either. I’m the most unchaste celibate
I’ve known. I prayed that one of the lewd dead

would love me, but no. My toe-curling high
delights none, like summer heat without smut.

][][

Notes:
In Danish folklore, Valraven (“raven of the slain”) would eat the hearts of warriors slain in battle. As a metaphor for masculinity, it is a peaceless soul, restless, only able to calm its terrible hunger through the flesh of another. The King of Wands is a fire symbol, hard to control, attractive and dangerous.

nipping

19 Sunday Jul 2020

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First you scoffed at this. Ecstasy was dread
and hate. I know hate. I’m healing from rape.

I know what men hate. “Yoo’re nae godhead,
fool,” you’d said. You’d just wanted to escape

white dudes’ egos. –– But healing comes with no
strings if you let go. You shake: neck to thighs.

Curing comes when you cum. “Make me flesh flow,”
you gasped, my teeth nipping your nape. Your eyes

glazed each time you pulled me in. I’ve traveled
queer realms to find this cure, though I’m still not

sure my soul’s peace is my birthright. I call
Dionysus father, though he’s troubled

by his bent son. Let me share what he taught,
love, so Ecstasy won’t be our downfall.

propers

16 Thursday Jul 2020

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Salvation? That honor brought nothing but
the blues, the way the gods use to sing them.

The gods are vast and weep, call us, “poppet,”
and, “doll,” and croon. Certain folk still condemn

the blues as Moloch’s music. Certain folk
are fools. Salvation? Before I learned my

proper propers. Before the neighbors spoke
of me with a sneer. Before first goodbye,

my friends were all, they say, pretend until
hormones left me scarred and askew. Then none

of the holy wanted me. When gods dump
you you learn certain folk preach divine will

the way the devil preaches salvation ––
with the lie that the gods want our worship.

phlebotinum

15 Wednesday Jul 2020

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My words are lascivious prayers, priestess,
and my temple lies in fiber optics,

cyberspace. Sexting is the new Venus,
our ars poetica. Other matrix

only repeats standard universal ––
baby, aam gonnae make ye buck an’ bleed.

None of that pleases. Through wire and crystal
I weave spells just for you. What do you read?

Words, words, words. Our prayer. I know that you feel
magic at work. We cum with strange forces,

phlebotinum and nasty sub-routines.
Sexting reveals what others must conceal.

Temples wide as the world web. Priestesses
unprogrammed. All these sacred smut machines.

Notes:
Like unobtainium, in science fiction, phlebotinum is whatever made-up technology the lazy author has invented to keep the plot going. It’s magical pixie dust in outer space.

next

15 Wednesday Jul 2020

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You smudge your phone with cum-sticky fingers
as this fuck poem ends. The nuns that taught

how good girls don’t cum will know. The others
will know that these nasty words made you hot;

so hot that you came in the girl’s bathroom
during class. You’ve never wanted nasty

poems like you do now. Words that consume
you … bloom inside you. Sexting poetry

itches between your legs. All for you. Swear
that you’ll never masturbate in math class

again, that you’ll be good until the next
poem I send you and the next nightmare

that you’ve longed for: fuck poems that trespass
through your resolve. Nastiest of sex text.

flux

12 Sunday Jul 2020

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Blind with steam and water blocking what I
can see I follow my nose –– it always

knows –– the way to your cunt. You are the sky
over me. While I lap the shower sprays

my face. While I swallow you down the sponge
between your legs soaks me in. I’m good in

you. I wring your juices each time I plunge
inside. Each time my tongue tickles the skin

of your clit. Hydration comes when you cum.
Justdoit –– you grab my head like a wish.

Hellgasm –– Water Vapor Fire –– You flux
while your spine tilts back. I don’t drown. I’ve swum

your seas as a goddess-thang. Sacred fish
that thirsts for you; that swims in you; that sucks.

6-2-9

09 Thursday Jul 2020

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The night is round and black, like your throat just
as you gag me down whole. You squirm, settle

your rump on my face. Slow grind as I thrust
my tongue deeper. Hell is straight boy coital,

but as I pull out concerned you gasp: “More!”
For years we put the one in lonely; now,

somehow, we’re two … even if you once swore
how all my kind made you spew. Cum is how

we cure hate. 6-2-9. We’ve got this licked
while I suck the good parts of your soul out.

I prayed for a lover and then you came.
Now we cum. They say that nothing’s perfect,

but this? So damn good. That’s what I’m about
with you: to heal from lives of scorn and shame.

enthralls

09 Thursday Jul 2020

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After class you lingered, interested if
I’d help with your homework on pro-sex

feminism? –– back home? –– over a spliff
and witch wine? Liberation is complex.

You peeled out of your dress. We fucked; ragdolls
smeared with cum. Sexual freedom is rare ––

but we have choices –– and lust that enthralls;
lust that saves radical change from nightmare.

Affair without nightmare. Broken fuck toys
healing. “No, here,” you say, guiding my cock

to your ass’ gaped O –– “Make it vulgar.”
Vulgar pleases. We make fuck-slushy noise.

We laugh. Others will call this porn and schlock.
This bliss is what others want to censure.