Category Archives: sonnet

brawling

09 Thursday Apr 2020

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Little death around your lips makes your smile
somehow sad. Little cum on your chin, eye

liner smudged, your love-bitten throat: I’m vile
to my toys, the ones who say yes, the shy

ones who feel a bit queer. Vile with a touch
of slash-and-burn joy, brawling bliss. I’ll salt

the sour earth that you’re buried in. You’ll clutch
at my hips, gag-spit at my cock’s assault

on your throat. I make a foul god, bad dad,
beastly boyfriend, but a good friend to those

who laugh at this. You say sex. I say soul.
We write about all that we’ve never had.

Little death, I’m shy; tad queer with sorrows,
tad sad only words let me lose control.

sick months

08 Wednesday Apr 2020

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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Last year the sugar-making moon arrived
like my neighbors, who rendered fat, boiled sap,

finished their winter-time tales of how they thrived
in lean months. This April, though, has turned crap:

no sap runs, no tap drips, no urge itches.
The dead keep count of the throngs arriving

and each day passes without cure. “Curses
cest by gods,” some say. “Th’ End is Comin’,”

they say; as if there’s never been horror shows
before; as if spring won’t follow winter.

Maple, ghosts and spigots: “’tis not sugar
‘at kills,” in these sick months … just our sorrows.

Neighbors endure with their tales and laughter
and I listen, lean with this sick hunger.

crud

03 Friday Apr 2020

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As this virus defies us, last night,
alone, I inhaled dust, specks of fungi,

toxins, traces of you in the moonlight ––
gorged on my engorged flesh. Last night, with my

boxers down around my knees, my debased
body wound tight, my hand encircling

my cock: such sweet flesh, what you’ll never taste
again, what you called my one, “redeeming

quality.” At least I have one. Impaled
on my pale flesh I can still taste the blood

when you bit my fat lip and made me mewl.
That was fun. But this? Last night I exhaled

air and much more. Odd, I thought that the crud
that’d take me down would be far more carnal.

¡pink grrr!

01 Wednesday Apr 2020

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Teach what you know, indeed. For her Poet
was High Priestess and verse came when she came.

Sex made metaphors: “Poetry makes Smut
makes Prayer” — a Mysticism without shame.

I found, midst office hours, with a ¡Pink Grrr!
phattie and her, “Soulgasm,” that each thrust

caused a low, “ack,” skipped groove growl, inside her:
like my name cut off,: zack-zack-zack. “All lust

is a gift,” she claimed both in class and each
time clouds of sperm-fission burst in my verse,

in her ass. — MFA Teachers are odd
gods that way; but they’re not wrong when they teach

just how climax gushed out a universe
in our verse, in us, no matter how flawed.

xenomorph, darling [rewrite]

30 Monday Mar 2020

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Quench your thirst — I want to feel your heavy
cold breasts on my back when you mount me. Scrape

your claws across my skull as you hold me
down with one hand, exposing the soft nape

of my neck pulsing with my dull, mammal
blood — I’ve never let anyone do this

before. Love is so had to find. People
say that they’ll work for it, work for this bliss,

but how many do? Is this love perverse?
Then I’ll keep it for all those who’ve tasted

strange ways. Burn me with that violent green flame
in your skin. I’ve tasted rough. I want worse.

Quick, bite here, suck on my lips, lap this blood;
tomorrow none of this will taste the same —

delish

28 Saturday Mar 2020

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Money, cum bunny, is what we don’t have,
but I’ll show you just what two fingers worth

of your drizzle buys. KY jelly salve;
redolence mixed with that delish wet earth

skunk funk as my cock moves from the inside
of your gaped asshole to your step son’s mouth

and back again. Hogtied but not denied.
The rump’s phat pump. Tura Satana’s South

Side Ass Wreckers, her Anal Delinquents.
Who needs trash cash for that? Give me an itch

sweet like jam – violet with jelly. We awe
ancestors … raze progeny. Our fragrance

is thick with booty, not boodle; not rich
snitchs playing at being dope outlaw.

clapperclaws

27 Friday Mar 2020

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Miss Thing, you never told me where you’re from
or why the living, each night, barred their doors

against you. They called you: Cthulhu’s Mum …
and She Who Rasped and Gasped. Back on all fours,

your six breasts pressed to my chest, your two tongues
circled my skull … back when your mammalian

parts bloomed slush and sucked the air from my lungs
… you were my titular titillation;

the tar dope tang of the ball-gag; funky
razzle-dazzle of blackholes. Not all mums

get to fondle me like you do with such
clapperclaws. Whatever you are show me

more, Miss Thing. I know that odd wisdom comes
from odd places … so does your heinous touch.

stank

26 Thursday Mar 2020

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Virus comes in ire, in mayhem green
voluptuousness. “Enfermedad verde;”

the squirm worm of our blood, sputum and spleen
turns from cyst’s mauve mist to muck’s facetiae

sheen. All winter long we were surrounded
by others and their intellects — vast, cool

and unsympathetic — until their blood
turned deep stank, septic. Irony is cruel

that way, like Ruth’s “where you go, I will go;”
except it’s viral chaos that dogs you.

Enfermedad verde. — Fatigue and dry
coughs don’t inspire bliss; focus is, I know,

hard with fevers. But bliss will see us through.
Bliss keeps urging: “Don’t die — try, lover, try.”

Notes:
In the film, Fried Green Tomatoes (1991), Idgie declares her love for Ruth by reciting the passage from the Book of Ruth: “Whither thou goest, I will go. Where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people.” Facetiae is an old Victorian term meaning pornography. La enfermedad verde translates (I’m told) as the Green disease.

posh ‘n becks

24 Tuesday Mar 2020

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“Bad lad,” your father calls me: “Hooligan.”
Each time you come home smelling of skunk weed

and gin he sighs. Each time you nurse your son
and he spies all the hickeys that my greed

left you get Da’s foul scowl. I’m, “off my tits,”
I guess, putting the “cock” back in Cockney;

the cor in your blimey. Thrupenny bits.
“Bum and brat mum,” he calls us. Yet Baby

Danzig doesn’t howl like a haunt when I
bend you over his crib, sopping up two

fingers worth of your drizzle from inside
your drenched frillies; just when Da floats by,

sad old ghast. He hates our, “posh ‘n becks;” you
being my hard shag, I’m your roughest ride.

fiasco

17 Tuesday Mar 2020

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Your dead breath on the neck as my hair stands
erect. “Why be ashamed of being dead?”

I asked. “I can’t hold you with wispy hands.
My lips are so cold when we kiss.” You said

you dread going down; all those small complex
movements that oral sex requires. “I know,

I know, death robbed me of my gag-reflex.”
To spit or swallow turned pure fiasco;

my cum flew through your face. Was that what lured
you in, though? Hope for one last kiss — the snips

and snails of my breath? What’s a, “little death,”
to the dead? The air tasted of frost poured

on grave dirt. You couldn’t baptized my lips,
so you stared, enthralled by my fleshy breath.