Category Archives: sonnet

fuckathon

19 Thursday Dec 2019

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“Look how hairy she is.” With more laughing
and more vodka, with more snogging you dragged

your best friend’s skirt up, her dark pubes framing
the wet spot in her panties. You have gagged

on me often enough, pressed me deeper
until my balls tickled your chin and you

grinned, throat full. Which gods does a worshiper
turn to if she desires a three-split screw?

We don’t know. We’re damaged. We try to heal
in our own way. Others use prayer. For us

it’s cum in the pubes of your friend, motel
bed sheets and frenzy. It’s kissing with zeal

with the radio on, pure fuckathon, plus
our pretty faces are going to hell.

rag ride

15 Sunday Dec 2019

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A kiss to your nethers. Neither here nor
here, you say, showing me where I cannot

go. That’s fair. We all have limits. I swore
once that I was done with blood. But that dot,

clit clot of red, pulsing in your panties,
that’s hard to pass over. Your dark moon days

leave me chewing on cotton mice: to squeeze,
to taste, to savor your hell week. Hell craze,

you say, as if I could steal that divine
flow in your menses, eldritch itch, that clot

dried on my cheek. “Vag-y rag ride,” “buttstuff,”
“dark sex magic,” that’s where you draw the line.

Chill, you say. There’s more to life than sexpot
mischief. Yes, right now your blood is enough.

sick new trick

13 Friday Dec 2019

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Squeezed in, gently, with clit, with faith, with drum.
“Almost a virgin,” you called her as you caressed

her as my cock vanished in her rectum —
of all the thirteen shamanic acts blessed

by the gods this is your favorite. “If two
can cum as one then so can three,” you said.

Let the drum match each time I half withdrew
then pushed back in harder. We are well-read,

eager, the ones who consume taboos, fugue states,
cum and souls. “Want to learn a sick new trick?”

you’d asked after school. You made her floodgates
slick her 3rd eye with sodomy’s magic —

impaled, blessed by what others vilified,
by what was baffling until we tried.

all fours

10 Tuesday Dec 2019

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Call it a guidebook; how we survived plagues
without love. — In the scullery I breathed

in your aroma while you spread your legs
my face so close that your hips bucked and seethed,

desperate to be treated rough. Out of all
the plagues of Egypt a loveless marriage

hurt the most. In the laundry room you’d sprawl
dazed in sunlight, cum’d and tongue’d. I’m the bridge

that took you from the stink of your husband’s
disdain to places you forgot were yours.

Can’t you still feel them? Once you burst, squirted
across my face. Once you fled these wastelands.

Do it again. Here’s the map. On all fours
salvation comes in your own cleansing flood.

genitalese

08 Sunday Dec 2019

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With clit and acid and chronic. Not once
did you call those three names. Shame. I avoid

grandma’s trailer now, keeping my essence
from the winds that called you out, teased and toyed

with you, gone four months pregnant, that called you
to your knees. Does grandma know that the breeze

still calls you? That once you wrote your taboo
in low Genitalese? … do words of sleaze

still spill out of your mouth? Does your daughter
know what I am? A waft of longing. Ghost

that said I love you … or have you out grown
romance? Will you show her how you’d conjure

me with a mouth full of cum? No? — At most
tell her which names bound us: mother-maid-crone.

disquiet

06 Friday Dec 2019

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Others, those you love, have done shit. Good shit.
They’ll be remembered. That’s good. You? Perhaps

not. No one knows your name. One more misfit
writing about vinyl, buckles and straps …

about times before we were cursed with what
got called virtue and Lilith, first to grieve,

fled from such vile disquiet. Before smut
became Her code. Now the daughters of Eve

call smut sin but what do ribs know about
liberation? More than us and our lust.

The world that they want has no place for this.
They’re so certain and I’m so full of doubt.

Lilith, if smut is cursed then smut is cursed.
Then so am I, your priestess, with cursed bliss.

double down

03 Tuesday Dec 2019

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“Venus with a penis.” After Britt’s third
bong hit. After the third time I surfaced

between her legs, with, “Paphian custard,”
on my chin. We left Vegas and August

and soaked in thermal springs. Now our unsafe
sex is just some flashback, lust gone manic,

like you. Did you like your chronic? your waif
boy’s 12-inch tongue? your day that started sick

at the Double Down? She was Britt the Clit.
You were her Mama Jama. I was pleased,

thinking my dust witch happy at last. No.
Even at those springs. Even with Britt’s spit

slick on my cock and the fingers you eased
into her, red rocks still split, stoned and slow.

NOTE:
The Double Down Saloon is a bar in Las Vegas that, at least back in 2000s, had a fabulous “old school break dancing” night once a week. In myth Paphos of Cyprus was daughter of Pygmalion and built a temple to Aphrodite on the island. In Victorian sex-slang, “Paphian cream,” was a euphemism for girl cum.

szeretlek

30 Saturday Nov 2019

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Teach me, I said, all that’s obscene. Taboo.
Vulgar. You loved my poems about flesh.

I can say, “Szeretlek,” that I love you —
but I wanted to learn, “En is nedves

vagyok,” I’m wet, too. Not that it matters.
You’re gone. Lost. Somewhere that I won’t follow;

now that you’ve taught me new curses and slurs …
terms to describe my irksome libido.

That’s not to say that you were wrong. Passion
can be … complex. Perhaps you never learned

that so my words got lost in translation?
In the end what changed? Love never returned.

Are you still lonely with your bad karma?
I’m still writing about clits and vulva.

NOTE:
I use two Hungarian phrases in the poem. Szeretlek means I love you. En is nedves vagyok means I’m wet as well.

teeth

29 Friday Nov 2019

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Half-hard with my serpentine curve halfway
down your throat you just smirked as if to hint,

“focus, boy,” and, “wouldn’t death by foreplay
be a damn shame? Now, make me gag.” The glint

of your lamprey teeth; the circular saw
of your jaw stretched wide as your maw unhinged,

sucking me in. “No blow jobs for bourgeois
bros,” you’d said of all the men who had cringed

each time you spread your lips. Remember this:
love, we’re not fated to be loved. We just

remind lovers why they’re blessed. I can feel
your teeth pricking my flesh; a painful kiss

turning me thick. Thick and fated for lust:
I’ll stand and convulse, you’ll gag as you kneel.

surge

23 Saturday Nov 2019

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With sea salt I drew the five-pointed star
and then stepped inside. I too am the heir

of nine sisters and their nine waves. El Mar-
La Mer-El Mar: they sing it like a prayer

but it’s still conjure. I know the help curled
kelp brings wrapped around my wrist. But unlike

Mer-lin I’ve been exiled from the dreamworld
of this surge. All that which gets pulled, tide-like,

like the moon, have all forgotten my name.
I still think that love can heal the mischief

others have caused here. I still give a damn.
El Mar-La Mer-El Mar: prayer to reclaim

wreckage; prayer that with the sea and enough
of your love I won’t need a pentagram.

NOTES:
El Mar is the Spanish term for the sea and La Mer the French. In the ancient Arthurian legends the wizard Merlin was, “born of the nine sisters of the cold sea, and cast up on the beach by the ninth wave.” There is a type of kelp, Nereocystis, that gets washed ashore on the beaches near where my parents live. It looks like a bull-whip ending in a large bulb with finger-like fronds radiating from it. As a child I’d wrap a bit of the whip-end around my hand and feel the sea pulsing inside.