Category Archives: sonnet

heyday

17 Friday May 2019

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No, I tell you. Our myth. Our love. Each night
after all, after heyday, after change

(sun spent into flowers) and dimday’s bright
chorus (swallows and bats), after our strange

chorale (split-ears, stump-fucks: let the chaste scoff),
we’ll go on all fours (think: rouge, ink, fishnets).

We’ll ball through mist. For some we’re a turn-off.
They turn us off, click-click, like TV sets —

Others want what we have. Hot hours drop. Cool
throated stir. Moonshine and hollyhock blunts.

Grass stains in the dark. Our spluttering mewl.
You can’t turn us off. We’re what the chaste hunt.

We’ve cocked seething coals, cunted our love myth,
cauterized with discord, with dark world, with—

sissyboy pale

16 Thursday May 2019

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After your parents kicked you out, you hid
all month long in my dorm room. “Feminine

wiles ain’t me th’n.” Yis. After your dad forbid
you from seeing her all that we called fun

came down to cashed bowls, beer cans and bi porn.
“Na vat aghjik e,” your dad said. “She’s bad.”

Some nights we got to smuggle your lovelorn
girlfriend in. — It’s hard to have a triad

with just two. In the shower: her toffee,
your bronze, my sissyboy pale. Nothing lasts,

though: just footnotes. Sister? Lover? Other?
What were we? Best friends. That’s enough for me.

Twenty-eight days. Lilith, guide to outcasts,
at long last, did your daughters find shelter?

][][

NOTE:
There is a special ring in hell for abusive parents who cast out their queer children. Know the words that will get used against you so that they have no power. In Armenian, “she’s a bad girl,” gets translated into, “na vat aghjik e” (նա վատ աղջիկ է), as in: “bad girls are more fun/ vat aghjiknery aveli zvarchali yen” (վատ աղջիկները ավելի զվարճալի են). My broken broken vocabulary.

flair

15 Wednesday May 2019

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Your scent is the root of my bray-like moan.
Pray with grave ignorance, with infernal

flair, with this: my wayward bulge hard as stone.
I am Succuba’s burlesque, her all-dull

luminous pain that makes you bend. Two-backed
and four-footed. Nightmares in love. Nightmares

in soul. Outcast of Eros. I’ve hijacked
more than enough ancient crooked affairs

to stay veiled. I keep my secrets and bray,
eee-aaah. My role is not to kiss you, just

remind you how you like kisses. Climax
is chock full of beastly yowl. When you pray

I can smell it on you: fragrant as lust,
raw as blessing, thick as fuck-demon wax.

drubbing

14 Tuesday May 2019

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No. You loathed his want instead. His drab wants:
dull and ulcerous. Cankered cock outside.

Cankerous soul in. — In the restaurant’s
restroom, in stall five, she ground down astride

your face ‘tween tribadic drubbing, violent
priapism, the long slow insertion —

“I’ll frig ‘er,” she said, slapping your splayed cunt.
“Put yer randiness ‘ere. Soon yer semen

an’ mah spit shaa slosh frae deep in ‘er arse.”
Blessed be all dirty minds, “keghtot mitk’y.”

Blessed be all grandmothers, daughters and wives
who find love once marriage becomes a farce,

once their menfolk bloat with hate and vodka.
Blessed be all love that still somehow survives.

NOTE:
A dirty mind, as Prince would say, is, “keghtot mitk’y” (կեղտոտ միտքը), in Armenian; as in, “dirty minded friends are so attractive,” “keghtot sirvats ynkernery aynk’an gravich’ yen” (կեղտոտ սիրված ընկերները այնքան գրավիչ են) … because we are and so are you.

rucked-up

12 Sunday May 2019

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First clue of others like you. Not romance
but bliss when the cauldron in your cunt stirred.

You knew why. In the peep-show reel from France
the nun reclined in rucked-up drawers. You heard

slip-slop noise each time the devil’s affair
plunged up to its hilt. Froth and cream spending

festooned in smears about her curled-back hair,
sopping his balls, a rivulet oozing

between split thighs. “Sappho at the Disco.”
“Girth, Wind and Fire.” “Sleeping Booty.” “Little

Orphan Tranny.” Those films were fun, but this,
child born from porn with no spite, no macho,

changed you. That clue that you could be carnal,
too. Your brain’s refrain. This first hint of bliss.

bad bliss

10 Friday May 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, Potawatomi, sonnet, Translation

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Don’t be jealous of the dead. Their yearning
is like yours. “Ggiskonyé ne?” That pain

filling all her voice asks. “Are you getting
undressed?” I take her absinthe and regain

all those old tensions, those itches. To kiss
a ghost is to feel her raw tingle glow

in your flesh, echo in the sky, bad bliss
from the bowels of the earth. She has no

bowels but — she’s horny as a hellcat
with two cunts. I have been moonstruck before.

When at last I undressed before you that
was mad but you had said more, always more.

The dead are like us: loving cock and cunt
and all that’s odd, loving what is different.

][][

NOTE:
In the Bodéwadmi (Potawatomi) language, “ggiskonyé ne?” translates as, “are you getting undressed?”

burble

09 Thursday May 2019

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Older women with a weakness for boys.
Oedipus Rex cosplay. MILF and (not) Son

remake, “Down on the Farm 2: toys! noise!
and boys!” You tsk, tell me that there’s no fun

fucking someone younger than your daughter.
Perhaps. But when you grind your rock-hard clit

against me I wonder — “Hot mud geyser,”
“Cummies in my panties,” “Spit on my slit” —

you go feral when the Mother-Goddess
riots inside you and your words devolve

to sing-song burble. We all have passions
that scare us, madness from a Dark Venus.

She Who Blurs Lines. Riddles that I can’t solve
each time we revel at Mothers and Sons.

last act

05 Sunday May 2019

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Snatches of dream: horse cocks and long grayling
men, scents of blackcurrant and pheromones.

I dreamed that you drove to the Gulf, searching
for the best beast to fuck. I run with Crones,

Maids and Mothers, with smut, skin flicks and sleaze.
I dreamed of a red thread leading to you —

freak thread. Like all beasts, I cum in furies.
I hunt for your cunt. In dreams I pass through

your cunt’s soul-gate, as consorts do. To ache
with you, with ruin, with greed. Obsessed

with need, with how my cum-splatters flow
over your breasts. Come and find me and wake

me and fuck me like a freakshow conquest.
Last act at the New Orleans Centaur Show.

amenamair

30 Tuesday Apr 2019

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Far more nervous for nightfall than I’ve been
for a while. Gloaming, some call it. The time

when paths open. — If I could leave my skin,
walk soft there, I would. I can’t. That sublime

skill is beyond me. The most that I do
is wait down by the crossroads for her guide.

Amenamair: a name the ancients knew.
The All-Mother. In last night’s dusk I spied

in the willow where her queer owl singsonged.
I have never been this close to an owl

before or had such a song burn in me:
“Amenamair. I have longed. I have longed.”

I long to leave my skin. I long to prowl.
I long to be your song in that dark tree.

Note:
Just as Odin, in Norse lore, is called the All-Father, one of the many names of Lilith, in Armenian (the ancient language that I keep going back to), is Amenamair (Ամենամայր), the All-Mother.

all-mother, all-lover, all-other

28 Sunday Apr 2019

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Here is the cum that I spread on the bread.
Here is the blood that I spread on the cum.

Here is the burning candle that I’ve fed
them both to while her owl sang a solemn

whinnying song in the dark tree. Altar
to her name and tongue, her cleft and cleavage:

She-Folds-Back-Her-Labia. All-Mother.
Owl-Faced-Moon. The-One-Whose-Cums-In-Carnage …

Each night an offering of my essence
is left for her. Bread soaks up everything

that I smear on it. If she’s pleased she sends
her owl, filling the night with the fragrance

of raunch and vixen fever, countering
cunts and lasciviousness that transcends.