Category Archives: sonnet

apocryphal thing

04 Monday Sep 2017

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Fruit flies drift around my glass-pipe. Cheeba
spirits — perhaps? A friend sends me ink flow

pix, thick thighs, spandex and short-shorts, extra
around the belly. I love my friend, though

we’re a world apart. Ghosts are everywhere,
like love. Dr. Teeth told us to, “Begin,

Believe, Begat.” But to start an affair
is an apocryphal thing with a friend.

Everything will change. I brush away specks.
On the laptop, Ganjasaurus Rex, plays.

I feel that heavy cold spot when I’m not
doing right but that need for friends, love, sex

leaves me low. To be appeased with just praise;
to have someone who might quell my distraught.

year of the conch shell

30 Wednesday Aug 2017

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The Year of the Cock makes gender-neutral
a tad hard, be it soft flesh or strap-on —

but we strive. If, during our long anal
fucking, I cup your balls, pull your tampon

string, or rub that scarred place that you can’t feel,
then we’re still creatures of fire in a world

that loathes burning. If, after each gasp, squeal
and, “¡Ai! mi Diosa!” If, while we’re curled,

nuzzled, while the sweat and cum cools, then yes,
this year might remain awful — we can lose

so much — yet, we’re here right now, divinely.
There’s no Year of the Conch Shell, though we bless

the same deep crinkled lips. These are taboos
that we must break—these acts that make us free.

unzips

28 Monday Aug 2017

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Sit. Dig your nails in. Feel scars that bisect,
split my ribs just so; a welted, mangled

path that leads to my forever-erect
teats, tits (whatever) since both have barbelled

steel hooped in them. Spit on your fingertips.
Find the grit-like pit of my wound. The heart-

bit that you might dig up. Find what unzips
scars. Some of us jones. Some of us bogart.

Some are the last hits. I am the last prayer.
Squeeze and knit this pressure point; the clit-end

of my last nerve end, My kit. My creature,
twilit; be slit, chit. I’m clamped, all oyster —

my thighs are clamped-up shut and you’re the friend
who is neither the damned nor a savior.

red blunts

25 Friday Aug 2017

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Zonkered on bam bhosda, dust and cacao,
we lay in my backseat, cantaloupe ripe,

fragrant with cum and resin. What comes now
is what comes from gin, acid, a glass-pipe

marking out time during your late lunch hour.
August is the most lecherous of months.

Your, “dedo mi coño” — as I devour
you, pressed to my lips, my knuckles red blunts

stained deep inside — is more a foul-mouthed sigh.
In an hour we can accomplish so much

save the pauses in-between drags, swallows
and groans. With a wet-wipe you clean your thigh;

crawl to the front-seat to add blush, retouch
your lipstick, avoid your cocaine-ruined nose.

ghoul sick

21 Monday Aug 2017

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Drenched in your sweat, sticky from sticky acts,
I run my palm down your back, rub cum-funk

across your face. Anything that distracts
you from your pain is a blessing. Our drunk

spine-twist, two-fist afternoon trysts always
distract. You taste like bong-water after

gagging on me. We lay back in a haze
that goes on for miles. You light another

dirty roach though you have to be at school
soon. You might make it … if the PCP

doesn’t kick in first. There is no shower
and the sink water is brown. You are ghoul

sick yet here we are. I stare at your knee
and it splits open up: all clit-flower.

noonday

14 Monday Aug 2017

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Flesh works, a crucible pungent with ore,
melted slag all soggy, a drenched poppy —

sweaty backseat acts leave your puckered core
stretched wide. Your hands work around my neck, knee

pressed to my chest, eyes glazed. In an hour
you’ll be back home, dropped off a block away.

Propped on one elbow you blow sweet-and-sour
spliff smoke into my mouth. Mixed with noonday

heat I trace salt stripes down your spine. The air
grows large — pungent with lub-dub sweat, lip gloss,

lube, your waxed pearl — while a milky sun ray
fills up the backseat, obscuring my bare

thigh wrapped under you, smearing cum across
your ripped orange tee of Che in beret.

shlick

12 Saturday Aug 2017

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Not like sleaze stopped us; with your loud, “Oh gosh!
Thish ish amashin! I’m ah shloppy mesh!”—

everyone listened to the slish, shlick, slosh
of my fingers pulling out from your flesh;

your long, “huuugh.” One frowned, shocked like a grown-up
at our public displays of affection.

One looked away as I sucked the syrup
of your mess clean. Yes, I am a glutton

for certain things, certain queer alchemies.
Yes, you slouched with legs splayed on the bus seat,

glowing, indifferent to the commuters
stares. Let them call these ancient acts filth, sleaze,

shame. Let them. We are part of the night’s heat
— full of mad, wet prayer and obscene odors.

muddied drop

09 Wednesday Aug 2017

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First came spigoting; twisting inside you
to let the hazed swamp heat out. What was it?

Grinding of hips? A blowtorch? A corkscrew?
Something deep bruised your viscera. Spirit

of cum puddles and sparks, of lewd vapor
and scars. To treat you like fuck meat, sweetly

immature, is an act of faith. Skewer
you raw, on hands and knees, that’s prayer. Knock-knee

and splayed hip; your fingers warped the bed sheets.
What dripped was a muddied drop. We giggled

to be so nasty, goblins damned. Bare-legged
and backside, we, “shudder’d at it,” as Keats

would say. We have craved and beseeched and yowled
for each thrust — blood fueled by gin and acid.

slamecka

29 Saturday Jul 2017

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Beastly. Impaled and crushed against the wall,
palms flat, slap-slapping out count at each stroke

while gin, the feathered serpent and menthol
pierce you to your core. Tonight we’ll invoke

banjee beats with Verde Viento. Green Fuse.
Arse Elektronika — Between the hips

with four fingers dug deep: we’ll let sweat-ooze
and spit-cum drip down. Gods whose fingertips

touch us leave a mark, the rest leave a sore
bruise. I leave the slamecka: the buildup

to when both your thighs give way, your speech slurs,
and the gods and saints are with you, hardcore.

Slathered in my own saliva, heaved up,
I can balance you on my four fingers.

gods and bodily fluids

23 Sunday Jul 2017

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Trepanned: a holed skull. Lulled by the bubble-
blown glass bong that we traded back and forth,

fingers touching. You blew into my skull,
the hole all smoke. Your stoop was 5th and North;

you pressed with your nail deep into my pink.
Everyone laughed making my thigh spasm.

Shamans did this to talk to the gods, link
themselves up to the divine. I’m just numb

from too much faith that even King Tut weed
can’t calm. You waggled your thumb in and out.

My bones hurt — “Then am I/ a happy fly?”
Papa Blake asked, since maggots breed

in here and with my gape I’m a devout
trepanned mystic, one with a cum-soaked thigh.