Category Archives: sonnet

GNOSIS

21 Friday Jul 2017

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After the cane leaves six long weals across
your ass I ask you to put on the mask.

It is alien in design — chaos
carved from fossil wood. Rarely do I ask.

Rarely do you say no. Kneel down, a storm
brews and I force your jaws open. Your bones

hold the stones in place. Grinding I transform
your throat into ruin, all which cyclones

leave in their wake. Through the eye-holes you blink,
then grin, spitting up goopy cum. Hecate

wore this mask once. Necromancy still runs
in us since sex magic remains a kink —

one with art and lore that we still translate.
Our lust has roots with the Greeks and Romans.

marimacho

19 Wednesday Jul 2017

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It was a dry spring when the fireflies
faded in a week, the cicadas raged,

the burned grass sagged. Each fuck was a disguise
that we used to keep the earth new; outrage

those new gods who shrilled at acts that we did.
Back when curses called sin hadn’t had time

to drip down your thigh as two fingers slid
in and you named a love of vast sublime

stirring within you. The Mother Who Churns.
Because freedom comes not from cock-masters

or clit-cutters but from rebels who fuck
with their estrogen and grafted sideburns.

I love my sisters who look like junked bros.
Let’s love truth that is reveled in havoc.

clutch

17 Monday Jul 2017

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Bedlam with seraph-fine fingers around
your throat. Less kiss, more like how the panicked

swimmer gasps water; anything but drown
into sea-blue bloat. Anything. You licked

the bit of knuckle that your tongue could reach.
Unlike the surf nothing pulled you under

save lust; your own tidal-flow on the beach,
my face in your flood. “I want your finger

down here.” There will be bruises tomorrow.
There is a ridge that my curved thumb can clutch.

Moon glow. Sea crust. The tide pulls out. A hiss
upon stones and you break from the shallow

water. You gasp, gag, recoil from my touch
and then sigh, pulling tight against my kiss.

on your knees

15 Saturday Jul 2017

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When pulled out the plug left a hole that gaped.
It had been twisted — into the deeper

niche of your nether regions — I had taped
down the battery wire to your inner

thigh, set the vibrator to vex and ire
and left you, as you had asked, fidgeting

all day long. Some of us get desire,
some can only give. There are gods, dying,

who get prayed to less. This four-fingered thumb
can plug, but not with the current that ran

through you. I found you, later, on your knees.
Lilith’s blood. “This pain will give me freedom,”

you moaned as I took the plug in one hand
and pulled amid your prayers and pleas.

welt

12 Wednesday Jul 2017

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I run my hand down the birch cane. Inspect
it. Slap it twice against my palm. Then: “¡Swish-

Crack!” The cane lashes your ass. Hard. Perfect.
You jerk in restraints. You had said, “Ravish

Me.” I run the tip of the birch between
your cheeks, touch the raw welt that has risen.

Whisper in your ear: One. In twelve obscene
strokes I will leave you bawling in ruin;

mewling, the way lost kittens mewl. “And now,”
I say, holding up the plug, “Eight inches

inside you.” I twist. “That’s three.” You gasp. “Six.”
You’re spread out wide. I push until somehow

all your muscles clinch up and what gushes
out leaves you in pelvis-grinding spastics.

throwing shade

06 Thursday Jul 2017

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Breathe on your neck and your hairs stand erect.

You are wet like moss dribbling on rock

with kick-boots, leather jacket, dawn’s mohawk.

I love your brawn, the strength that you project.

You are thick in every way that I’m plump.

I drag your knife across my shoulder blade

and all my pale flesh opens. You throw shade

better than my friends. I’m all sad thighs, rump

and queer bulges, yet still I bleed. I gag

you, face-fucking your skull until we choke

and say this is shit. We laugh. It’s all shit

that we drown in spliff. We’re called dyke and fag,

Hera’s bum-boys. I love you. There’s pale smoke

between us — drifting up — into orbit.

gash and harvest

04 Tuesday Jul 2017

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At first thrust you gasped; cello’s tight sinew
snapping as you opened up, your haunches

splayed, your fingers in the grass, then you drew
your head back, whiplash, and begged with curses,

“¡fóllame el culo!” You made an awed
pucker at either end, a mewl and grunt

into a whine, as the curved bow seesawed
inside you. I named gods (manic, urgent)

who lived for this. What else was there? Later
we curled, sucked from the hookah. Opium

imbued the air. We could’ve been a prayer
to an old life, old death. Cum and conjure.

Gash and harvest. Suture and orgasm.
Instead we’re what the gods left out: horror.

][][
note:
In Spanish, “Fóllame el culo,” translates into, “Fuck my ass.” Of all the instruments that I will never learn how to play the cello is what I set my words to.

except need

16 Friday Jun 2017

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A beat oozes from somewhere deep below
me. It’s the rattle of the fan. The squeaks

that the floor makes. The day’s heat, all day-glo,
neon green, waves filtering up in streaks,

halos. I feel it when I press my cheek
against the warped wood; a beat totally

alien to my own heart. A wild shriek
of drums when drums shriek. What debauchery

isn’t kinship to such noise? That riot
of want that has no language except need.

I hear it, barely. All that you call smut
I call prayer. All that is green and honeyed.

All prayer is need. I bend down to the floor.
I need more than this queer beat. I need more.

stand

14 Wednesday Jun 2017

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Give me the narcotics; all this morning
these gin tonics don’t do much. Someone, please,

said the fly to the spider with its sting
and long leer. When did I become a tease

to all that tried to help me? Why am I
the one who can’t take friendships easily?

Outside the mud swallow and magpie
fly by my window. There’s something haughty

about my last stand. This is all in flux,
everything smears, everything is a mess

across my face and yet somehow I must
keep calm. It’s a stand; yet roses, lilacs

and the ash can’t help me with my distress.
I don’t want intoxication … just trust.

scent

14 Wednesday Jun 2017

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I love the cats who mark you as their own.
My John Monroe, with no lower lip, drools

down my cheek as I hold him. Pigeon’s moan
is a dove’s coo. Nubbins hisses and mewls

in joy, his one eye, tattered ears, pressing
against my arm each time I stoke his bent

neck. Show me a love that’s not a blessing;
a love not supreme — I carry that scent

everywhere. On the days when this human
world is mean and when my friends turn away

and those that I call family despair
and when I am left depressed and maudlin

and I don’t have the strength to even pray —
there’s love. I carry that scent everywhere.

][][
note:
I volunteer at a no-kill cat shelter, Crash’s Landing, where most of my cat photos come from. The cats I mention are all waiting for someone who’ll want to give them their forever-homes.