Category Archives: sonnet

grotesque

16 Wednesday Mar 2016

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You like your fuck puppets cute and pig-tailed.

Boys call you, “Papi.” Girls, “Mommy.” I sweat

fugly. I slur. I’m grotesque: — yet, so few

ghosts stay to write your name in cum across

their drowned bellies like I do. There’s no cure.

I grind it in you slow and hot: — You’re ill

for days after. You’re ill enough to bleed.

Sick the way fire needs carbon. The sick need

the rope has for knots. “Make it tighter still,

leave a mark, something to look at when you’re

gone.” — just under the skin, aching for loss.

Bend me, break me, if you must. I give you

my bones, my vulgar flesh that you crave. Let

me be your drug, where all others have failed.

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we

26 Friday Feb 2016

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Today I drink and so do you. These words

enter you, they touch the dark light inside.

You’ve had lovers before. Some were bastards,

some not. They’re all gone. None stayed. None replied

when you called. But that’s not what you regret.

Your cunt milked him as he thrust both his thumbs

deep in your ass, cried out. You felt a jet

of his semen balloon out the condom,

shooting against your cervix. Today we

drink and pause over past lovers; all those

who did not stay. Today we are going

to get so fucking drunk. You are like me.

We have no real friends. We’re no one’s heroes.

This is not love — just a dark light — ghosting.

— Babylon Crashing

implement

18 Monday Jan 2016

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The tiles were so cold — You wanted torment,
like how god-dogs do it. Your muscles clenched

under your jeans. You’ve walked around, hellbent
that none of your friends would notice the drenched

little patch, the buzz of your discipline
implemented deep between your cheeks. You

peel down your jeans like you peel skin
down bone, down muscle. At each corkscrew

twist lick squeeze the silicon hammer’s head
spreads you wider. We two lay on the floor

of your mom’s bathroom — The acid hitting
just then. “Yeah, leck it. Me clit is blood-red.

Me arse — O! ahm a god! ahm a doog! Mooar!”
Torment, you had called it. Your toes, curling.

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patchwork

08 Friday Jan 2016

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You’ve made a fetish doll from me. From spit

and stains, from my hair and nails. When you said:

— “I want the moon on my tongue, now give it

up to me” — You knew that, when pricked, I bled

pale light; that when, hung, suspended, drugged to

my toes, you could taste how to fly on my

skin. You say it’s about conjure, that you

can drain me, just like that. But I defy

that limp rag. You can suck patchwork veins

all day long and you still won’t get it. Moon

light is a distortion of what we want

inside. All the stolen pubes and cum stains

in the world won’t save you, it’s why you’ll soon

come back to me: hungry, hollowed eyed, gaunt.

— Babylon Crashing

chapped

31 Thursday Dec 2015

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Just to see what it felt like, I took wax
from the stove and dribbled it, sluggishly,

through my thick pubes. Some say that they climax
quicker with pain. But the world is squirmy

with quick fucks. Tomorrow I’ll shave this mess
before work. Three years, gone — like that. Some say

that all they want is a slit-buzzed caress
from a talented tongue. The term, “foreplay,”

insults, who needs more than long lapping? Wrapped
up, as tight as we are — it’s a damn myth

that we somehow found peace. All my devout
prayer to your shaved stubble has left me chapped,

bleeding. This is not for me — and so, with
a jerk of the hair, I pull it all out.

sheds

14 Monday Dec 2015

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Tonguing, leaving streaks between your cloven
lips, the spots where blushes and bruises bloom,

even during your heavy flow. Back then,
you said, you’d hide away in the bathroom.

Blood in your panties, soaked into your jeans,
and how everyone smirked. In the old tongue

even the word for menstruating means
hidden away, dashtani. “I was young,”

you said, “and Soviet-era tampons?
I’d just stay home.” Now you press on my face,

here in the bathtub, as your uterus
sheds. I have streaks on my chin, red and bronze,

my tongue working you to a state of grace,
delving deep between your clit and anus.

][][

In Armenian, the word for menstruating, dashtan, (դաշտան), is the same root word for separation, dashtani (դաշտանի).

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that slapping nuisance

03 Thursday Dec 2015

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I can’t sleep. I’ve listened to you all night.

Over and over, softly through the floor.

This must be your art, your craft. Sodomite.

Pervert. Poet. And while I could say more

there are a thousand reasons why I should

stop here — I’ve wasted so much whiskey on

myself, I’ve bled, I’ve gnawed on green wormwood.

And you — with your, “Afternoon of a Fawn,”

and your beastly hands and cruel antlers —

You sing low. That noise, that slapping nuisance,

fills the night with voyeuristic heartache.

All art is illicit, it seeks pleasures —

In your pause, in your last note, that silence,

coming from below, keeps the world awake.

— Babylon Crashing

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night tide

28 Saturday Nov 2015

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The drowned girl said, “be rougher, I don’t mind.”

In the old tongue — a tongue that I couldn’t

speak well. The lake water had made me blind

so I clung to her wide hips as her cunt

covered my mouth, my chin. In the night tide

the small waves inched over us. I could feel

her bent forward, pressing down, as she tried

to gag me -drown- while her wild mane went eel-

like, all hither and yon. I’ve walked Sevan’s coast,

the drowned outnumbers the living. Thirty

years-old; wild hair rose up, like — dark like, kelp —

a voice that called from the lake. Carmine’s ghost

calling, “Yeranut’yun.” — Bliss. The way she

pulled back and said, “you naughty little welp.”

][][

note:

In Armenian, the word for bliss is, “yer’an’ut’yun,” (երանություն).

— Babylon Crashing

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acheflow

20 Friday Nov 2015

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Here’s release. You and me, we’re not like them.

They pulled away. You sniffed my open palm

as you touched your lips. My fingers, my thumb,

even my wrist were soaked. The low buzz-bomb

growl of my vibrator filled the backseat

of your mom’s car. The upholstery had crude

scars and new finger-funk stains, while slush-sleet

coated the windows — Acheflow — We pursued

whatever we could do between the breaks.

Your prom was a bust; your college transcripts

denied. You were a ball of stress. All fraught

until a toy made you squirt up earthquakes

into my palm. They blanched while your hips

buckled wide in the Gaspar parking lot.

— Babylon Crashing

WARM BODY

17 Tuesday Nov 2015

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When you finally take you last corporeal

form, I’ll bake you sticky buns, your favorite.

 

Until then, snuggle close; let sunlight, dull

and warm, filter through you. I love ghost smut;

 

where the dead fall in love. Slowly seven

dust motes move as your fingertip explores

 

my breasts, smoothing fabric taut; your ashen

touch. My skin is so alive your dead pores

 

gasp for breath. Will you be this mesmerized

with me once you have a shell of your own?

 

Or will I be just one more warm body?

Will you, who died for love and once despised

 

false hearts, leave me? Is it just flesh and bone

that makes you whisper lover’s vows to me?