Category Archives: sonnet

trails

11 Sunday Jun 2017

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Morning heat is drying out the ragged
bits of snail trails on my front stoop. The gin

at last kicks in. I was throwing up blood
last night, leaving me cold and dank, my skin

waxy. I love how silver fades away
in heat. I sit on my stoop, run a thumb

over the trail. Lick it clean. An old stray
curls at my feet; her purring a rhythm,

one that I follow. My neighbor calls out,
heading for work. This is how everything

should end. I’m lost in the Skatalites, Toots
and the Maytals, Madness. We all burnout.

We all fade. Snail trails. A stray cat purring.
Some of us are stars; some only tributes.

vegas

10 Saturday Jun 2017

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The heat rises. It’s nothing like spring storms.
Nothing stirs. Whose fur hangs dank? Who drowses

and sleeps half the day away? Heat deforms,
corrupts us. The sweat in my pubes itches.

I scratch and scratch until tufts come away:
soggy cum, soggy spit and tight black curls.

You sprawl nearby me. The way your thighs splay
makes me blush though our naked boy’s and girl’s

secrets mean little in this heat. We pass
a spliff back and forth. We drain our whiskey

and pour out more. Cicadas drone. The glass
in your hand sweats. Everything is raspy.

Tonight we’ll go out in the summer storm
with heat-lightning, the air bathwater warm.

uncouth

09 Friday Jun 2017

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I say, “She who starts with an abattoir’s

knife ends with allure.” That’s cheap. Perhaps. Love

curls in me, though: muscles, sweat, cum, bargain-

floor booze. You trace all my bruises and scars.

I’m off my tits on mandrake root, foxglove

and wormwood. Perhaps love is an omen.

Perhaps love begins as a Stone Butch; ends

in glory — We start all this with someone

who can break us by accident. My friend

who walks on goaty-girl legs and cloven

hooves, who says that she’s an uncouth butcher —

Hacker of meat — Curved fire — Gloriosa

blooms — Riotgrrl — Afropunk — “El olor

de mi coño” — Vulva Furiosa.

}{}{

note:

“El olor de mi coño” translates into “the odor of my cunt”

naturally

09 Friday Jun 2017

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We want to know that the kink is still

there. Now? No, soon. I drink so that I don’t

think so much. Hashish, Vodka and Advil

deletes memories. Who says that I won’t

tell how I failed at the Slam; this stutter,

that lisp, no one wanted to hear such noise.

There was no beat, just radio anger

in my head. Those raw static wires destroy

rhymes which neither strut nor slide. Praise the holes

in my skull — What was kink but our hoodwink

over failure? — Nothing comes naturally

to me — Not even joy over our soul’s

loss, our grief’s flesh. Now? I don’t want to think

except for Absinthe, Gin and Peyote.

milking

26 Friday May 2017

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You with the double-hung belly. You made

a sound like, “sissk,” each time I drained you dry.

We’ve played Asmodeus and the Milkmaid

far too often. For a week we were high

as fuck eating euphoriants — (bhang-bhang

and hash rolled in jam) which gave your breast milk

the odd taste of sweet kif, gin and ginseng —

while I sucked stains from inside your bra’s silk

after each of Harley’s feedings. Each romp

remained perverse; my head buried between

your thighs, fingers on your nipples, milking,

tripping balls, the bed shaking, you calling

out to the gods prayers devout and obscene

as you came; soaking my face like a swamp.

ills

19 Friday May 2017

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Ghosts rise and drink. Before the sulfuric heat

of the muggy gray sky (which never rains)

untwines itself from the dawn my heartbeat

murmurs and my hand shakes. Each new bloodstain

from the kitchen knife oozes down my arm

only to scab over. My body plays

host to a host of ills that plague and swarm

throughout me. I’m simply the obscene maze

that all things must flee from — Mama Lilith;

I’m shit-faced and you’re here with my meltdown.

Your twitch, my cut, all this must bleed. As host

to this chaos I’m your kith drunk on myth,

your kin sodden on gin — I won’t come down;

nothing comes down; not host-demon, not ghost.

rapt

19 Friday May 2017

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Perhaps while straddled. Perhaps in the gloom

of your nightgown; all that whiteness against

your breast. Perhaps in the small folds, the bloom

of heat where my skin pressed. Perhaps I tensed

when I should have relaxed. Perhaps we lapped

something queer from a gourd or a clay pot

that left us, in turns, both baffled and rapt.

Perhaps when it was time what you thought

you could do you couldn’t and simply choked.

Perhaps none of these. Whatever has brought

me here, love, doesn’t matter. Why regret?

Why so sad? Your cigarette has been smoked.

My wine drunk. Let’s share all that we’ve been taught.

Your pen. My ink. Our secret alphabet.

Quote

mangles

05 Tuesday Apr 2016

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Tangled in the backseat, parked near the bridge,

I am in awe with the curve of your ass.

Under your jeans your telltale scar-tissue,

mortar-shell fragments, your brawny muscles

and the curved stump ending above the knee.

I’m a drunken beast on hands and elbows.

You’re all splorpy-wet from savage foreplay.

“Prends-moi par derrière. Jouis dans mon cul.”

Pressing your forehead against the window’s

glass you shudder at the depravity

of gore, being gored, once more light mangles

itself behind our lids — I would tell you

that I love you as our breath fogs the glass

but I don’t know those words in your language.

][][

Note:

In French, “Prends-moi par derrière. Jouis dans mon cul,” roughly translates as, “Take me from behind. Cum in my ass.”

— Babylon Crashing

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pomegranate

29 Tuesday Mar 2016

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Later you will tsk, rub away a speck

of dried cum. Today the floor needs mopping,

the sheets laundry. You sat in the bathtub

for hours scrubbing. Last night you were filthy.

I knew you wanted more; only took what

I could offer, I received your wetness

trailing down my chin. I could only twist

against rope that bound my ankle and wrist

I don’t protest — I just stared, your lewdness

glistened wide, your clit a pomegranate

seed on my tongue — you stood above me

fingers twined throughout my hair as you rubbed

yourself faster and harder murmuring

into my neck flooding all down my neck.

— Babylon Crashing

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.