Category Archives: sonnet

hellbent

15 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by in Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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MARIAM1

Tonight let the rat steal the rice. The moon
is in love and even the starving flea

will be pardoned. Tonight, hunger, roughhewn
like love, goes down smooth. We’ve all been hungry.

We’ve all wished somebody would speak secrets
that are simply obvious. Big sister,

where is your story? Why aren’t the poets
singing about you? Mama warrior,

let me braid up your hair. I have no tongue
for tune, but for you I’ll sing any song.

Tonight, saddle up. The moon is absent
and the rat is full. No one else has sung

what you do. Sister, you’re my blood, headstrong
fairytale made flesh; violent and hellbent.

thrive

12 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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lovers of the wand

And I imagine that this is how we
need to be: nude, warm, huddled together,

willing to survive anything with me …
Me? We! Except there is no we, lover.

No us. Nothing folded like paper in
onto itself. Nothing to protect us.

Just old skin and bone minus voltage, sin
and salt water. I’m a child of Venus,

Bacchus and Dryads. But you? Who knows now.
Who cares what you call yourself. I did once.

Songs that the hurt always sing. You’ll survive
and go off with someone else. Will your vow

sound just as hollow? Like hell, your brilliance
is to make a corpse look like it can thrive.

sin and sleaze

12 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Why does lust burn yet my new underwear
makes you wet? Why is it that when I lick

you here you moan, yet when I lick you there
you say, “No, not that! It’s dirty. That’s sick!”

It’s all sick. That’s the whole point. I asked you,
once, what you think of when you masturbate.

Pretty things, I found out. Nothing taboo,
but that can be fun, too. I was once jailbait,

just like everyone else. My fantasies
involve good and evil; it’s the one thing,

save a straight line, that’s not found in nature.
What I call divine you call sin and sleaze.

Where I pray you won’t go. You say, “Making
love,” not “Fucking.” I say, “I’ll take either.”

cropped marshlands

03 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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forest_god

From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust

clear and erect into coming twilight.
How did Freud ever pass through such forests?

They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.

Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates

flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.

Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along

my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.

arias, orgasms and weed

19 Thursday Jun 2014

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Gelding, dwarf star, that carmine snip where dye
soaked in. Where fiber and leather were cut

away. Prayers sung. Eunuchs and castrati
pray just like every other sinner, but

their cries carry weight. The heft of lightning
weighs the same as what Farinelli gained,

perhaps lost. The boy soprano singing
on stage at the Beijing Flying Dragon

Opera House. Lustrey crying with need.
We’ve been sweating in our bed. What choice

do we have? The radio is on. Lulled
by high arias, orgasms and weed.

Lulled by an impossible boy. His voice
shook the bed. You gasped and the world trembled.

][

note:

Farinelli was a celebrated Italian castrato diva of the 18th century and possibly one of the greatest singers in all of opera.

ham-hocks and fish

29 Thursday May 2014

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“Give them pleasure — the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.”
— Alfred Hitchcock

To the edge of the dream he comes; barefoot,
cloven-hoof, crooked goat legs. I do not know

his name, but from his pipes and his man’s root,
a cock from hell, garbled prayer-songs grow;

like a root, a tree, a mountain, vaulting
heaven and shadowing earth. To the edge

of the dream he comes; unabashed, playing
nightmare to my dreams. Passing a stone hedge,

a street, a market where ham-hocks and fish
dangle in the window, I follow. Dream

logic says I can do nothing else. Prayer-
songs on cobbles, his clip-clop, his goatish

delight that I’m there, to hear his obscene
song, to be the dreamer to his nightmare.

flaw

16 Friday May 2014

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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welding of the soul. touch this arc-light, heat
on the rim blast bay gal jack the damned mouth

the sores heel dog pity those who must bleat
like sheep when they cum. i’ve gone down, round south

america, round the bend, the glory
and the hole. i’m venus-wise, pricked and pecked.

got scars on thars you wouldn’t believe me
if i showed ya. i’m more bolts than bones. wrecked

as a lover, wrecked as a friend. bragging
is a sign of flaw. the things that they made

me do. flesh let enter nanobot womb.
daughter to rust. son to rot’s fathering

maggots. you say that you want to get laid.
i am the empty chair, the empty room.

this is how i learned

16 Friday May 2014

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It all goes away. Ta. Evening after
evening after. Tee-Tee Ta. The Mantis

rubbing claws, cleaning her mandibles, her
lover’s weed, her root and roe. Green goddess,

Eater of Men, it’s how I learned to count:
Ta, Tee, Tee-Tee Ta. Your luminescent

charms. Light. Happiness. How you let him mount
you, then off with his head. Tee-Tee Ta. Scent

of the demon in heat. Mansbane. Conquest
of your mates. Shh, I’m counting. Ta. I give

myself. Tee-Tee Ta. I count. It’s my choice
to count. The beat of the heart at rest. Rest.

Counting as song. There’s nothing to forgive,
darling. And if I sing you are my voice.

dinner with famous dead people

16 Friday May 2014

Posted by in Humor, Poetry, sonnet

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They ask ya, who’d you like to have dinner
with? or fuck? or have a conversation

with? I’m the child of a witch and nightwalker,
trust me, hanging with the living as fun

is the last thing that the dead would ever
want to do. It’s not all local haunting

and brain eating; but it’s complete torture
to cross the void, called back by the living

for what? a cheap date? bad sex? to answer
questions? There’s a reason why famous dead

people aren’t spending time with me right now
and it’s not because they can’t. We offer

little but demand much. What the dead said
to me was this: “let me sleep, you daft cow.”

charley scrawl

15 Thursday May 2014

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Thirst’s all-in-all in all a world of wet
and you eye my sweat like it’s a sluiceway.

You’re parched. A kiss from me, a drop of sweat,
would heal you. I stink like the gods, decay

in the hereafter. I am rot’s reason;
what the tongue-taught mushroom dreamt about; dreams

about — corrosion. I’m food for famine.
The gods could cure you. See how blasphemes

never felt so good, clit? Charley scrawl, curse
of all that you are, git. You drink and drink

without slack, without their stink. You are drought,
for drought refuses all, even perverse

love. I warn you, if you lick it, that stink
will stay with you, you’ll never wash it out.