Category Archives: sonnet

bleeding without

18 Monday Nov 2013

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It was the summer that my friends wanted
to be poor Nancy Spungen with track marks

and ripped fishnets we were tripping balls blood
acid drain-o paranoid as if narcs

would bust us as if I could fill my lungs
with your breath your bloodshot eyes a command

urging me begging for tastes bites lips tongues
pressure please I’m bleeding without my hand

on your breast naked under your leather
jacket “never trust a junkie” Nancy

said in the alley skirt pulled to hips blunt
tongue in deep where are you now my lover?

we were kids wanna-be London junkies
without needle marks it was all different

the problem with words

13 Wednesday Nov 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Passings and Death Notes, Poetry, sonnet

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late night party

mama after the party

][][

—– —– —- emptiness into emptiness into
this, which did not die. How can I be brave

when all this now stops? All that we once knew
must go … go down into darkness of grave

dirt — words stop, too, they’re heavier than earth;
right now I can’t shape them. I am a nurse.

I know about the science of death, birth
and all that lies in-between. What is worse

than this? needing but being unable
to find words, emptiness into — I know

I need my words about my grandmother
when we all gather at her funeral

but our matriarch is dead, she must go
now, wait for all of us to come to her.

note:

On Monday morning, November 11th, my 92 year old grandmother passed over. I will be off-line for a while, I must fly out to California and help my family prepare for the funeral. Almost everyone on my father’s side died before I was born. Up until now no one on my mother’s side had died, This isn’t the poem I shall read, but it is the poem about not knowing what to say.

I hope everyone is well. Cheers.

grave dirt

10 Sunday Nov 2013

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I see you, watch you, you’d be shocked to know
what I think about when you’re near. Can you

feel me watching you? perhaps not. Although,
I am curious, if not you then who

is this for? whose heart do my eyes burn holes
into? Don’t be flattered by attention

from things that you can’t understand. Your soul’s
immense need is what I sense; you who shuns

passion because you don’t want to be hurt.
Beyond pain, you’re my dirty thought today.

Beyond hurt, I love not just your essence.
You’re my bliss. Bliss stops hurt. There is grave dirt

under my broken nails. We are the way
we are: you’re loved despite your ignorance.

mayhem

10 Sunday Nov 2013

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You make me wish that I were dead with long
fingers for unzipping your secret, parts

that can sink into you—-deep enough, strong
enough—-to feel your soft corrosion. Quartz,

wolfbane, vervain and ginger root. What weds
all your opiates that have brought others,

girl-child, to their knees like quaking meth heads?
This is my subtle craft—-hexes, philtres,

potions, incantations—-dark love’s mayhem.
I wish that I were dead like you; tucking

your stray hair behind your ear, making safe
sleeping murmurs. Let the tweaker condemn

and crave what it will; we’re dead and living
as one: one dead urchin, one living waif.

o encanto das bruxas

09 Saturday Nov 2013

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

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o encanto das bruxas

Fale-me sobre o magia, as fadas, o encanto das bruxas.

Fale-me sobre algo mais sutil de mil anos das teu esporra cobrindo a pele das minhas bunda.

Que linguagem você vai usar?

O mundo etérea não funciona em Inglês, linguagem da ciência e da psicologia.

Me sinto mal, mas como posso explicar? O que é machismo?

Sexo sem amor? Esporra? Há mais vida para além teu esporrada.

Se você entendeu, então eu diria que, “Lambe-la feito cachorro.”

Se você entendeu, então eu diria que, “Vou trepar sem beijar.”

Mas você não entende.

Reza para que não vou voltar.

][][

Tell me about magic, fairies, witches’ charm.

Tell me about something more subtle than a thousand years of your cum covering the skin of my ass.

What language will you use?

The ethereal world does not work in English, the language of science and psychology.

I feel bad, but how can I explain? What is machismo?

Sex without love? Cum? There is more to life than your cum-shot.

If you got it, then I would say, “Lick it like a dog.”

If you got it, then I would say, “I’ll fuck without kissing.”

But you do not understand.

Pray that I will not return.

][][

note:

Once again I must apologize for my poor translations skills. If there are any errors the fault is entirely mine. Still, how else can we improve except make mistakes. Thank you.

dominus inferus viscera

09 Saturday Nov 2013

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scalpel in hand you start with my left toes
your lips brushing gently over my skin

as you trace that shadowy path that flows
from tip to tibia I tense you grin

as a small shiver disturbs the surface
of my thigh ripples in a pond above

my knee you pause breathe in sharp nervousness
makes your hands sweat perhaps you call this love

I moan softly as your breath rolls off me
you pull at my hips follow the round pout

of my ass I arch my back fingers part
my musk and my taste bubble fear honey

fear each fear scalpelled still as you pull out
between my ribs I can feel you touch heart

in this dim earth

07 Thursday Nov 2013

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And then all sounds stop. Small hoof prints scattered
in sod, like frequent mistakes, deep and fine,

heading off to the remote skyline. Bird
and beast gave pause. The crickets made the sign

of the evil eye. Sylvan moonshine shown;
and you reeled, drunk on dandelion wine.

She could play a tune, unwittingly blown
to us from glen to glen. Sylvan moonshine:

mute in this dim earth; no human vices
slept in her capra face, spreading her blind

bovid thighs and her dispensing plum lips.
Her dew-sodden musk curled all that she does.

Godlike, she makes provisions for mankind.
Frayed, her skirt slips on goat-like hips.

cocksure

06 Wednesday Nov 2013

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I have never understood the allure
submissively—-meekly—-obediently
of such surrender you can be cocksure
I will not—-yield yet—-to one so wildly
barren—-in visions I’ve been pushed non-stop
beyond all—-my limits yet not by you
I have been taught with the sting of a crop
I’ve been ridden—-far yet not by one who
cannot command armies with a dark glare
it is known that I am a pretty piece
of flesh I—-am yet to need a scourge cum
in my mouth to taste hell if my nightmare
makes you my mistress master uncle niece
know that I’ll make you a woeful bottom

people like us

05 Tuesday Nov 2013

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grind howl grunt for I’m nothing but your own
unsavory thoughts your muscles—-tighten
against me pressing fingers down deep bone
deep rump deep clutching your hand tight action
above your head—-I understand—-the hurt
inside you I understand—-why you need
this now quick two fingers can make you squirt
three will rob you—-of humanity greed
some say drives you bullshit I won’t deprive
you of this secret—-deception we know
some say people like us shouldn’t do this
but we love—-the illicitness—-we thrive
on fucks because we both know how need goes
need is doing all this—-just for a kiss

who heard you say no

04 Monday Nov 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Baron Samedi, Dionysus, Don Juan,
these be the masks that men can slip into.

Every culture has its sex gods that spawn
the myth of great sex. What that means to you

ain’t my concern. Tell me, who do women
in your land have when lust’s fire burns within?

Venus? Rati? Freyja? Fuck that Virgin
and Whore dogma. You gonna say that Sin

be just another name for girl pleasures?
Absurd. A bee won’t stop being a bee

because you ignored it, lied about it,
tried to shame it, stupid. I love lovers

who break the rules, who laugh, who aren’t sorry,
who heard you say no and don’t give a shit.

][][

a note:

Most of the time when a writer name drops (especially names 90% of the rest of us haven’t heard of) or uses foreign words or phrases without translating them I end up getting turned off as a reader. Being well read shouldn’t be a license to be conceited. I say that because I use six names that probably most people haven’t heard of before. They are all love gods and goddesses from around the world. At first I tried to leave them out but the whole point of the poem was to show that there are more female erotic archetypes than what we have here in this modern world, which still teaches girls sex is bad, celibacy is good and anyone who actually likes pleasure must be a whore (unless you’re a man … men are never criticized for liking pleasure).

In Voodoo Baron Samedi is loa (spirit) of the dead, sex and resurrection.

In Greek myth Dionysus is the god of wine, ritual madness and homoerotic ecstasy.

Don Juan usually refers to a monster-long poem written by Lord Byron, but he based his story on old Spanish legends of the world’s greatest lover.

Venus is the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess Aphrodite.

In Hindu mythology Rati the goddess of passion and lust.

Freyja, in Norse legend, is the goddess associated with love, magic, shamanism, sacrifice, war, death and sexuality.