Category Archives: sonnet

only human

02 Wednesday Oct 2013

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I.
These scars exist to show that I survived.
That the things that you prized I overcame.
Only those of us who have been deprived
their hearts know their weaknesses. And the shame
that you called puberty, you called hormones,
was a door that I walked through on my own.
I’m still changing. You said that flesh and bones
can’t be denied; yes, the pain that you’ve shown
me, the scars that you’ve cut into my skin,
I can’t deny. I’m still changing and you
fight with dirty tooth and claw, since you can’t
change—you’re only human. What you call sin
is faith. What I call love you call taboo
and what I call my prayer you call a rant.

II.
so sad too
bad get
over
it

asshole …

a few notes on cannibalism

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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“When the food runs out, the family reunion is over. It’s cool that out of all my relatives, I’m the only cannibal.”
― Jarod Kintz, This Book Has No Title

][][

I could bind you, bite you, beat you. Freaky
needs leave you in rags and used. Should I come

back? kiss away the bruise? But that’s what we
do on Friday nights out of pure boredom.

Today is Tuesday, kitchen day, and I
have been playing with spices: lemon zest,

basil, chervil. One day I shall hog-tie
you, rub thyme and marjoram on your breasts.

I am curious what you would taste of
if I felt a bit peckish. It is odd

how so few things shock anymore. Quite right,
the cannibal in you is not above

a tease. I’m a lovely cock tease. The God
of Death knows my infernal appetite.

filled my heart

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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Damaged. I don’t need to say anything
more but you know. All my poetry pales
before those two syllables. Heart breaking
how I learned not to give a fuck. Details
are all unimportant. All tragedies
are pain. But to not give a fuck? That part
hurts the most. Damaged goods. Before “sissies,”
“tomboys” and “fags.” Before fear filled my heart.

I own that now, for Damaged means wisdom.
It means that we took it all and survived.
I do give a fuck. If you’re reading this
then we survived. You and me. I’ve been numb
for a good long time. Damaged. They deprived
us of our childhood but we’re still us. Us.

again again again

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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But my mother’s mother, Maleficent,
widowed from her first love, and that love’s first
ripe fruit, moved through her father’s realm, torment
in her heart, her native tongue, being cursed
as all fairy tales curse us with ruin.
Again. Again. Again. “Find your magic,”
grandmother replied at each doubt—her one
dictum, fed with her green fire and sapphic
faith. She spoke so little of pain that we
forgot that she was a widow with no
regret, practiced in delight. I recall
all her stories, of heroines scrubbed free
of men’s curses. Tales where not one widow,
crone, step-mother died—just burned for us all.

this wine that i uncork

29 Sunday Sep 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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She brushed against him, kissed the devil, sucked
his fat bottom lip into her mouth, flicking
her tongue once, twice; each kiss causing havoc
all through his body, essence bubbling
up, then nipped, then suckled. Virgins were her
biggest weakness. She wanted to taste all
of his fourteen years. Awake the geyser
no one had yet to tap. Little boy doll,
I’ll take what is yours into what is mine.
I’ll make you sob. She raised one arched eyebrow,
posed. It’s done like this, she said, as she bent
catch of his breath down on her knees. This wine
that I uncork, fill me, gag me. Cum now,
son; and with that he spent and spent and spent.

whores my mothers

29 Sunday Sep 2013

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I’ll go, rescue you from hell. I have squeezed
the sleaze that says there’s snakes in your tresses,
serpents in your pubes. I’ve been down there, greased
and lubed the garden of your thighs. Bitches
be my sisters. Whores my mothers. Sluts be
my aunts. Wrap me in your gorgon hair.
I’m cold. I like the way you stare at me.
Hard eyes on fire. Beyond false-faith and prayer,
beyond good and bad, there is love. Men build
buildings and call themselves gods. But this bliss
doesn’t come from that. Medusa, don’t drown
in male rage. They say that they were thrilled
to kill you. We don’t need monsters in this
wicked world. Let’s burn all their buildings down.

the cynical kind

29 Sunday Sep 2013

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when it comes to smut and poets you shut
up if you’re doing this just to get laid
you are making it far worse i love smut
and its morals something that you degrade
like born-agains do to faith your hopeless
need to control fear but fear like a blow
job keeps us believing in this faithless
world it keeps the fires of the libido
hot you getting laid is the least of our
concerns aphrodite would be displeased
with you instead escape this trap this bind
shrine maids do it but you all who devour
their lust are their lust the only diseased
sort of passion is the cynical kind …

bleeding fuck

29 Sunday Sep 2013

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I’m glad that you go mad, sometimes, despite
all the beauty that you’re still buried in.
Here is your map and flying goggles, night
witch. Here is No-Man’s Land. Erotic sin
mandates that you get caught while doing this;
but our people won’t be able to bring
back your body. Today, stay sane, princess.
See this symbol of the fuck? The bleeding
fuck. Now take off and fly. Kiss me, kismet.
Just this once stop being his wife, mother
and friend. Come back to me. Your bestial
hunger piques my interest. You’re my rosette
stone, one awaiting an interpreter.
Flesh and blood, you are undecipherable.

the secret of my obsession with the living dead

27 Friday Sep 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Humor, Poetry, sonnet

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laughing with chunks of life
stuck in my hair — “just another
midtown addict” by perks

But your body does make odd noise: a cry,
a hiss, a whimper, a groan. What crackles?
a slap, a spark, a moan, a grim-toothed sigh
pushed out from between cracked lips. Dull angels
can’t fuck anywhere as good as dirty
corpses, submerged in toxic waste goo, breathed
alive. Hungry for flesh. We’re all hungry
for something. Despair. I’ve lost hope and seethed
with rage and I’ve cut myself just to feel.
But you, who can’t feel, still feel that deep need
to feed. We all feed. You said I crack you
up. As in pieces. As in when you kneel
your joints crumble. Lover, take me in, feed
but don’t bite. I’ll make your green flesh turn blue.

waterloo sucking

27 Friday Sep 2013

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A man stepped out of fantasy, where you
called him Master and he called you Bad Slut;
ending always in your own waterloo:
sucking the cock of a man you hate. What
tedious repetition, exactly
unlike sunlight that streams with grace. I love
kink, too, but Doms seem to be creepily
similar. Drop the whip and the kid glove.
I will mark you, there will be pain. Your streaked
gaping cheeks across the vacuum of space,
into a tale where my shadow assumes
its face. I have no needs, save that you piqued
my interest in your need for pain. With grace,
love, I will dominate you from the tomb.

notes:

The French emperor, Napoleon Bonaparte, was finally defeated at the town of Waterloo. To say that someone has “met their Waterloo,” means that they have had an unexpected defeat. As in that ABBA song of the same name, “Waterloo/ knowing my fate is to be with you”