Category Archives: sonnet

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”

horny goat weed

26 Thursday Sep 2013

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He would look like a girl, save for that curl
of a beard, that fine, thick hair, those antlers.

He skips girlishly but in ways no girl
ever skips. When he kisses he offers

you all of Arcadia, for his tongue
is far sharper than his pipes. During sex

you catch him maa-ing with pleasure. He’s young,
bound in the response of the moon, reflex

of the stars. Imagine heavy, round limes
lost in the leaves. When you swallow his cum

he melts into you like myth. His singing
is of worlds you will never see. Sometimes

you hear his hooves clicking in the kitchen,
his rude goat cock hanging silent, dreaming.

glee of the wind

26 Thursday Sep 2013

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Frozen Lake Michigan, a flat ocean
of ice; a sight that I don’t want but will
come and find me, like the night to the sun,
or two headlights to a deer. We say “chill,”
we say “cold,” but what barefooted pilgrim
could walk these beaches and still be happy?
What warm sympathy could the winter’s grim
love have? hidden in our houses the glee
of the wind is both orderly and daft.
Singing but what does that mean? Storm shamans
might know, but there are none left to answer.
Winter! I would defeat you if my craft
would do so; but such magic and options
aren’t mine. So I must live with your burdens.

faith is faith

26 Thursday Sep 2013

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window

What was it like on your first starry night?
the one thing we all have at least one of.
If you’re old enough to understand light,
to be able to raise your head above
your chin then you’ve seen stars. You were not born
back then, for me. And all the love and hate
and small words we use to describe well-worn
emotions meant nothing while all the great
weight of the heavens hung over my head.
How is it that just then the child is sure
that we are part of something far larger
than just ourselves, but later call faith dread?
Before faith was a faith is faith. Before
we had words for enemy or lover.

metal never forgives

25 Wednesday Sep 2013

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all the ancient classic fairy tales
have always been scary and dark.
—- Helena Bonham Carter

How much cold can you abide? If you kissed
me now you’d hear how the wind mews and talks
to you. Across the tundra of this tryst
you called me, like the warmth of a snow fox
in the endless night. I come from the west,
dreaming about blackberry juice; roughly
watching it trickle down your chin. Tongues pressed
tip to tip, although warm flesh on icy
metal never forgives. Little candle,
moppet, June spark, I would lick the hoarfrost
from your breasts, if I could; I think you’d just
sputter, though, warmth being such a fragile
play thing. How far will you go, my star-crossed
flame? The winter dark is my name for lust.

trying to explain the internet to my dead aunt

25 Wednesday Sep 2013

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The ghosts of my hard aunts all called themselves
butch and worked the graveyard shift making jeeps.
I am a fey thing, in love with bookshelves
more than pool and Patsy Cline, one who keeps
family close in this wild new age. Type
in “aunt,” “jeep,” “butch,” and, “Squirting on my truck’s
gearshift,” appears. Aunties, my waiting past,
where does Stonewall fall when these finger fucks
cock sucker blues can be found anywhere?
The dead give little reply. I’ve built worlds
on their broad shoulders. Love is a small price.
Just know your daughters and sons are a prayer
unasked for but here all the same. Your girls
and boys love you, I hope that will suffice.