Category Archives: sonnet

her foal obscene

31 Saturday Aug 2013

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And know there is more that you can’t see, can’t
hear, can’t know — except in movements. Inside
you it wants to get out. Like song. Like chant.
Shaman knows. Steadily it grows. Denied
as birth it will rip you apart. This thing.
This word. This language. Wretched wind that swept
space clean. Breathe in. We die in blood. Bleeding
inside. I wept because you were. I wept
riding the nightmare and her foal, obscene,
there is always more. Sister, I know why
I stayed. That movement. Fear. Can you forgive
me? I cannot. I scream. I scream. I scream
because we are all born in blood, and die
in blood, but for you, sister, please just live.

catch fire girl

30 Friday Aug 2013

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Blind, we follow her slant flaming sparks, spray
metal to the hammer, pound out sculptured
what, we do not know. A girl that can weigh
potency, that fell in love with the word
anvil. One who speaks to the heart of coals.
Make my hands large and sinewy, a prayer.
Let me dream in blade and sculpture. The soul’s
work is rare. How many can find rapture
over mallet sizes? Turn steel to doubt,
fizzle it, turn it soft again? Her swing
of sledge. Her smithy grindstone. The crack-smack
of each blow, blurring, sending us far out
as she beats and beats and beats, then, sweating,
the catch fire girl at the forge tows us back.

a drop on the tongue, just one

29 Thursday Aug 2013

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Do not trust still water. It has no salt.
The first time I drank another’s life blood,
one lone dribble from behind the ear, fault
of fuck bites, that brackish taste, that queer flood,
filled me, alien and perverse, I knew
that no rush of river, no stagnate pond,
nothing that was simple like day-blind dew,
rain or fresh water could take me beyond.
Not the way orgasms lead us to ride
the gods or how a blood drop holds life’s curse.
It’s all about making the sweat begin.
I wish to know the wild thing that you hide,
the thing that makes you alien and perverse,
the thing hidden in the salt on your skin.

faith the scar

29 Thursday Aug 2013

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Sexless – godless — raptus — itself a drift
without dim mortal faith the scar-marred home
of sand wind look into the sea the rift
between walking naked into froth-foam
of tide naked before a vast junkyard
of words that do not please. To worship sea
is to worship alien a graveyard
for the others to worship mystery
all that words cannot name a god shark finned
I will not die. On land dry I will swim
out drown drown drown into bliss into bliss
into bliss into that which drives the wind
because it has come to this it has come
to this O faith it has come to this.

cut here

28 Wednesday Aug 2013

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Tonight I’ll drink and think. Tonight I’ll pluck
from the air one last clamorous kiss. Ghost
lovers shall come and cum. As in: we’ll fuck.
As in: I’ll boast of my dumb brute brawn. Boast
of my blade, but not this blood. Rouge’s belly.
Twin-twined guts. Cut here. Though each layer flails
the skin nothing to breathe in what body,
what shape, what pains to give you my entrails
I got guts beating days off through the blur
of stone and dark bud. All that I still trust
I still love. I’m weary of ugliness,
but not drinking, not thinking. And after?
Will we still fuck when I’m dead? When our lust
is the only thing standing between us?

ghost winds

28 Wednesday Aug 2013

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Hearing nothing, understanding nothing,
I have wandered out among the long, dry
ghost winds. The sky has stolen everything.
My eyes are full of dust. Why does the sky
blind me and wish me ill? On my two hands
tattooed stars shine, but they are useless guides.
Blind. Blind. Blind. Maybe up in the highlands
I’ll find rest, make a dress out of goat hides
and sleep among the sad daphi-daphi-
dillies. Then I’ll forget to be afraid
and eat raw honey right out of the comb.
Maybe. But look what’s been stolen from me;
my sight, my soul, my name and why I prayed,
even this mirage that I called my home.

the ghost of frank o’hara

20 Tuesday Aug 2013

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The ghost of Frank O’Hara leaves early

huge with desire. He sees through you, ogles

your ass while on the Metro; this fleshy

world! It’s what the living do that dazzles!

Only in poetry are ghosts obsessed

about panties. In novels it is briefs.

Plays call for jockeys. Textbooks might suggest

underwear. This language, ghosts claim, motifs

about buttocks and thongs. “We died before

thongs!” If you see a ghost gaping at you

in the changing room, say: “Bad Ghost!” I’m sure

it’s tough being behind the times, tattoos

and rings and whatnot being in right now

except for Frank who is always hip somehow.

sister vagabond

18 Sunday Aug 2013

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Who made this big O? Who milked all this cream
then got off? Which shaman brought the secret
of the orgasm back? Who brought the dream
of how to speak to the gods home? Read smut,
those hoarse orgasmic screams make this worship
look like child’s play. But I’ve been down on you
all night and you’ve yet to fling yourself back-
forth in the tall duffled grass. Sure, I knew
that not all prayers are heard. Between loadstones
and ghost loads both point to something beyond
grasp, but only one causes you to touch
the true divine. After gushing cum moans,
return and tell me, sister vagabond,
about what you once laughed off as nonsense.

genesis of lilith

15 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Feminism, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet

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The dull elk, all beast-eyed and slow, mounting

some sort of grotesque heifer, each nipple

as long as your thumb. She was their offspring,

or close to it. Dim-witted and docile.

Breeder. Eve. They say, “Lilith seduced her.

Lilith knew no shame.” In a world where man

was a limp failure, wouldn’t you? Lover

Of All The Flesh, She Of The Two-Heart Clan,

Girl With Locust Wings. Men who never knew

love will tell you the damnedest lies. Lilith

betrayed Eve — went down on Eve — sucked Adam’s

cum out — gagged it all down, then off she flew —

Bollocks. There is no bisexual myth

only the tale of the world’s first threesome.

cock’s crow

15 Thursday Aug 2013

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Dark One, I listen. A dun summer moon

rises, a gap, shun the sky, that space. Space

as the sun slips down into a wet June,

this son with a soul is always wet. Grace

was once a gun or a moth, that of air

but not in the air. Now none and nothing.

What son has a soul? and what sort of prayer

is this? The lascivious nun’s burning

faith. But not like faith. Switch to one shadow

and run halfway home. Daughters run. Daughters

know that the moon-dawn can still stun. Listen,

Dark One. I am a child of the cock’s crow.

The sky scares me for it is always her’s.

What’s left is noise. The cicadas have won.