the receiver

06 Tuesday Jan 2015

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Be vast beyond the trees. Be transparent.
The dusk was good. You cavort. I am shy.

Give the sky a backward glance, whose crescent
eyes all these road-signs miss but don’t know why.

So what? – a phone will start ringing, humming
about the rain. Word! you say, the devil

will die – but not like this. There’s a graying
vapor, nameless, across the water; dull

with no words left. For how long will you go
without luggage, shoes, road-signs? You can see

through me. I love symbols, signs. Rise. Again,
press your face to mine under the sky. Glow.

Call me Morning Star. In the receiver
you can just hear a busy-sound, like rain.

pogue the hone

31 Wednesday Dec 2014

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burning to give
a green gown my
fingers smoke

aspen branches
play nug-a-nug
reed voices

slow bee searching in
the pyrdewy pistil
tomorrow will frost

quail in the valley’s
pasture flirt
of underbelly

one
last ride below
the crupper sky

rainlight, houghmagandy
suddenly
winter sun

cricket singing
in the dark night
physic

kiss me
rantum-scantum princum-prancum
call from dreams

blow off the groundsills
Barnaby
dances the Paphian jig

whiskey sours play at tray
trip of dice and shot twixt
wind and water

tonight
giblets tomorrow
hey gammer cook

in my left
rumpscuttle in my
right clapperdepouch

last poem of 2014 ~

dawn
rides a dragon
upon St. George

a moth, a scythe, a shadow

31 Wednesday Dec 2014

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fire-weed, drake-root,
belle-chose, a geography
without names

oyster clouds over
an altar of Venus, jasper
moss still warm after sunset

Netherlands chick
weed, split petals in
the daring-down hollow

a witch and a crow and
placket-lace in the high
mountains

things forgotten phoenix
nest wrong answer moonlit
tongue

all the Latin that I
know contrapunctum and
cinaede and cunnilinctus

through tall upland
grass Aphrodisiacal
sport among the rushes

high in the east lady’s
low postiche clouds
over with lightning

birds hidden on the mount
pleasant dreams among
the boughs

butterflies petticoats
lane flecks moving
up and down

early venerable monosyllable
heralding first rain
then flood

storybook Mrs. Fubbs’
parlor a broken
china cup

kitchen fire
thatched
cottage smoke

burbling
Cypriote fountain
someone is happy

][][

nuthatch atop
a maypole first
flower

thistledown Master
Robin Goodfellow
in the thicket

a moth, a scythe,
a shadow not
moving

washed air, Eve’s
dropper, song
in the gutter

flying through the dark
woods Cyprian scepter
in ghostly hands

long August night
Don Cypriano cat
screams grow louder

red woods and rule
of three slowly
emerging

morning, noon,
evening silent flute
breeze in the field

mist
in the valley arbor
vitae twilight

impudent
mountain rising
empty sky

wetted

18 Thursday Dec 2014

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

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Selkie

dust devils on the high seas

walking blessed and rude
out from the long surf
green winds blowing
up a wild
sea I’m a full fathom
five lover come
drown

let’s be poor dirt friends
I live on a high hill with
a priceless view of the sea

a windless morning how
many souls drowned last
night with the sinking sun?

rain squall breathing
deeply the waves I
go down on
you one last
time

you and me, mountain
stream, we dream of
a mother we never knew
but keep trying to reach

][][

note: I drew this picture about ten years ago when I was trying to make an ocean tarot deck. It’s the selkie myth, the seal lover who comes ashore to seduce those who are in love with the sea.

wedge of winter sun

17 Monday Nov 2014

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November 17, 2014 (1)

somewhere choppy waves
and our boat crosses between
our two worlds somewhere

][

dreaming ocean fog
the dark road leads far away
and it weighs nothing

][

tonight pines
bow with
snow dreaming
of the surf’s
surge and boom
and my longing

][

wedge of winter sun
designed in the dark cold times
abandons me, dreams

dennis cooper’s “BEING AWARE”

10 Monday Nov 2014

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Men are drawn to my ass by
my death-trance blue eyes
and black hair, tiny outfit,
while my father is home with
a girl, moved by the things
I could never think clearly.

Men smudge me onto a bed,
drug me stupid, gossip, and
photograph me till I’m famous
in alleys, like one of those
jerk offs who stare from
the porno I sort of admire.

I’m fifteen. Screwing means
more to the men than to me.
I day dream right through it
while money puts chills on
my arms, from this to that
grip. I was meant to be naked.

Hey, Dad, it’s been like this
for decades. I was always
approached by your type, given
dollars for hours. I took a
deep breath, stripped and they
never forgot how I trembled.

It means tons to me. Aside
from the obvious heaven
when cumming, there’s times
I’m with them that I’m happy
or know what the other guy
feels, which is progress.

Or nights when I’m angry,
if in a man’s arms moving
slowly to the quietest music –
his hands on my arms, in my
hands, in the small of my back
take me back before everything.

— Dennis Cooper
from Tenderness of the Wolves