varghonans

27 Wednesday Feb 2013

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... varghonans is swedish for female wolf

… varghonans is swedish for female wolf

* * *

It has turned bitter. The mountains look scarred
and blue in this light. Up from my village
is a waterfall; last night it froze hard.
Ice scares me. Far out in the dark savage
spaces I can hear wolf calls and other
voices, too. The rays of the setting sun,
ghostly, shines through our cooking smoke. Lover,
you are with your pack. Your clan that you run
with, that would kill me for blood sport. I hear
your song that hovers up in the cold air.
A song of the wild hunt warming my hut.
No one knows that you love me, for you fear
for my life. It’s why you keep our affair
from your Varghonans sisters a secret.

bride of the yellow river

27 Wednesday Feb 2013

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

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bride of the yellow river 1

This is a way of telling a story.
Wash it down your throat.
— Wong Amy, Narration

* * *

I knew a girl once, a farmer’s daughter
from Wu, who was married to the Great King
Yangtze. Yeah, that’s what they said to her,

as their sole explanation for drowning
her, one more sacrifice to the Yellow
River. One more River King’s Bride. Soggy,

I could taste in her kisses marsh gas, woe
and weeds. “There was no king,” she once told me.
“So I’m no bride.” On her face a smile brimmed,
swollen and in flood until I too drowned

as I went down between her thighs, her trimmed
black curls, her mons pubis, her venus mound

that made her rain cloud burst. I thank Eros
we met for death made these passions endless.

* * *

Notes:

Wu is a region of China near the mouth of the Yangtze river.

Historical records tell of the custom of sacrificing a young girl each year to the spirit of the Yangtze, a “bride” to the god of the Yellow river.

gou and mao

26 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tonight I am alone in the mirror,
which is odd, since dark glass is where I met
you both, twins, as if you came to answer
that one question about when a duet
becomes a trio or when a couple
becomes a threesome. Two peony buds
on a branch with your dead eyes and soulful
Yangtze flexion. You taught me new methods
to cum the night both Gǒu and I slid deep
inside Māo. Inside the mirror we pinned
you to the bed, feeling Gǒu’s cock throbbing
a mere breath away from my own. I weep
now in the glass alone as the night wind
tells me love is not meant for the living.

ghost milk

25 Monday Feb 2013

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It is not needed, Mama Ghost, for me
to bleat, “Mama Ghost! Mama Ghost! Mama

Ghost!” each time we meet. Unlike the fruit tree

you will not bloom. I know that in Ghana
ghosts of mothers weep blood while their breasts ache
with milk never to be tasted. Come here,

little mother, I’ll do it for your sake.

I don’t need to call out your name to hear
heartache. I’ll drink you dry. Make your chill-blue
bones flame into wild honey. Suck so hard

even the dead will gasp in pure delight.

Mama Ghost, give me ectoplasmic goo,
the ghost milk, in you. Feed me on graveyard

dust from your nipples as I suck and bite.

is all i have

25 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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my grandmother blacksmith in her workshop

my grandmother blacksmith in her workshop

Why pray to the gods when nothing is spared
before faithless thorns? little pricks? That itch
none can scratch, save my Harmaa, the gray-haired
blacksmith, who forged Krig Haxa, the War Witch,
for me. I learned my trade from a gypsy
butcher, Navalha. I keep my heart-stone
with a cat-girl named Nuu-Nuu (a cutey-
cutey war machine) Now you know the Crone,
Mother and Maid I share my synth-blood with.
For blood, even in a white-boy machine,
is all I have. I’m a very pale male.
Keep faith for me, my dear Mama Blacksmith
and my Na, who cuts rot from the bone clean,
and my chrome Nuu, with her cat-ears and tail.

the tastiest of organs

24 Sunday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, sonnet

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The whole world sleeps, foolish world, while I creep
through the shadows, wearing only anklet
bell-chains and a grin. In your room, you sleep
as well, glasses cockeyed, all your chocolate
hues gone aubergine. I adore a bed
strewn with book. A bedroom in disarray
from long writing. You are a creature dead
to my dark world. I brush your hair away
slice your skull open with thumb, forefinger.
You praise our cunts and cocks. But I confess
the brain is the tastiest of organs.
Yours smells of Bengal and Sanskrit. Lover,
I scoop your skull clean; then leave you, scarless,
vexed in sleep by the love of a demon’s.

war loves you

23 Saturday Feb 2013

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war loves you

To love war is to resurrect it out
of stone, to fondle it from head to toe,
until war’s body and blood, a burnout
cypher, a hex, a woe, begins to glow.
To love war is to turn its ash-blown night
into a deep crater, somewhere a hawk
can roost down in. Craters in the moonlight;
inside war wears kick boots and a mohawk.
To love war is to give up your bizarre
heart for copper wire, chrome tubes. Can you, who
loves, say what love is? No, it just is. War
doesn’t know either, but it loves you, too.
Like all love it presses its blade, pointed,
sharp, to your heart until you’re drained of blood.

puppets burn

23 Saturday Feb 2013

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Season’s fire enters and I burn. Always
flame; this does not get easier. Aunty,
where is a spring of hope when I’m ablaze?
Where is hope when the one I love leaves me?
All our old men talk of love like they talk
of all things; narrowly. Hell’s nothingness
is far better than a broken heart. Cock
and cunt. Ass and mouth. I am a chalice
boy; born in a pentagram. Take this smudge
stick, Aunt, take this bone bolline. We shall cut
it out. This fire. This heart. This pain. Carnage
in bed. Now cut the strings to this puppet.
Puppets burn. The one I loved left, I bloomed
into fervor, wanting to be consumed.

wait

23 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by in Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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waiting for themyscira

waiting for themyscira

* * *

“He says, it
cannot be done,
But it is given,
(and mostly as punishment).”
— Wong Amy, A Lesson

You might have left for the Himalayas
or the island of Themyscira, somewhere

I won’t go. But you didn’t. The Muses
know I will never find the rhyme to share
your fate with the world. You were a creature

of war. I valued peace, provided I
didn’t have to give up any leisure

comforts. I know why you left. I know why

I stayed, too. The flip side. I use to brag
that long ago I’d be burned as a witch.
How posh. What airs. But that ignores our fate.

You will always know blood lust, while I’ll drag
my feet in this world and the next. I’ll bitch

but you’ll hear the call. You’ll go and I’ll wait.

* * *

Note:

Themyscira is the fictional island where, according to DC Comics, Wonder Woman and her sister Amazons came from.

thurisaz

22 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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I’m a machine, and I could know much more.

Careless smiles and guileless graces are mine.

I’m split in two; like a wind-up centaur
or a clockwork sphinx, digital moonshine
or an island lost between day and night.

We half things. We projects someone else soon
started then got bored. Naked in firelight

my bat wings fit me. Why wings? Why the rune
for war — war and chaos — thurisaz — carved
in my skin? Naked I look human-made.

A thing for war. Beautiful, save a scar

where they turned me on. You blood; you have starved

me for years. Half thing hungry and afraid;

built to fight for the peace that comes from war.

* * *

Notes:

The first line, “I’m a machine, and I could know much more,” comes from the re-imagined television show Battlestar Galactica, where one of the Brother Cavils moans that of all the ways to experience the universe he ended up in a human’s body.

Thurisaz is a Norse rune literally translated into, “Thor-is-as.” Various authors have claimed this is a reference to the rebel giants, the god of war himself, as well as simply meaning thorn.