she bang


, , , , , , ,

Itchy dreams are my realms. My healing song
doesn’t heal — but it’ll lure you back alive.

Outside of Pahrump, clad in bra and thong,
you crouched in the scorching dark. There were five

of you at this women’s curing sweat lodge.
A friend’s aunt sang for you. Far off, I sang,

too. We forget. The soul is a hodgepodge
of scars. The soul grows in pain: first she bang,

then she change. Only hate and sloth blaspheme.
They sang. I sang, too: in black heat come back.

You’re loved by your sisters, the gods, this earth.
Come back home heavy with your itchy dream

filled with heat. Off in the scrub and sumac
dead things stirred as all your old lusts gave birth.

laid bare


, , , , , , ,

Cyclones and bones blown all pell-mell. Sky-bound,
umber dust lifts your heavy skirts — debauched

with rage, rushed with umbrage, with the crude sound
of storm of sex of my tongue in your notched

plash first gush and then whirl. The earth’s domain,
red gold, laid bare. Mixed with ache aren’t we all

peeled down. On the side of a side road. Rain
on the car’s hood. In the backseat I sprawl

inside you, slouching in your cunt-soaked heat.
Curved thighs crisscross my neck. Conjured hormones

from ghost meat and bones blown high from their graves.
The wind brings us red rock, ozone, heartbeat,

rage. Your clit trembles. It’s what the storm moans,
the gods hunger for, what the cyclone craves.

old school


, , , , , , , , ,

Lift your skirts and face the wall. Such good pain,
De Sade’s pain, takes a cane to make your pawg

wobble. With three strokes I’ll break you, again.
There’s an art to the trounce, the wax, the flog.

It’s how I flayed «Z» into your tush. Blush
with what smolders under your petticoat.

First the gush of endorphins, then the rush.
We drop loony toons, microdot, blue goat

so that old-school worlds open. Once I kissed
you. That was wrong. It’s hard being discrete

when it comes to craft but splattering cum
like paint is absurd. A flick of my wrist

brings forth new terror. New wisdom. New heat
freeing you from flesh. Bondage is freedom.



, , , , , , , , ,

Some say it was Soyok Wuhti and some
say it wasn’t, but for a year the carved

doll of Ogre Woman, with knife and drum,
lived in my pocket. I was six, love starved,

though our bruja neighbor warned of curses:
children, even strange ones, shouldn’t be left

as toys for spirits deep in the mesas.
What did I know? I was six and bereft

for what I didn’t know. But after school
I’d take her out, play with her violent hair,

her black serpentine tongue, her jaw that clacked
at my kiss. Of course her cravings were cruel.

She taught me that lechery is like prayer.
I was six, love sick, wild for any pact.

Bruja is the Spanish term for witch, while in the Hopi pantheon of gods, Soyok Wuhti, is both female ogre and teacher who enforces good behavior among children. As with all gods and monsters she appears in three forms: as a spiritual being unseen by mortals, as a dancer in costume performing sacred rituals and as a kachina, a wooden doll carved from cottonwood root.



, , , , , , ,

Systems crash and reboot all the time, just
like mine. I’ve been grazed and groped by eldritch

horrors, plague gods, who bring decay and lust
to the same putrid climax. A love witch

once taught me cures for those sores, but I crashed
for a week, dreaming of crackle and glitch.

After a reboot I’m dazed and abashed;
bodies freshly derelict tend to twitch

and fray while in public. Cosmic heartache
appears in rust around the edges, while

the gods, too stoned to care, watch us corrode,
laughing. What good is backbone with backache?

Off-line soul leaves flesh. Off-line I’m jut vile
numbers. Some queer hateful cipher. Hell code.



, , , , , , ,

I still swear to you by scourge and blowtorch
that at the next stroke you’ll bleat ugly sounds.

Ugly deeds call for the grim “K” of scorch,
quetch, crave. Flick of a supple cane astounds,

raising welts and devils. Call this art brut,
raw burn, a perfect howling pitch locked

inside you. I’ll free it. Others live mute —
waiting for that, “one day.” I know they’ve mocked

your dire itch, your distress. But they don’t cum
when I call you. Bend down. Lift up your dress.

Trust me: I might be cruel working stiff but
I get the job done. Like prayer. Like venom.

Like the song that tells us how to transgress
with the pain that drives both saint and poet.



, , , , , ,

Poppy milk: in ill sleep you stood there: curved,
blithesome, cocky. To see you naked, once

more, I almost woke. You were so reserved
alive, it took laying down lip, essence

of moon rock, just to get you off. My brief
grief stayed, lasted — even as I tended

your grave. No one shall tend to mine. The Thief
of Seoul shares my bed now; but sugar-mud

isn’t the same, even among gods. For ache,
omen close to bliss, I keep hunting. “Hunt?

You mean cunt, you mean cock,” you said. I mean:
fear some dreams. I mean: from lust’s lure heartache.

Your night fever tightens around me. Blunt
ghost, you’re all nightmare, my milk’s morphine.



, , , , , , , , ,

Debauched, my pelvic bone recalls some things.
How she got off on my vestige tail stump.

Craving his 2-heart heart. Breaking bed-springs
in his 2-heart ass. Razing your plump rump

down to the ground, all savage child. “Break me,”
you said on our first date. I did. Twice. Sweat

on your breasts. Dried cum on your phat belly.
You crowed and cawed as I entered. Coquette

of the meat counter. Coquette of maimed flesh,
buff and dastardly. Passions are fickle, —

they change. My gut-bone knows this. My gut-bone
is down for — “Debauched?” you said. “That ain’t fresh.

It’s rad. It’s bitchin’.” Recall how your skull
bloomed as I turned your phat ass to pulpstone.



, , , , , , , ,

I first notice as you undress — the tint
of your skin, neon scratch, cross-hatch aglow

gone all smeary, clippings from cheap newsprint.
Your hair murmurs and purrs. Last radio

afronaut — My Scooby Snacks and reefers
cool next to your starchild heat, space-boot bounce,

wah-wah pedals, cosmic cords and tethers.
You lust for things I can’t even pronounce,

from worlds I can’t see. Your flesh flawless
unveiled. Jacked-up rocket. You bring long lost

sisterhood scents with silk spun from the sun,
thread hewed from novas. What I first notice

is your face pressed against mine; scars crisscrossed
as I sucked on your tongue, curved and cloven.

night piece


, , , , , , , ,

Your eye and Lesbia’s gaze. Where my spirit
and flesh fused, jizz oozed down your face, your clothes,

scraped knees. All this night piece boy grease this strut
of one who sucks godheads. The tomcat knows.

Cats love ruin. Spray-paint’s “fuck grief/ give head”
scrawled with carrion’s love of beef behind

you in glitter pink. “Skull fuck me,” you said,
mouth full of soul. Rasp of tongue on lust, blind

and big like charnel. Scumsuck. Shum ticky.
Ravished gaze. Bloodshot: cum in your lashes

gives you pink eye. I measure this not in
virtue but itches. Choose my salt-honey.

Choose smut. Choose my love. It’s slow. It oozes
into your twilit clit, my godhead’s skin.

“Lesbia’s gaze” comes from a poem by Edith Wharton. “Shum ticky” is a song-title by the fabulous Laura Love.