, , , , , , , ,

Bless dawn. Breathe in fumes: quagmire or morass.

Frenzy with bong, with thong, with rot that smells.


Not fit for each, for pressing on. Blown glass,

twisted cotton, a necklace of conch shells.


Mess of brawn. The stress of faun legs, satyr

hips, the slur of rapture. But I — rudely


stamped and curtailed — greet dawn with the glamour

of meat past prime. Let me dillydally,


me loaf. None are waiting for me. None want

to see me stoned, clad in only a lash.


Rattle of shells and glass. Rattle of brawn

and bone. If this is frenzy its the gaunt


haunt of throat-fucking sort. Like fame, like hash,

like all the horrors that we’ll ever spawn.



, , , , , ,

Gushing-gust. Rammed, slammed, damned as I can slow

downward thrust. From above. From such thick stem


lusting-lust heat, then seed. Round cheeks aglow.

Round chin in shambles with spit, cum and phlegm.


Bodies are round. Muscles are a myth. No

sinew, no bones, just bliss. Just lunacy —


that “rave” in crave. That moan quake. That widow

maker. Fat stem in quim. In cosh. In glee


as I plumb the depth of your throat. Convulse.

Gag. Try to stand up. “Back to your knees, cur.”


This is a game. I play to win because

you play to lose. To be used on impulse


with a thrusting-trust. — Fuck like a centaur.

Cum like a sphinx. Without grace. Without pause.



, , , , , , , , ,

Fat “B” in “balsamic.” — As in, the noise

you make glazed — “B” in “burst” and “kablooey.”


Oui, spurt.” Beastly comforts. Raspy tomboy’s

face gets splattered just the same. “Oui, rugby.”


B” as in “butch” with “beef shoulders.” Notchy

hips. Half dollar scar from scrum, rucks and mauls.


Curvy sinner heat. Makes us kiss-crazy.

Makes you shimmy out of your shorts. “Oui, brawls


in bed,” you call this. Hunched blood apple. Stained

bruises. Broken rib. — You could break me. Bleat


me. Make me go blind. — What does the tattoo’d

B” on your thigh mean? You never explained


standing in my bath. All bull-girl athlete.

Brawler of beds. Insatiable and crude.



, , , , , , , ,

Rive as I reach your core — primordial

fornication sprung from the dripping roots


of the world tree, cum and splinter. Vernal

equinox. “Toute la nuit.” Dusk fruit’s


marrow. I know something about stirring

the tree’s flurry. I, too, have been lovesick.


These scars are not from others. The slicing

of my flesh I do myself, just to pick


at scabs. Burn stumps. Lightning strikes. I despoiled

that gap, gouged out half my soul. A rough ride,


Oui, but it can be done. You want passion

and I want …? to sink into your roots: coiled,


packed, tight. All my metaphors leave you pried

loose, pulped with cinders, tattered, all riven.



, , , , , ,

I have followed the asphalt of your spine’s

rough mile; on down by swelter-greased steepness;


by back alley’s cant; by your obscure shrine’s

massive quaking hills — into your darkness


— shivering dark. This red-tongue landscape.

Tatterhood. Gaped girl-thing in dark jungle.


I must gauge this myth by the span and shape

of your splayed-out hips, the taste of your skull,


where your fox-headed guide leads me to play.

To pray at your shrine — to out fox the fox —


to gauge your gape stretched lush and surreal.

I’ll breathe in your dark, your ideal. The way


city’s breath makes a park real — or a box

breathing in the ground makes broken bones real.



, , , , , ,

This glum bedlam. This sober and sexless

essence. This — I gave up to get better.


Others kiss. Others fuck. Others say, “Yes.”

Recall slick thighs, clenched teeth; what came after.


Recall, too, that I was once someone’s balm.

Sodden and gorged. Crafted in beauty, formed


in lust. Salve for a burning heart. Maelstrom

in those tender hollows. To be transformed


like this. To be sloppy in my moans. Curl

of lip. Nails stubbed. What came after heaving


upon sweat-soaked sheets making chit-like squirrel

grunts. What came much later with abstaining.


Why did you let your squirrel-cry come undone?

Even the morning breeze feels forsaken.



, , , , , ,

Sucking on the onyx, the molasses,

in you, while our mothers in the kitchen


chortle and your country-hedge of brat fuzz

tickles my nose. Wets my chin. If we’re kin


we’re a queer kin. There’s hissing in your hair.

We’re snakes and snake charmers. There is nothing


here to vex the tongue. Clit and cock, prayer

fat with blood. An itch. Your fingers moving,


pulling me in. Perhaps they’ll notice grass

stains, flushed cheeks, itches itched. You’re serpentine


just now, spine arched, hips buckled, monstrous

with need. Sublime in the morning sun. Crass


with cum, with becoming love’s lore. Your seam

split wide, your hedge soaked. Perhaps they’ll notice.

hoar frost


, , , , , , ,

I must be careful. I am too in touch

with the wild. The wild in me. There are fish


that dream under the black ice. I would clutch

them, suck on their spines, for I am ghoulish


when it comes to design. I was designed

for ill. Ill use. Ill skill. My misshapen


passions, after a fashion — thick as rind,

hard as crust — follow all that is heathen:


cast out. No Eden for me. Hoar frost — hot,

hairy, bad — runs wild in me. I would taint


you. Besmirch your faith the way that the ice

lulls the fish to sleep. To leave you distraught;


leave you wanting. I shall betray your faint

faith in love. Love is no virtue. It’s vice.

dime bones


, , , , , ,

These marks of longing. Skin less like cacao,

flesh washed to the root, succulent like crab.


Mother of sorrows, I collect them now.

The way others collect scars on skin, scabs.


The way others collect loss. This is how myth

is made. Not from scars but from what wont heal.


Not from a bag of dime bones and a fifth

but from this. Rankle. Putrefy. Rot squeal.


This and these. I collect. But I won’t show

you. Sleaze tease. I won’t show where I ooze,


levee-like, flood seeping around the seams.

Mine is all that the body spits out. Slow.


Steady. Hard. Myth of loss. Myth of the blues.

Fleshed ooze. Too dazed. To cut. To joy. Flesh screams.



, , , , , , ,

Strange change, indeed. Who am I to question?

I’ve come late to the gate; dank with withered


grass and shade. Debauchery is foreign

here and deprave one more forgotten word.


A touch of burlesque. Silent movies thrill.

Theda Bara’s voracious eyes promised


teeth in your flesh, nails down your back, the chill

of sharp ice countered with hot wax. Encrust


me. Trust me. Be my scab. I’ve yet to be

stared at the way she stared. Shadow and bow.


Gloom puts the rage into umbrage, anal

into bacchanal. I’ve followed many


wheel ruts through blown stone not once asking how,

searching for your sun’s night, your sparkle’s skull.