a horror show on her head

03 Sunday Feb 2013

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“I go public bath some nights,
it is near my house …”
— Shonen Knife,
“(I like) public bath”

It has to be the hair. In films the good
girl’s hair is combed and straight while the bad ghost
has a horror show on her head, wormwood
and nails. The bathroom is steam-fogged, almost
as milk-white as you are, darling. Strip out
of those nasty rags you died in. Sit down
over here. I want to see that cute pout
you get as I rinse out your hair. That frown
when soap suds get into your eyes. Children
are all the same. You all hate getting clean
but once clean you feel divinely content.
Thank the gods for finishing gel, muslin
nightgowns and fluffy towels. Your hair’s sheen,
little ghost of my heart, is radiant.

upon a hint of ginger

02 Saturday Feb 2013

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A scent comes back to me. The last safe love
I knew smelled of pinon nuts, a winter
in New Mexico. Brine from an olive
still scares me. A bastard of a lover
ruined cloves and made the hint of Old Spice
into fear. A boy I loved in fishnet
stockings knew how to make plums smell like vice.
I have forgotten names. I don’t forget
the musk you once used to mask your true scent.
There’s no hiding from that. But memories
of scents are either sad joys or hell-bent
dread and nothing else … nothing that can please.
How odd that the one who loved me the most
turned this mild whiff into a vengeful ghost.

aftershocks

02 Saturday Feb 2013

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Beneath the surface nothing waits. Measure
these things in “magnitude.” Rubbing, grinding
something, like Tectonic plates, shift; tremor
in your left thigh spreads outward, consuming
you all. You love this sort of destruction.
There can be no life without some small death.
Later, gasping, entwined in the ruin
of the bedsheets, you try to catch your breath
on wet ground. All these puddles that have gushed
under pressure show that nothing will wait.
All it takes is a fingertip, one brushed
nipple, for aftershocks. Magnitude eight.
Sure, this is sadistic. But you trust me,
so I’ll see that you survive, just barely.

kai and the snow queen

02 Saturday Feb 2013

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That day Kai got into a curious
white sleigh, driven by a woman in furs.
“Man-child, make me warm,” she said. Her hairless
body was blue ice. “Come taste your mother’s
milk” and smothered Kai between her pale thighs.
She let him taste her only twice: the first
to numb him from the cold; then to baptize
the boy’s face in an aurora-like burst
of mist. “Come. I will have you mine, I want
the heat of your cock now.” Is it wicked
to seek out what we lack? A ghost will haunt
for love. The Snow Queen for Kai’s burning blood.
Would she melt when he geysered inside her?
The thought made her smile, urge the sleigh faster.

vain and macabre

31 Thursday Jan 2013

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You asked, dear boy, now that I’m in the grave
if I had ever tried to shave the hair
off my cunny? Once or twice. But to shave
a ghost’s pubes, it cannot be done. I swear,
we can try, it’ll be fun, but there is no
razor made by man that can get the job
done. How other ghosts bear it, I don’t know.
Death makes us all rather vain and macabre.
I died in my nightgown, which will become
transparent when wet. Pity the girl cursed
to wear only panties until kingdom
come, with pubes peeking. I’d die of shame first.
Do you care? Let me sit on your face, nose
in my curls. Now make me gasp out all my oohs.

drops of gray

30 Wednesday Jan 2013

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Is that where the fear lies? When the dead girl
turns all the way around and we behold …

one more sad, misshaped face — one more swirl
of dark, untidy hair — blue skin stone cold —
X of a broken neck — empty drowned eyes.

You know that party trick; it’s all you hear
about. I wouldn’t call it total “lies,”
but there has to be more. A ghost unclear
on the concept just gets laughed at. Darling,

come live with me. We’ll figure something out.
There’s more to death than clammy skin, creaking
floors and causing the irksome to freak-out.

Smile, my honey dear, while, I kiss away
your tears … drops of blood, of dust, drops of gray.

that’s what keeps me up at night

30 Wednesday Jan 2013

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Ask me what is scary. You who adore
shrieks at midnight, chainsaws and blood. A wave
of red dye number nine. As much fake gore
as your ticket stubs allow. See this grave,
ladies and gentlemen? Do not once doubt
that the dead will sleep. That gypsies don’t curse.
That Jack’s giant has stopped stomping about,
shouting, “fe – fi – fo – fum!” There is perverse
joy in being afraid, I’m told, of things
that can’t hurt you. As if to say, “scare me
again with the ridiculous doings
of cheap nightmares.” Because that’s not scary.
Work at a safe house; hear about terrors
that look like men, what we call real monsters.

boyish sea hag

30 Wednesday Jan 2013

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I read these waters. The hoarse Hebrides;
the sun-blind surges of El Salvador;
Bermuda’s coral reefs; Dublin’s rock skerries.
I’m the middle between the void and shore.
Far out from in the waves comes the reply.
Mist of sundown rises, stretches away
across the horizon and distant sky.
Reading waves is like talking to Yahweh,
grumpy old man. I draw in the sea, shreds
of speech that wash away. I take sea-weed
off rocks, blood kelp, make them my natty dreads.
A spar is my staff. I am a half-breed;
boyish sea hag; living a life devoid
of words, either on shore or in the void.