mahdokht: daughter of the moon

14 Monday Jan 2013

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Naked or veiled, you’re not some impotent
man’s wet dream; black kohl of a houri tossed
to a paradise only a merchant
of girl flesh would pander to. When you lost
your milk teeth, you threw them up to the sun,
singing, “take my donkey teeth and bring me
gazelle teeth.” I love how our old heathen
language survived. Now we speak with fairy
tongues. My daughter, you might be a jinneh,
but you’re no reward, no handmaid. Naked
or veiled, I shall love you. I shall love you
chaste and vestal or ribald and risque.
We speak of an agreement, a scared
pact, not spoken in Persian or Hebrew.

][][

Notes:

Houri: in Persian lore, one of the immortal virgins of the Koranic paradise; used to describe a beautiful, but submissive, woman.

Jinneh: a female jinn.

phantasmic comforts: asleep in the city of souls

14 Monday Jan 2013

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Las Vegas literature has been and continues to be a literature of exiles, written mainly by outsiders who arrived from elsewhere, stayed briefly, lingering along the city’s glittering Strip and never once invest the place with any depth, any soul, any idea of what was going on around them.

Las Vegas literature has been and continues to be a literature of exiles, written mainly by outsiders who arrive from elsewhere, stay briefly, linger along the city’s glittering Strip but never once invest the place with any depth, any soul, any idea of what is going on around them.

I had never witnessed so many ghosts
until I lived in Vegas. The desert’s
potter’s field; for, what other city boasts
such a thin veil? What phantasmic comforts
could such a necropolis offer up
to the living? The Valley of Fire called
and the temple of Sekhmet called. Worship
comes in all forms. Can you hear this? Ribald
pleasures are nothing compared to carnal
worship. The ghosts came in throngs. They hungered
to be witnessed. “Hear me, friend, the frightful
veil is not all so frightful,” they murmured.
There is no Emerald City; Vegas
is a way station, nothing more or less.

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yoko kanno’s “want it all back”

14 Monday Jan 2013

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you said you wanted to see paris
so i took you to the movies
‘bon amie’ or something french like that
and then you said you were embarrassed
because i never bought you jewelry
television shopping fixed all that

funny thing
’cause i haven’t seen you lately
when i called your house
it wasn’t you who told me

i heard it all
from your dad
i used up all my money on you baby
and i want it back

i want it back
i used up all my money tryin’ to please ya
now i want it back

do you remember late last winter?
you said that you had nothin’ to wear
those fake fur pajamas looked real nice

i couldn’t take you to miami
but i took you to the ocean and we
had some blue hawaii on the beach

let me think
if i add up all you owe me
and include my time
i might make it through the summer

and i guess that
ain’t too bad
i used up all my money on you, baby
and I want it back

i want it back …
said i want it all back
gimmie my money all back
want my money all back

Want It All Back from the album Cowboy Bebop: Vitaminless
The Seatbelts and Yoko Kanno, cheers, sister.

a dark science

13 Sunday Jan 2013

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There are two scars on the dead woman’s breasts
but when I run my finger over them
she mews, shivers and turns away. Our chests
soon touch and she pushes her need and phlegm,
a stub of a blue tongue, into my mouth.
Love should come with no strings or not at all.
When I move between her thighs, “go down south,
Moses,” I can taste on her clit the gall
of the methanol used in embalming.
There is a science to all this, I know.
A dark science. I treasure that second
when she climaxed, laughing and crying,
when the dead discovered lust once more
and our understanding of love deepened.

leanbh, love

13 Sunday Jan 2013

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“Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
with a faery, hand in hand,
for the world’s more full of weeping
than you can understand.”
–William Butler Yeats (1889)

Why? More than love, more than sex, I want you
as a changeling; leaving behind twine
and kelp — flotsam and jetsam — that I grew
from tide foam. Tonight your parent’s bloodline
ends. Yes. Tonight your heart shall no longer
be this lonely. Leave the hearth fire unlit.
Leave your father who ordered you never
to see me again. You’ve tasted my clit
in the moonlight. You have made this airy
creature cum and cum. Leanbh, love, tonight
all the world sleeps. Let’s leave this misery
for a world of little deaths and moonlight.
This lust, leanbh, is the gods’ true essence.
Leanbh, lust is our true inheritance.

NOTE: “leanbh” is the old Irish word for “babe” or “child,” a term of endearment.

something primal and forbidden

13 Sunday Jan 2013

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One more illicit kiss, Yeva. Ghouleh
Yeva. Curving her lips when I ask her
if she loves me. “Someday,” she says, “someday.”
I love forbidden love. One girl’s monster
might be this cock boy’s passionate love-sighs.
Lust is cunning-simple, but we distrust
all that bring it. Somehow those who despise
lust are considered righteous. It is lust
that my Yeva feeds to me, what I eat.
Ghouleh’s (girl ghouls) tastes run to odd corpses
but once in a while Yeva wants fresh meat.
Once in a while I fill her. It pleases
her that I want her so bad I’d risk heartache,
rabies, longing, exile, all for her sake.

i’ll feed you all

12 Saturday Jan 2013

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“She’s a gumbo cooker and an alligator whipper
make a dead man jump and shout.”
Elkie Brooks, “Mojo Hannah”

 

I mixed the powdered leaves of thyme that grow
on the slopes of Levant, roasted wormwood,
greens and Dead Sea salt into a gumbo
to please you. You were hungry, understood
I was the source of your food. I called on
the dead and their honey-melon cravings.
I’ll feed you all. Eon after eon
you did not forget such pleasant drippings
between your lips. We all have rot, wearied,
endless needs. I pity you poor zombies
and all that you must endure just to feed
down on Canal Street among quiet trees.
Taste this, love, a kitchen witch, ringed, tattooed,
taught me this gumbo; the dead’s favorite food.

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bull moose jackson’s “i want a bowlegged woman”

12 Saturday Jan 2013

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i want a bowlegged woman, that’s all.
i want a bowlegged woman that’s tall.
i’ll fall in love with her right from the start
because her big fat legs are so far apart.

i want a bowlegged woman, right now.
i got to find me that gal somehow.
she’s gotta be built like an ol’ bass fiddle,
big bow legs with plenty room in the middle.
gotta be on my way
to find a bowlegged woman today.

he wants a bowlegged woman, divine,
a bowlegged woman that’s fine.
she don’t have to be no glamor gal,
but she’s got to have hooves like an ol’ beer barrel.
got to be on my way to find a bowlegged woman today.

he wants a bowlegged woman, divine,
a bowlegged woman that’s fine.
she don’t have to be no glamor gal,
but she’s got to have hooves like an ol’ beer barrel.
got to be on my way to find a bowlegged woman today.

i found a bowlegged woman last night,
and man she was really alright.
she had a solid straddle, when she came into battle,
i jumped dead in the saddle, you couldn’t hear a rattle
and there was nobody there to run and tattle.

gotta be on my way to find a bowlegged woman today.
— that woman with big bowlegs.

flush blush flame

12 Saturday Jan 2013

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You’ve heard this before. Now and then. The soul
springs up alive. Polarized eyes then blink.
Useless limbs quiver. The heart, all charcoal
and ash, resumes. Flies move off and the stink
of your green rot fades and you flush and blush
and flame. Something below your slumbering
belly stirs. Poor Lazarus was all mush-
pulp when he rose. But we are no offspring
of sky gods. Our mothers taught us better.
Insatiable. Orgasms are doorways
to all that’s divine. What sort of sinner
would turn a blind eye on this holy praise?
Lets go together, passing through that door
once more, to see all our mothers once more.