bygone

15 Monday Mar 2021

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Not Pan, the Goat herder, the Goat fucker,

lover of Goat porn. Nothing sleeps within

 

the trees here. Those gods died with their timber

hacked from bygone groves. Still, a thing moves in

 

the dark these days. Even you, as faithless

as you are, feel it. Your limb’s lust each time

 

voluptuous Plump Rump Callipyge Venus

calls. The other old school booty. Sublime

 

curves in this cleared land. Venus spreads her cheeks

while I tease with cock and thumb. Rude, sacred

 

prayers are still out there; just not Pan, the Goat

fucker. Who’ll teach you new techniques

 

if you’ve lost your faith? Fill my head, she said,

with prayer. I’ll gag on your cock in my throat.

][][

Notes:

The Romantic poets (Shelley, Byron, etc.) spend a lot of time moaning that ancient Greece’s eden, Arcadia, is lost to us in this modern era of cynicism and technology. According to the Greek historian Plutarch, Pan (protector of shepherds, seducer of nymphs and inventor of the syrinx panpipes) is the only Greek god who actually dies (and with him, Arcadia). According to myth, a sailor on his way to Italy heard a divine voice hail him across the waves: “When you reach the harbor at Palodes, tell the world that the great god Pan is dead.” Why some myths become popular while others don’t (especially considering Lord “I’ll Fuck Anything That Moves” Byron) I have always been fond of the stories about the Callipygian Venus, who the Romans called: “Venus with the Beautiful Ass.” Hers is an Arcadia that will never be lost.

chars

07 Sunday Mar 2021

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Next time you’ll count the scars. There will be more.

Grizzled, you’ll think. Frost burn. It takes time

 

for me to undress. Stitches hold my gore

in place for now. This pain isn’t sublime,

 

the sort that shamans use. It’s not De Sade’s

doomsday, either. First time I saw someone

 

tear at their clothes as they transformed gnawed

at me for weeks. I will be fifty-one

 

in less than a week. If I come back all

grizzle gray and limping will you confuse

 

me for the Moon? I can read all the scars

on her face. Can you read mine? This queer scrawl

 

that spells my fate each time these stitches ooze

fevered flames. Heat that grizzles. Heat that chars.

tell-tale

22 Monday Feb 2021

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Mischief-mad, hidden among the cushions,

you guide three fingers under your burqa,

 

biting back a tell-tale groan. Your oven’s

wet heat, stoked each night from ash to lava

 

while your husband snores near by, still tortures

you the way faith haunts your thoughts all day long.

 

When the first wet spot bleeds through your knickers;

when myrrh drips from, like honey in the Song

 

of Songs, your fingers –– then even mischief

isn’t enough. Mother-in-laws yammer

 

and whine, but you smolder: wet oven heat,

holy cum shrine. Your longing is as tough

 

as your soul’s flesh. Faith is only torture

in a world that wants you chaste and discreet.

bakkheia

28 Thursday Jan 2021

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Some just loathe Ecstasy; like the Roman

who turned our Gorgeous Boy of Lust and Rage

 

into some frail sot. To fear masculine

beauty is to fear the divine. That age

 

that tried to switch Dion-(bow chicka bow

wow)-ysus with besotted ol’ Bacchus

 

ended bad. This isn’t heresy. My vow

is still to He Who Swaggers With Quenchless

 

Thirst. The one god not appeased by widespread

worship, sacrifice or floor pie. Altars

 

do not sooth him, nor prophets who soothsay.

Only madness in dance, in art, in bed.

 

No priests or holy laws. Only lovers;

we few who obey when we disobey.

lolls

27 Wednesday Jan 2021

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Slick from a randy varmint, your nipples

swell in your strappy tee as I watch you

 

take the pills that we found on the motel’s

bathroom floor. You taste just like witch’s brew,

 

rancor, a chloroform soaked handkerchief.

Ill pills freeze time then turn our lust heinous.

 

You are the color of storm and I grief.

On your back, your head lolls off the mattress

 

as I grind in. Your throat bulges, jaws twinge

as my balls smother your nose. You gag-retch,

 

spitting cum, bile and ache down your forehead.

Fuck fiend, you called me, words that made you cringe,

 

once … like love, or every time that I stretch

you wide; an act that you both long for and dread.

xenolibido

22 Friday Jan 2021

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Panspermia: Life hidden in drifting

space dust; scatterings of queer DNA

 

awash in the high heavens. Begetting

the ones zealots fear on Earth. Castaway,

 

satyr, witchling; this would explain but not

excuse my lecherous bursts. The drama

 

of throat fucking in public. Your distraught

“¡Oi!” as you wear my cum like mascara.

 

There is no ill will in our tribe. We hunt

all who love their carnal but odd essence.

 

Xenolibido. “Whores of Babylon,”

the saved sneer. No, try Betelgeuse. Try cunt.

 

Try cock. Try us all. But they won’t. Not once;

their junk genes come from dullest of god-spawn.

][][

Notes:

Besides being a great name for a drag queen, panspermia is a theory that life on Earth originated from alien DNA drifting on galactic winds, searching for a suitable environment to call home. The plot of the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers explains that the pod people came to Earth in the form of gelatinous creatures able to survive in the vacuum of outer space. I tend to fall on the side of astrobiology and ask for some actual proof before announcing that something is possible, but I do like playing with the idea in poetry. People who are very very keen on the idea of extraterrestrials tend to point to Fermi’s Paradox (which more or less states, “Empirical evidence is for Sucka MCs/ P-Funk’s Mothership Connection puts/ the xy chromosome in sexy”) and speculative fiction as to why they got a D- in high school science but an B+ in creative writing (naming no names, of course).

barco (iii)

20 Wednesday Jan 2021

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Dama de aguas oscuras, last night

I dreamed of phosphor under a starlit

 

dome. Far above such unending ghost-light

the gales harangued (as gales do). Your half-wit

 

brat sat in low, loathy dark; wheezing down

the last air in his rust iron coffin.

 

Lady of dark waters, they say to drown

is abysmal, but if I can return

 

to you through your blessed sea or ill ocean,

then I’ll slip my box’d boat through opal waves

 

to rest my grave under high tide and slow

sea-swill. Lay me, if it’s your will, all shrunken,

 

alone, calling this dream fate. Glow of graves,

Santa Muerte, lost in the tidal flow.

][][

Notes:

The Bony Lady, Santa Muerte, has many names; “Dama de las aguas oscuras,” Lady of the dark waters, is one of them. The idea of this poem actually came to me several years ago when I was reading about the early attempts of the Imperial Japanese navy to build their own submarine. In 1910 one of their first prototypes sank during a training dive in Hiroshima Bay. Although the water was only 18 metres deep it proved impossible for the crew to escape while submerged. The commanding officer, Lieutenant Tsutomu Sakuma, patiently wrote descriptions of his sailor’s efforts to bring the boat back to the surface as their oxygen supply ran out. All of the sailors were later found dead at their stations when the submarine was finally raised the following day.

barco (ii)

20 Wednesday Jan 2021

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Santa Muerte, I cannot pluck banjo

strings like Sal, nor compose on a guitar

 

like my brother. I do have magic, though,

of a different sort. I scrawl in the air

 

and the words jell and congeal. Even now,

Dama del Mar, with husky, haughty lips,

 

I reel across the deck each time we plough

through ten foot swells; each time salt water drips

 

in my eyes while sliding down swales to surge

up each peak. Below, in the engine room,

 

womb warm and sacred, one of your altars,

heart and cunt of this boat, keeps beat: gale’s dirge,

 

squall’s lament. Make this submarine my tomb

and I will gladly play shaman to sailors.

barco

18 Monday Jan 2021

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Santa Muerte, escúchame. Pretty

Lady, hear me. It’s not alms that I crave

 

but a submarine for my poetry.

Submarino del poeta. With wave

 

and tide, with cat and book, I’ll learn liquid

-rolling verbs, new words for endless motion.

 

Is a boat too much? I’m not craving blood.

Mother mine, mi madre, if your children

 

in FARC have one, might I too? They call theirs,

“Narco barco.” But mine will be your shrine

 

in the brine; a place to write, sail and pray

under a seafaring sky. Hear my prayers,

 

Pretty Lady. Mamá Roja Divine.

Grant me: Templo de la Santa Muerte.

][][

Notes:

We call her Our Lady of the Holy Death (Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte). She is a folk saint, unrecognized by the Catholic church but worshiped by both members of law enforcement and Narco cartels. Outcasts and outlaws are drawn to her for it is said that she answers prayers immediately and protects against violent death. I use several Spanish words and phrases in the poem. “Escúchame,” translates into, “listen to me.” “Narco barco.” is slang for any sort of boat used in drug smuggling. According to the BBC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) once utilized homemade submarines for that purpose, each costing around £1.3 million to build and could hold a crew of five.

mischief

17 Sunday Jan 2021

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As I press down with my cock pressed into

the small of your back flames catch, your veils burn,

 

goosebumps shiver across your ass. You, who

Yeats called Hag, Cailleach Bhéirre, the Sidhe’s Slattern,

 

never despaired as he claimed you did. Crones

get laid like the rest of us. As I cup

 

your ass, tongue in your erogenous zones.

As you arch your back, your cunt’s tooth’d scallop

 

lips spread wide. As you rise the way souls grown

tongue-wise rise and turn and kiss me with that

 

haunted hunger I’ve never felt elsewhere

but as you cum. Taut g-spot. A Crone’s own.

 

We’re Yates’ Scary Fairy and Saucy Brat.

Rise like mischief, like Sidhe, Host of the Air.

][][

Notes:

The Host of the Air and Sidhe (pronounced, Shee) are two of the names given to the Gaelic fairy-folk in stories and legends. The Irish poet, W. B. Yeats, pronounced Cailleach Bhéirre as, “Clooth-na-Bare,” the name of an old school fae who wanted to die because she had grown old and no one would love her. Slattern is a Victorian word meaning prostitute or a sexually promiscuous woman.