clara vere de vere

02 Wednesday Jun 2010

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I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:/ … In glowing health,
with boundless wealth,/ But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,/ You needs must
 play such pranks as these. — Alfred, Lord Tennyson
I want the heat of our first kiss — the joy
of my head on your breasts. Will you say no
as my cock hardens against your belly?
After all we have done have you forgot
how good it feels? making your honeypot
drip. Slide your panties down — all that keeps me
from where I’ve been and where I want to go.
Clara, you have raised such a wicked boy.
 
Clara Vere de Vere you’re not my mother
but I’d fuck you all the same. Hard and Deep.
Like this. Cum in your bum. Lover, lover,
lover.  Come. This world of ours will not sleep.
It grows dense with scents of sweat-fuck, bodies
on fire, roaring to us in the night breeze.

vagina dentata

02 Wednesday Jun 2010

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cultures have folk tales about women
with toothed vaginas, frequently told
as cautionary tales warning of the
dangers of sex with strange women


Teeth in your cunt? Take me, I’m yours, because

I want it nasty, girl. Always obscene

hunger is so hard to please. Please. Rougher

fuckin’ our cock and cunt will let us knock

boots: wet as dreams, long as a bullgod’s cock.

Is it wrong to say you’ll cum like thunder?

Cum like black heat? Let me unfold between

your legs, feel your sharp heat. Will your toothed jaws
 
let me explode deep inside you? — making
all tight things cum in a confused climax.
Life is short and sex is so amazing.
Make me bleed the way that acid flashbacks,
ice cubes, whips, candle wax all make me bleed
in you. I need you. I need you. I need —

slam back blackball

29 Saturday May 2010

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And mud swallows with throats that twist and wings
that beat and on their sung song the summer
follows and in the summer life is good.
Pilgrims from far isles see where out west
the larks mark holy spots and call them blessed.
I would never be a pilgrim. Priesthood
gives no salvation. I am a sinner
gratefully. Flesh is sacred. We’re sucklings,
 
fucklings, bullgods at stud, oak dappled all.
Swallows or spits, inhale antique weed. Dark
with eyes and gold with hair slam back blackball
whiskey. High it may be that the skylark
sings for us. There is not else save a shy
wee thing turning in the brightening why.

dionysus suckling

28 Friday May 2010

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Because she fed me on her flock’s goat milk.
Because I watched her squeeze each mud splattered
teat dry. Because the winds lifted her silk
from her shoulders. Because I leaned forward
and cupped her breasts in child-like hands. Because
I felt the dazzlement of her nipples,
sudden gemstones. Because she did not pause
at her work, just smiled. Because my muscles
tightened, stiffened, hardened. Because I did
not love her. Because I did. Because my
hands, all vulture, caught a flame, my skin peeled
back when she daubed milk on my lips, then slid
fingers over my mouth, tummy, cock, thigh,
and so I burst in her mouth as she kneeled.

dionysus caress

28 Friday May 2010

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On my thirteenth summer Astghik found me.
The cave had become foul. Scraps of blue bear
and dove, dropped, half chewed. She took me, dirty
half-cub, down into the sunlit fields where
I learned all the stories of her silent
mother’s people. There were The Beginnings:
the names of the Goddess and her descent
to the Underworld. There were The Meanings:
all Her trees. All the nameable creatures
and all that was not. I grew. During this
Astghik fed me on goat milk, her nightdress
hanging loose. Caress. Soon my new mother’s
foundling could not wait for each new smell, kiss,
touch. Soon all I wanted was her caress.

one hung bull

28 Friday May 2010

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“Myth says Dionysus was sown up in Zeus’ thigh
while Athena burst from his head.”

He lied. Today is your thirteenth birthday.
Today I’ll tell you who you are, Daughter
of the Thigh. Some say you were sea-born. They
claim they saw. But how could they? My nightmare
child, you are not mine. He was a liar.
He came in my sleep, in dream. He pulled you
out of me. Like so, sewed you up, an hour
of work, into his thigh. An old god, who
was one hung bull, this country girl’s lover.
He lied. It’s a lie to believe your birth.
Are you surprised to find out you’re a thigh
born-child? That I am neither your mother
or dead father? It all started with earth
and fire. He cut you out and made a lie.

come quicker

28 Friday May 2010

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Come. Come quicker. All in one exhale. All
in the space of a breathe. So much time with
nothing but hunger. I’m a willow, tall
and lean, but without roots. Without the myth
of roots. Come. Come quickly. I will wait, sprawl
on the bed, drunk with new hunger for you.
Drunk with risk and possibilities, all
that makes life worth the pain. I want some new
risks; give me danger. Come now. Come with speed.
Come with a shout, a whimper. Come with greed,
with want, come to me to feed your loathsome
passions, each rotten wish. Come bare, honeyed,
brilliant. Come in joy, in rage, in frenzied
need, in ecstasy. Come, love. Please, just come.

that’s sin

28 Friday May 2010

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“The sonnet is best used for deep contemplation
and profound pondering.” — Vivien Lesbertizin-Smith
“The Sonnet as Prayer to God”
“I saw a child/ with a hideous
mouth,/ begging” — Mary Oliver
Ponder on this, asshole — jumpsquiffling
and stop ganking others. No greencollar
respects Flakespeare. Save me from your freakin’
oldfolkals, Save me from one more self-pleased
poet all gwee from seein’ some diseased,
homeless, poor, raped, mad, deadie – no fuckin’
karmageddon fartburn sterile Boomer
pleased as punch opling others’ suffering
 
deserves to ever use that metaphor.
FUBAR others — others/ others — rob them
blind. You are lessless word donor, moremore
vart. Ill wind. Vomitous over your poem.
Robert Johnson loathed how Led Zeppelin
got rich off his songs. “That’s no blues, that’s sin.”

bang-up globs blue as acid

28 Friday May 2010

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Blow out, you cocks, over the ill unchaste.
All fire can quench. You get what you deserved.
Bottled, glints in raw indigo liquor.
Let it spurt now, slap silly with lurid
pulsing spray. Bang-up globs blue as acid.
Irksome forms blurring to booted vapor.
Everything coming apart. Verved. Verved. Verved.
I blur. Apart. I cum. As in lay waste.
 
As in bits. Nothing is soften’d by love
only those crappy Troubadours and their
shitty ideas on love. Gimme foxglove.
I love poison bottled. One box’d nightmare
orgasm. Proof of what we shouldn’t wish
for, fire quench’d, and all damp flesh must perish.

ju-ju smut

28 Friday May 2010

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Aphrodite cooking “Bamboo Spirit”
in pots, salacious in the pawpaw patch.
I the aye-aye in the lewd cage. Tattoo
Earth God’s drinking dada-cocaine, murmur
hot and heavy Bauhaus. And my vulgar
Mama’s lecherous. Metal-hard taboo.
And my Jojo’s voluptuous, shaved thatch
that is only hinting at ju-ju smut.
 
I the aye-aye, yeah. “I love the nightlife,
I got to boogie on the disco ’round.”
The gods say drop your gat-gun and flick-knife.
The gods make your body their own playground,
little shut box, morning glories fusion
open hard the drip drip of fast motion.