each finger drowned

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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You look good on the subway, uncrossing
your legs just like that. You look good, your face
mirrored in the window darkly; hitching
up your skirt just above your knees. The space
between your legs glowing darkly. You look
good now, winking, one finger tip to trace
your lips, one finger tip to find and hook
the O of your pain. There is no disgrace
in pain, not this type; just sweat-fuck-feral
need. You look good making me your voyeur;
your eyes closed, mouth open, each finger drowned
in your wetness. All the noise and people
around us blur, the wheels keeping time; your
legs wide open, your fingers underground.

deep in one plump bunny

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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That pain we call desire. All the things
we want but never ask for. Why is it
hard to say adore me? are we cagelings?
baby tit birds unfit for love? unfit
to fly? We’ve flown before, back before we
were too bored to be adored. All that rush
of speed, that gush, blushing, gushing sweaty
because it feels so good. I miss that gush.
And pain. Because it is a pain. To find
just one person who won’t hurt us. Who won’t
act just for themselves. My soul, I don’t mind
where you take me and I’ll never say “don’t.”
Come with me. Let’s rush. Let’s open up doors.
Let’s go. Let us be the ones Love adores.

lava and sea salt

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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When the volcano turns shale and basalt
liquid, when the coast melts and heat and steam
rise up in the air, when lava and salt
water mix, then nature loves blaspheme.
These earth tremors and quakes, these little deaths,
the whole world shifting on its foundations.
I have heard in each of your sleeping breaths
how the oceans will pause, how the millions
of small sea moans will hush, how this lipless
world knows we’ll go explore this ravaged shore
of a kiss. If the sea loves our crudeness,
if this is our blaspheme, I want more.
I want your flow and tides, steam and beaches,
lava and sea salt, your cum and kisses.

my daughter the pornographer [version 1]

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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It was when she started bringing her work
home that I began worrying. Walking
into the kitchen to find some girl jerk
a boy off as my daughter, capturing
it all on film, shouts instructions. Finding
the sink full of sex toys just washed. A new
tube of anal lube in her purse. “Watching
others fuck,” she told me, “is what I do
best.” I can’t help but think there are voyeurs
in all of us. Even the printed word
was once another’s. “You would be surprised
what we all will do in front of others,
given the chance,” she said. “It is absurd
to say we don’t love what others despise.”

full throated

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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“What magic will you find to stir/ The limp and languid listener?”
— from On the Future of Poetry by Henry Austin Dobson

 
You squat all full-throated, with your closed eyes,
you whose got no gag reflex, you who knows
how to gag it all down, one who swallows
it all down. My cum stain glows. A surprise
across your face, down your chin. A cock sucker
is born, not made. It’s in your genes, your veins.
Your fat chapped lips are dabbled with the stains
of long practice. Who sang: “put it in your
mouth/ I said your muthafuckin’ mouth”? Limp
listener, my ass! Dig this face-fucking
sonnet in a world of wanna-be pimp
white boy free verse. We love a lil’ sucking
going on. Future of poetry? Right here, shit.
Tell me: do you swallow or do you spit?

sticky palms dry

25 Sunday Apr 2010

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lines quoted from Song of
Myself, XI by Walt Whitman

Laughter. Bluestones lost in heathered walls.
Twenty-eight men without womanly life.
All so lonesome. They did not see her, but
she saw them and loved them. Ghosts in bathhouse.
Ghosts in steam. They do not think whom they souse
with their spray. Goo-goo eye. Weird bone corset.
She loves boys. Stitchin’ her own thread. A knife
like cock — something to sew, mend — fat with balls.
 
Braids ‘n knots she brings. For boy bodies. Ghosts
sweeping mist. All their black and milky stripes.
She flirts bloody. Hothouse gore. Which one boasts
he’s the biggest? longest? the one who wipes
sticky palms dry. She’ll take all the young men
again and again and — O yes — again.

still-life with joan and night oaks

25 Sunday Apr 2010

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Pity fuck. Charity stare. Joan d’Arc
shrugged in her fazy way. Freckled face burn,
all pog but with searing eyes. Twixies’ dark
rain on a sharp waist bladed by iron
hip bones floating up over buoyant jokes.
Her eyes flitted open tongues twined, coin-groins
rubbed to a teen beat while beyond night oaks
and a waxing moon kite, rose silver coins,
sunken eyes, metal-black slashed honeybees.
“Joan will hug and kiss and spin you.” “Joan will
finger and fuck and cum on you.”  Yes, she’s
one more strap-on savior that’s hard to kill.
“Of course I want it rough. Give me hardcore
fucking. Come,” said the ghost, “play with my gore.”