grape

01 Monday Jun 2020

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Hi Tech changes. Some sins get left behind.
Of the endless hours of VCR tape

there’s just one left, with the, “be kind/ rewind,”
sticker on top. You thought, “Tentacle Grape,”

a droll name for our sex act; while, somewhere,
Oscar Wilde rolled his eyes. Now everyone

has a cam, and what you called our, “nightmare
bliss,” pales compared to all the hard-core fun

posted on-line. No one can even view
this, our last carnal act, which your husband

might be glad about, if he knew. “He don’t
know,” you said. It turned out that wasn’t true.

These days I’ve yet to find you in dreamland.
True, I could send this to you, but I won’t.

owlet

31 Sunday May 2020

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Wrapped tight around my wrist? I stalled at first.
Fistful of rough love? As pillow talk, sure,

but I’d break you. Slow brain’d, heavy limbs, cursed
with crude taste. Bliss is something to endure.

Called you the nickname of my dead daughter
once. I shudder at what else I might say

while in heat, rutting. “Who’s the cum dumpster?”
you’d asked, unaware of my past. We play

games that require trust, but there’s one secret
I can’t divulge. How else do fairy tales

end but the Princess impaled on a fist?
One more broken daddy, Princess Owlet.

You ain’t her, star-child. I’ll endure with my nails
clipped, with you, lover, wrapped around my wrist.

balampalampam

30 Saturday May 2020

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Behind the closed garage doors engine oil
fumes, touch of ganja, dust on the wainscot,

on a workbench piled high with odd gargoyle
lumps, unfinished tasks your husband forgot

about years ago. We’ve come here to play;
the grease spot on the floor mirrors our own

messy thoughts. Hair in rollers, negligee
cast down, my cock buried in the well-known,

well-loved well of your balampalampam.
This is, “kunou-monou;” what the obeah

vow, old-school sodomy. At sixty-five
strokes you shout, at ninety-five you melt. “Damn,

boy-boy,” you groan. “Damn, cum in me.” If we
sin its through love. If we love we survive.

][][

Notes:
I use Barbados slang in this poem. Balampalampam means a very large ass. Kunou-monou is a bewitching spell. Obeah is witchcraft.

snip

29 Friday May 2020

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Even as a kid, “Exile,” was a strange
and far out term. To lose your home was just

careless, I thought. But it’s happened and change
is my undoing. I pray but no lust

or gods dwell in this snip of Michigan.
No long lonesome train calls at three a.m.

No wet dreams or devils to stamp cloven
hooves and call me, “mine.” As far as Bedlam

goes, “Beer City, USA,” sucks. Perhaps.
Exile? That word. I don’t think it means what

I think it means. Isn’t this nostalgia
for times of plenty before your collapse?

Only you, fool, cast yourself out. Uncool
but true. Chastity keeps me wry and cruel.

soweto blues

28 Thursday May 2020

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“Bibi,” was all the Swahili that your
grandchild knew. Here, in Babylon, married

to a banker, you liked it bent over:
slow and hard and deep. Our weekly trysts freed

you from a deranged world where, “Soweto
Blues,” was just a song. At fourteen I had

no words for it, but deep and hard and slow
made your hips shake, made you cry, made your sad

eyes flood. Bibi, you moaned but at fourteen
your pain and pleasure all sounded like grief.

Even now I hear, “Soweto,” and hear
you cry as you came, pressing me between

cum-curled pubes. If that was joy it was brief
in a deranged world euphoric for fear.

Notes:
Soweto Blues is a protest song, sung by Miriam Makeba, about the 1976 children’s Soweto Uprising and police brutality that left over 170 protesters dead.

harvest

27 Wednesday May 2020

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With laps and droll slurps your harvest glazes
my chin. Chaos is life blood, you claim. No.

Chaos is fitful spasms, moon phases
that leave you to burn. Blood-fire, my psycho

killer, qu’est-ce que c’est, requires controlled burns;
like jazz, like bop, like, “a loo bop a lop

bam boom.” Caramelized, your uterus turns.
I peer over belly and breasts. To stop

would be crass. Cupping your ass in my hands.
Bringing you to my mouth. This is life blood,

indeed. I feed on bam boom. Your harvest,
best friend, expands you. My hunger demands

rough love. Who else has done this for you? Flood
and flame. Chaos and cum. First lick. Last thrust.

dillin’ doe

25 Monday May 2020

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Voices cry out. Still hard, I clamber out
of bed to peer through the window. A thing

crouched out there, barely human, is about
to die. There are gods of pain whose blessing

only come through guttural moans. Awkward,
blind in the thrall of climax, submission

is the nightly struggle that the coward
cries out about. In the dark I listen.

Wrists pinned, back arched, behind me you struggle
against what binds you to this bed. You’ve cried

out, dead thing, too. Union denied each time
you can’t cum with hot wax and a frightful

dillin’ doe in you. Outside something died.
In here fear divides us from the sublime.

][][

Note:
A “dillin’ doe” is an old-fashion term for dildo.

slow hand

22 Friday May 2020

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Make it tender, you suggest. I stop. Think.
Shrug. A tender love poem? It could be

done, I suppose. But why? Love without kink
is love in name only. It’s like the sea

without waves; the only way you might drown
is through boredom. You must be difficult

in bed, you sigh. Perhaps, I say, then frown.
But who will ever know? Like the occult,

few have experienced my mysteries.
I leave vague tenderness to those begging

to get laid. I know a slow hand can please
when it’s a fist. Love lies in defiling

and sin; what you call ruin and hardcore.
Love lies in all that you fear to ask for.

after birth

21 Thursday May 2020

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Magic in the afterbirth, which I ate
the day that you were born. I was shadow

that the midwife brought in. It wasn’t fate,
you see, that brought you to me. We both know

that you’ve been in me all this time. This makes
me your grotesque parent. Born blind, second

sight is a gift, like that itch that still aches.
All this time you thought that you were destined

to be forgotten. Who would want a freak
like you? Desperate, sullen, you’ve search your earth

and dreams for something else. I’m still the shriek
that wakes you wet, like the day of your birth.

Only, though, if you want this. No is fine.
Without consent no god would call you mine.

sub play

20 Wednesday May 2020

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You said you don’t like kink, but when you do
you like bondage, group play, the stench of fear.

You’ve read about sex clubs and Masters who
love pain. I’d try that, you blush. With you, dear.

I’ve got off on fear, too, but my nasty
are in war films with submarines; that scene

where the crew despairs while the enemy
drops depth charges on them. All those obscene

faces in the dark, aghast, sublime stink
of dread. That’s an endorphin rush that no

sex club can match. Sub play, indeed. That’s not
kink, you say. That’s just hellish. Which is kink.

I think all perversions that lets us know
life is blessed are both dangerous and hot.

Notes:
For those unfamiliar with the term, a depth charge is a bomb designed to be dropped from a ship or aircraft to explode under water at a preset depth, used for attacking submarines.