shorthair

01 Wednesday Aug 2018

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This is a prayer. Our kiss hang in the air —

like clocks, it stops. Tickless. I have no more

 

ticks left to give. “By the curly shorthair,”

the kids say, “odds bodkins.” I still deplore

 

just how helpless I’ve become. It was not

love since I stood up and lovers lay down.

 

It was not sundown since I get distraught

at dusk and this was bright. Blood had caked brown

 

around my nostrils. Bruises filled the crook

of my arm. That cough. Easy as despair.

 

Easy as soap. “There are stains that baffle

soap.” That’s some crap soap, bub. Be suds that shook

 

the stain in the cat’s pajamas — this prayer:

it starts as a kiss, it ends as a yowl.

cupid’s malcontents

31 Tuesday Jul 2018

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My trash-talk needs work. I want more than gloom’s

muzak, more than these chrome mall mannequins,

 

half-clothed, standing guard near the changing rooms.

Stripped, I abhor what I see. It frightens

 

me how I’ve changed. Once I reveled in loss,

desperate for your tongue. Transfixed with romance

 

halfway down my throat. I loved all chaos;

all of Cupid’s malcontents in hot pants.

 

I was all that I’d take a bullet for

because there will always be some foul dude

 

afraid of the fab, of soft boys, who’d bust

a cap in anything rad and cocksure.

 

Picture this: a queen standing hard and nude

in a changing room — hard and still in lust.

telegraph boy

30 Monday Jul 2018

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I want to smell the memory of you

passing on the street. Bells of Idlewild,

 

orange groves, nine paper roses, bayou

salt flats, the way you sang, You Wicked Child.

 

Wicked musk. First the cleft where your backbone

merged with your ass and then the sweat. The whine

 

as my hips grind. “Telegraph boy,” you groaned

out the words. “C’est bon!” Yes, it was good. Spine

 

bent, eyes wide, thighs akimbo. I walk bent

in boots but your scent is not here. Red dirt,

 

Haitian balm, incense. None of them were yours.

Or ours. A hint of desert mint, cement,

 

quisling’s room. It was the last scent that hurt.

Hospice’s razors, flu, IVs, bedsores.

slash season

27 Friday Jul 2018

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I want a darling not afraid of knives,

in love with the oil and the stone. Who knows

 

how to hone against bone. My flesh thrives

with pain, with slash seasons, with primrose

 

-hued welts. What do I need with a summer,

bastard dogwood galore? or an autumn

 

with lake storms pitching across the sour

waves? What we have is a fist, the wisdom

 

a fist brings holding a knife. I am yours

for the cleaving, for the euphoric heat

 

carved in. My skin is ornament enough,

and my will shall be done. Darling, let gore’s

 

soul guide you through all this gristle and meat

to my trifle of flesh, slash season’s stuff.

ahoo

26 Thursday Jul 2018

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Death leads me to these acts done in flagrance.

“After great pain” – Shlick – “a formal feeling” –

 

Shlick – “Cums.” Twitch. Petite death. There’s no science

to what stirs first. Vortex wakes, quakes. “Shlicking,”

 

you said. “Soft, sleek and fine,” you said. “Watch this:

my lit clit.” – Such bliss can only be sensed

 

along the edges: blood cycle, dawn piss,

star dust, love alone. That moment: hips tensed,

 

spine arched, knees flung all ahoo. I am full

of blessed sin, sacred sparks, every taboo

 

role that I know. In that blind moment cracked

-lips-crush-down-tongues-fail-to-pull-

 

away … But no. Of course. I (like you)

are alone in these solitary acts.

milked

23 Monday Jul 2018

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To milk. To think of Lilith, her nine laws,

as I ream your ring. Moon-cycle, moon-horns,

 

moon-kin. She loves pilgrims, slattern outlaws,

butt sluts. With lubed tongue, with cum that adorns

 

Heaven. Haven. Your ass spread wide like so.

“Pervy,” you lament. “You’ve made me a perv

 

with my bum.” The other secret grotto.

We name it, then we pray to it. Fat curve

 

of cock swallowed up, shaft consumed. Clenched tight,

you’ve milked with your bowels. A prayer for Her —

 

Mother of Outcasts, Lady of the Dune,

Vagabond’s Love — blessed be and Her queer light

 

in this excess, in your ass, the other

grotto — Eden: laid waste by a typhoon.

domain

21 Saturday Jul 2018

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Listen for the glisten of mud. By swan’s

soot. By romp’s root. After a sound spanking

 

against a burned-out bole in the Fox-Fauns

delta I take the rope’s slack end, binding

 

your wrists, lead you further into the muck.

Wearing only waders in these tidelands

 

is not much fun. Of course biting bugs suck.

So too do the church folk across the sands.

 

But we’re safe in the Goddess’ domain.

At each slap an intake of breath. Wet heat

 

rises between your legs. There is no shame

when so close to the sea. To be constrained.

 

To be punished. You love it — and you bleat

joy with each sting. By cum’s blot. By Her name.