Quote

quote unquote

19 Saturday May 2018

Posted by in quote unquote

≈ Comments Off on quote unquote

Tags

, ,

This is what You shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and Labour to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning god, have patience and indulgence toward people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and with mothers of families , read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told in school, or church, or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency…

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (via allxfoo)

awry

29 Sunday Apr 2018

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on awry

Tags

, , , , , ,

Would we conjoin? The well-cut and wicked
know how to fuck. But you and I? We’re crass

and ill-shaped — Flesh not meant to run naked
under plump green vines, wind’s wild pampas-grass;

asses not meant to be tapped. We were born
under the signs of phlegm and oddities;

less chic and more shriek. In all of their porn
nothing looks like us. That’s good. Others please,

we tire, swamp-corpse and bloat. Our carnal sin:
sloth. Our lewd god: nuzzling gone awry.

When you tell me, “your body will haunt mine,”
that’s a threat. We’re not grape’s whine: its juice, skin,

madness. We’re what’s left: hot dust, empty sky
twitchy things, the grotesque in the grapevine.

itchy ghost

21 Saturday Apr 2018

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on itchy ghost

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Praise to the needle and praise to the thread;
how they suture a pucker together.

Picture a moonface, my face, my forehead
slit in two. Beastly flap flopping, glimmer

of bone mixed with blood. A doctor at work:
that jab thrust pull, jab thrust pull on my lip

diced, seams leaving me with a grotesque smirk,
jackal grin. My chin sliced. My finger tip.

My odd hip. Itchy ghost of zipper scars
and flick knives. Small lewd ghost of aortal

blood and wire. You both know the infamy
that is sewn under these clothes; mark of Mars,

mar of bloodshed, held in place with needle
and thread. Y’all put the “scar” into scary.