dumb bone

17 Sunday Dec 2017

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Hunger. Always hunger. Restless. Never
still. The weeping ghost on the other

side of the door. I am elsewhere. Not here
but in need. Bent. Bulging. Dragging this queer

longing about. Hungers need to be fed —
witch-tongue, witch-word, words will do. What you said

about madness, ache, need. What you said. Words.
Your words sate even the dead, craze blizzards,

make dumb bones cum. I heft your words in hand,
finger their whip-like grooves. The world was bland

and then I read you. Now I am frantic,
lust sick. The way the hungry are. Hard, slick

with need. The sound that comes to you, a ghost
on the wind. You can feel this frenzy, almost.

zed

16 Saturday Dec 2017

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Z. Like the Weegies say, “yoo’re feckin’ zed.”
Which is true. I am obnoxious, bratty.

All these chemicals. Havoc in my head.
Scrimshaw. Cuts. Cairn. Marker. What we bury

when we bury ourselves. This doesn’t work
well. You say that I’m better, like Delphi.

Visions that I don’t get. Let the gods smirk
when my name comes up. I shall have your thigh

around my hips, wrecking you. Even Pan
wept. For all my faults you let me bury

myself in you. No regrets. Just more praise.
Just. You are all. Just. We want a human

that we can call our own. And I, banshee,
death in the last name, wail: love born of haze.

night seed

15 Friday Dec 2017

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Empire. Incubus. Lust. The sky came through
and the window stood open. You were not

here, no. You were there; like how the crow flew.
Like the crow caught. Like how the sky was caught

at the foot of my bed. It squawked, rustled,
beat wings as I wrapped my arms around air.

Sky loves us all; but who loves its muscled
grace? When was the last time that you were bare

naked before it? Can you name its scars?
Can you name its need? Sky, love, pony-bird.

You’re still a lost empire. You’re still night seed.
My bed is wide. I swear by the jaguar’s

toothed song that I know why you have hungered.
Love, I know how to satisfy your need.

gospel

14 Thursday Dec 2017

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I like you best with your face dripping cum.
It’s my form of prayer to you. A godhead

splitting your ass, ruining your rectum
until I roll you over on the bed

and you taste your own tart-funk on my cock
as it fills your throat. There’s nothing soothing

about prayer, just the sudden thrill and shock
when I pull out, my orgasm drenching

your cheeks, nose, eyelashes. If seminal
solutions are sacred then my temple

is your ass. Piercing it is like glory,
something sacred and cum proof of faithful

worship. Balls deep in you is like gospel.
Heathen, once more you and I are holy.

hothouse

13 Wednesday Dec 2017

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Spankings seem cruel. But when you bend to bare
yourself to me with your ink—one word stamped

in black, “RUIN,” above your derriere—
when you drape yourself on my knee, thighs clamped

tight with tension; then, yes, this will be cruel.
So rough. So sudden. That first splitting stroke.

You know that I find whining sobs shameful;
only kids caterwaul. Drench the floor, soak

your thighs, if you must, but keep count of each
welted slash left upon your upturned ass.

Correction’s hothouse. Discipline’s garden.
Pain blooms as divine comeuppance; this bleach-

in-the-eyes pain, add a-touch-of-teargas —
that’s why you’re here, you and your prayer: RUIN.

Quote

quote unquote

08 Friday Dec 2017

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Tell me about a complicated man.
Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost
when he had wrecked the holy town of Troy,
and where he went, and who he met, the pain
he suffered in the storms at sea, and how
he worked to save his life and bring his men
back home. He failed to keep them safe; poor fools,
they ate the Sun God’s cattle, and the god
kept them from home. Now goddess, child of Zeus,
tell the old story for our modern times.
Find the beginning …

first stanza of Emily Wilson’s translation of ‘The Odyssey’ (2018)

bene faction

08 Friday Dec 2017

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We are unnerved by pleasure; it frightens
us when it comes. It comes. I call. I’m out

side your door. I come with waif’s weed, urchin’s
greed. I hunger the way that the devout

hunger for a balm to their holy mess.
Call us a holy fuck. Blunts shared between

two: alms, bene-faction. To kiss. To bless.
To claim. I’ve driven far. I want obscene

things. I want to ruin you. Now re-frame;
I meet you at the door, children on their

way to school. We smile. We are familiars.
Familiar is good. It’s still the same blessed flame,

chaotic nerves, fire. I will take either:
as fuck-friends or as curious strangers.