quake

02 Wednesday Apr 2025

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Super lewd stretch time. Thicc new aches, shapes, quakes.

Thicc knew. Ache knew. Quake knew what you wanted.

Me? I didn’t. I never do. I traipse.

I tramp. I walk out. I am undaunted

funeral crap. I go. Soiled comforters. Shite

water. I went. I brought the shadow’s back

and leg and tongue for you. The right in, “fright.”

The hack in, “whack.” Sucka MC. But first: flashback!

“Super lewd stretch time. Thicc new” – No, not that.

Quake knew, stretch pants. Quake knew. No, nay never

forgive Quake. Never. Me? I never – Who?

Not once in a year of Mondays. Cocked Hat?

Not once? Not once did it go – Whatever.

Do be do be do. Do be do be do.

zed

02 Wednesday Apr 2025

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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Inert. Pain leaves my body inert. Not

the lewd, funky crack pipe that you believed

in. All that verse in praise of the, “G-spot,”

seems a touch quaint now. Do not be deceived.

That wet dream is still yours. Malice is mine.

Uppercut cracked my jaw. Scrambled my words.

Left me grinding teeth; like the Quake’s fault line

after the quake. Rat-bastards and Owl-birds

comfort me. Shark-fish swim the “sin” back in

“cousin.” They all know this won’t last. Inert

gases. Inert words. Inert flesh gone all

puffy. “Where’s the cock? The cunt? The written

praise song?” I’m far more broken than, “Pervert,

feel thyself.” Think: Zed. Think: what malice mauls.

pacific

02 Wednesday Apr 2025

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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I preach you: Venice Beach was Pacific.

I say: Gods still lurk with humans. Muscle

Beach. In a mawashi, no less. Mythic

with such proportions. “Psalm in my bustle/

Swing on my skin” … on Yakuza tattoos.

Bourgeois say women in the Sumo

Ring is unnatural. “I sang the Blues

in/ that string-bikini.” With her cello

wide hips, with each dumbbell hefted, I say,

bodybuilders are a queer lot. –– Gods still

lurk with humans. –– Unnatural, I preach

you, ain’t knowing, taint that. It’s what the Fey

would call, Small Hick Frinergy. –– A hornbill

of a diss: way bey black some Venice Beach.

fictile

28 Friday Mar 2025

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I’ll call you Thug Jug. I’m Whatever. Stud’s

go thud. “I’m doubtful/ that you’ll get this, Thug

Jug” – Ugh. Like cricks in my flesh; those, “fluids

foam,” at your thoughts. Moist. Oozy. Eel & Slug

call me, “Ken.” I call them, “Eel & Slug.” Slew

caked banks shall slip their levee. Soon flood hell

waters will. “Make this about Fate,” you coo.

I do. Cocksure crevices. That rank shell

flange. Dope B-Grrl style. Barf me out. Gag me

with a spoon burned to steam crowded with holes.

Such are my moots. Sis Slug bytes. The moon bit

our brain. Soul’s fictile skull. Eel’s grace. Oozy

on the eyes. You won’t find me, by the doe’s

toes, hue and gasp, on all fours: sniffing up git.

calcified

27 Thursday Mar 2025

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Murky. Shapeless. Rag. Squeeze me here, I’ll mange

and moult. That’s not my flesh. These photos lie.

“But don’t they all? Those who dwell here must change,”

she said, “This wet, starved sheath shall ossify

to bone soon.” Her stoned stonework. “Lady bits,”

her son, Cthulhu, claimed. Tentacle pubes

and the big bling words: ossify, moult, clits.

None of that is found in these photos. Sleaze?

Maybe … but not meaning. Hashish muddles

me mind, dusk’s spliff, dusk’s gloaming. Under skirts

my dear eldritch horror had grown bouldered,

calcified. Flint’s bling. Flesh without jiggles

like seas without stars. Why? No: how? Perverts

taking selfies. Murky. Shapeless. Naked.

fried

25 Tuesday Mar 2025

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Glazed frost spores on the water. I was drift

wood but ill will has washed me back to shore.

Anger still clings to my heart. Spores shift,

spores bloom, even now when I know the cure.

Ja, wrath and fears are inane. Ja, one numb

thought fills me: the lust tree of ash denied.

Darkness root covers me. I have become

hungry, a ghost dwelling in my frost fried

thoughts, hell of a rage cloud, ah desires.

I would drink so I wouldn’t have to dwell.

Antarctic; it means, “without bears.” Fitting.

Inward. Roots in fog. Forcemeat. Vice stung choirs

whinnied, then shied. Frost, indeed. That ice smell.

Margin’s djinn. A fond farewell, farewelling.

puck

23 Sunday Mar 2025

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That’s a crazy strong root work. With lewd psalms

scrawled on my hands. With the words that set Lot’s

daughters; mum lit, mum spit on their jaws, palms,

phat ol’ coccyx. That’s too …? “Bonnie & Trots”?

Far too Fanny Hill. A touch wrong? These runts

and cells divide. Master’s bed. Master’s beat.

Droll, your grandma called it, as in, “that’s Cnuts!”

As in, Lot’s daughters. Cave wet. Thick and teat.

Newborn. Nothing. Gained and scrawled on my hand.

Great gray chested. Scars upon czars. Crone’s zones.

Meaning? Raw root work. “A gumbo cooker.

Alligator hooker./ Make a dead man

jump and shout, woo.” Love, I’ll soothe away bones.

Cray thong. Lewdly palm. Puck. –– ‘gator hooker?

splayed

22 Saturday Mar 2025

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Our act sung between grunts and squeals. Hang

on. True to your profit and pride, you made

me weep before you died. Petite Fille Gang;

slept me dreams named me soul nailed me hue splayed

me shame. B-4. More tripe. More hype. Less floor

pie. Less said mass in my mouth. Pour ash. Speak

in tongues. Rend me like sackcloth. You speak more

when you cum. Tongue song. I’m here for the freak

carnage. Liebesgemetzel. Love. Slay. Sleep.

Our tongue sung act. “What the devil?” you hiss

as I try something new. Beetle buzzes

in the tin. The vibrator buried deep.

Our tongue sung bet. We go together bliss.

We go. We rest. We come as flesh to ghosts.

][][

Note:

Liebesgemetzel is a German term that means, “Love massacre.”

randomize

20 Thursday Mar 2025

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One for the road. Yes, I placed the barrel

of your pistol in my mouth. You were out

of the room. For the taste. Once. Gunmetal

lime. Fat germ lemon. Tart like sauerkraut.

Tart like the road. Death tastes all taste buds gone

wrong. You said it was like sucking cock, but

no. Life has a taste. This does not. Neon

cherry. Photon peach. My moppet mouth, gut

wound. I placed the barrel of your pistol

in my mouth. To taste defeat, randomize.

Haha, fool. Ha. “Till my Pussy sucks/ Air,”

you wrote. You were out and I put it mull

in my mouth. “Lick the moon between your thighs,”

Chrystos. Make you swamp-wet glut with prayer.

grrl

19 Wednesday Mar 2025

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“Am I pretty?” Trouble keeps following

us. Our love, love, is messy. We hunger.

We put the anger in danger. We sling

bling but to no avail. Trickster. Monster.

Kickstarter. This yōkai needs plastic

surgery. “Am I pretty?” You know how

this goes. Kuchisake-onna, tragic,

almost, Slit Mouth Woman with her Glasgow

Smile, starved for this, asking random cowards,

“Pretty?” Stray cat strut, what’s mine is now ours;

love your blood, your B-bones, your Gangsta-pearl.

Look at all these brokenhearted bastards

who shall never love. That’s not us. Our scars

tie us up tight, pigtailed, knuckled blunt grrl.

][][

Notes:

Yōkai are supernatural spirits in Japanese folklore. Glasgow smile is a wound caused by making a cut from the corners of a victim’s mouth up to the ears, leaving scars in the shape of a smile.