buckings

19 Thursday Jul 2018

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Suffered. Cheated. Mistreated. Nothing born

in a hothouse. A night-blooming pervert.

All-night pain’s blast furnace. Suck your forlorn

thumb just to keep quiet. “Southern Comfort/

hard fuck skag,” you sang; like Joan and Janis,

Bessie and Billie. Your song drips hot wax,

pelvis-jarring buckings. What is a kiss

compared to this pain? Synapses climax.

You cum all the time. Quietly. Your thumb

in your mouth. Buckings. Let it burn. Let it

burn. “If I can’t/ love myself let it/ burn.”

The sky crackles goes out. Shadow. Sodom.

Dance. Shake the bone-rattle, petite misfit.

Debauchee aslant. Singer of nocturnes.

all the way

27 Thursday May 2010

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Billie Holiday, Lady Day.
April 7, 1915 – July 17, 1959

Palm pain calls the body’s fox-plump landscape,

henna to pink noon from stunning pattern.

In the great hour of her face, moods unfold

each in her feud with the darkening air.

Lame bride sings kisses, blows hair-hook affair

in her flaming fastbacks with our fivefold.

Shimmer the pain with the lover’s iron

shavings of firelit airwaves and escape.

City country. In the morning Harlem

ginger leaves, bends to the window. Sliding

fold out. “Stop right there.” A mountain, a drum

on the radio, Lady Day singing:

“If you let me love you a fool would say.

It’s for sure that I’m going — all the way.”