Tag Archives: ghost girl

drops of gray

30 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on drops of gray

Tags

, , , , ,

Is that where the fear lies? When the dead girl
turns all the way around and we behold …

one more sad, misshaped face — one more swirl
of dark, untidy hair — blue skin stone cold —
X of a broken neck — empty drowned eyes.

You know that party trick; it’s all you hear
about. I wouldn’t call it total “lies,”
but there has to be more. A ghost unclear
on the concept just gets laughed at. Darling,

come live with me. We’ll figure something out.
There’s more to death than clammy skin, creaking
floors and causing the irksome to freak-out.

Smile, my honey dear, while, I kiss away
your tears … drops of blood, of dust, drops of gray.

cocksure with what you are holding

20 Sunday Jan 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on cocksure with what you are holding

Tags

, , , , , ,

I can sense your scent in the wind’s distress,
in tastes that ravish — the grape and anise
that grow on your grave. I wear the headdress
of my mistress. I carry her chalice
and her stone knife. In the mist of slumming
flowers and wet earth you have hung over
my bed, a silent silver thing, shining
through tree branches. I have pulled you closer,
sucked long at your foggy breast, played with your
wet and hazy clit. If sadness can haunt,
so can need, so can greed. You are cocksure
with what you are holding. With what you want.
joining What-was-not with What-might-have-been,
joining your dead lust with my living sin.

pink egg cracks

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on pink egg cracks

Tags

, , , , , ,

If I had the voice I’d sing the mystic’s
lullaby, salt hallow, to keep you safe.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
my voice a lisping hell, must love my waif
sister, family ghost, in a new way.
Your eyes are beautiful beggars, now beg
for fry bread and a butterscotch sundae.
I’ll feed you. Between your legs your pink egg
cracks. I’ll break it for you. Like a firefly
you sleep three feet off the floor. I’ll guard you.
When you cry I’ll kiss your shaggy bangs dry.
And in rutting season I’ll make you mew,
then goo on me. A song for a sinner.
A lullaby for my dead kid sister.

in fog, in cold flesh

11 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on in fog, in cold flesh

Tags

, , , , ,

 

Ghost of an orphan flings wide my windows
at dusk. I can taste tart perfumed evening
on my lips,the way ghosts kiss, as she flows
and glides to my side. The craft of kissing
her is hard but Death will make a pervert
out of me yet. Sometimes she is misty.
Other times I slide my hand up her skirt
and find out just how wet a ghost can be.
She gets laid in fog, in cold flesh, jealous
of all the blood in my veins. The godhead
bursting inside her. Spewing my lewdness
through her and all over our frowzled bed.
At dawn I still taste her urchin grave dust,
a dead waif’s ectoplasm wet with lust.

os fantasmas tristes, e todo sozinho

01 Friday Jul 2011

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, Translation

≈ Comments Off on os fantasmas tristes, e todo sozinho

Tags

, , , , ,

Mortas vivem comigo.

Fantasmas das virgens

que cometeram suicídio.

Os fantasmas tristes,

e todo sozinho. Todo

amante que morreu de um coração

partido. Durante todo o dia, este

é o que fazemos. Todos os dias,

vemos filmes tristes. Não porque

estamos triste. Não porque nosso

coração está quebrado. Mas esse

vez, todos tivemos uma vontade

de chorar, antes de nos

tornarmos uma família.

Translation:

The dead live with me. Ghosts of virgins who committed suicide. Spirits sad and all alone. Everyone who died of a broken heart. All day long we watch sad movies. Not because we’re sad. Not because our hearts are broken. But once we all had the need to cry. Before we became a family.