nothing worries the dead

16 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Poetry, sonnet

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ghost, grackles, groove-in, mellow, moonlight, mythology, sonnet, veil, worry

Tell me. You have gone to where I cannot

follow, not yet. Tell me, are there grackles?
I love their iridescent black, their squat
bodies, their ill natures. Their song rankles
and cracks but they do not fear me when I
am near. Are there meadows where the streams glide?
where the moon shines on the hill, the firefly

and the ladybug? Did you have a guide
to get you there? Dante did. Yes, I know

I ask so much. Worried, I guess. We said
it would be all different, like a mellow
groove-in; that nothing can worry the dead.

Tell me, are you still waking up nervous?

Are there still wretched nights and loneliness?

ghost dreams

07 Thursday Feb 2013

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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afterlife, dream, ghost, sonnet

ghost dream 1

ghost dream 2

ghost dream 3

ghost dream 4

A ghost is born naked, squinting and glum.

There is no mother to catch it, nothing
to cling to with a tooth, a toe or thumb.
There are no older siblings for learning
the ways of the night. If you can hear bats
sing you can hear ghosts sigh. Few ask, what’s wrong?
ask how the day went? What paramour chats
with a ghost — tea and laughter — all nightlong?

I don’t resent this coming to an end.
Now when I sleep I hide in a wall crack
and my face is modest. I don’t resent

rebirth; finding out that ghost dreams depend
on how forgotten we’ll become; flashback
to when we thought we knew what alone meant.

ghost dream 5

ghostly needs

05 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Poetry, sonnet

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cat, ghost, praise song, shark, sonnet

If you can please a cat then you can please
a ghost, I believe. They’re so similar.
Cats. Ghosts. Sharks. Killers that love their bellies
scratched. I’ve touched shark snout, ghost skin and cat fur.
I could lie, tell you that I understood
what was under my hand. I could, perhaps.
Cats and ghosts both seek out love: that odd, good
human talent, but once they have it lapse
into indifference. Sharks are simply
curious and like to play. But knowing
that, I know nothing. I love mystery
but I can’t explain it. I can just sing.
Of cats’ ghostly needs, the kitten-like ghost
prowling, the shark’s soul that I love the most.

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the quick and the dead

03 Sunday Feb 2013

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dead, ghost, quick

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art

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deathblow

24 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blow job, Catalina de los Ríos y Lisperguer, Chile, colonial era, deathblow, ghost, La Quintrala, sadism, sonnet

There are some ghosts you should never love. Not

that they want your love or that you interest
them, not you; in life they loved their gunshot,
stabbings, those odd marks we find, sinister
proof of some alien design. In life

peasants would cross themselves when they saw her.

They called her La Quintrala: butcher-wife
of old Chile. Even death could not slow
her down. I slept with her once, big mistake.

She was still calling a blowjob, “deathblow,”
and it was. She said, “I’ll make your heart break,”

and she did. “I only fuck you because
you are damned, like me,” she said, and I was.

as a child the one ghost

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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childhood, cum, fellatio, ghost, school, sonnet, virgin orgasm

Do not believe this tale until the school
bell rings. They said that I played with myself
in a corner of the yard. Boys were cruel
and girls flew away. Even the blind elf,
always drunk, smelling like a tanned horse hide,
was deaf to me. As a child the one ghost
who stayed was a motherly suicide
with a taste for innocence. Who would boast
that it was virgin cum which kept her in
limbo. But she lied. There is no limbo;
only us. I was her pretty plaything.
She would suckle on me, suck my foreskin
down her throat. And just before my deathblow
orgasm in the yard … the bell would ring.

after the chemo we return to our village

15 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by ch3mical r3nt boy in Poetry, sonnet

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Balumba, cancer, chemotherapy, drowning, Gabon, ghost, sonnet, West Africa

Balumba stole my lover’s breath. She died
and all of Mayumba suffered with me.
The next day, down by the ocean, I spied
the ghost of my love as she passed. Fairy
lights were in her hair, her left breast had grown
back and her splendid ass shook as she walked.
Balumba had painted an ash skull-bone
on my lover’s face and prated and squawked
in the mist of my dead Osa’s unbound
hair. I do not like blue-faced Balumba,
even if she is a woman who drowned
under the long shadows of the casbah.
Osa just smiles. Death was not the nightmare
she thought. Neither was our secret affair.

Notes

Bongolo Hospital of Libreville is the only cancer treatment center in all of Gabon, Africa. The distance from Libreville to my coastal village of Mayumba is 276 miles. Mayumba is known for its long sandy beach where leatherback turtles nest.

Balumba (whose name means Ghost Face) is a Gabonese haunt from the same region.

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