Tag Archives: poem

fae-fae

11 Wednesday Nov 2026

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

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Dark hair, blue eyes? Faery’s child. Reddish hair?

Faery’s child. Skin *not* pale-slush as weak tea?

Faery’s child. Female? Faery’s child. Out there,

in Dead Poet Land (which remains what? Thirty

musty upper-class twits?) anyone keen

on France and hygiene was a Faery’s child.

Odd just how the sexually-repressed queen

failed to make the list. Evolved? Fae. Reviled?

Fae-Fae. Unchaste? Yo, baby pop! “Elfin

grot”? Got ya, “lips in the gloam,” right here, boo!

I write wrong? I right wrong; it’s a Fae-as-Fuck-

thang, you wouldn’t understand. My skin twin.

My twink. My Other. Cocks chaos. You who

grew from duckweed. The one Keats named Amok.

brat

09 Monday Nov 2026

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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“because I don’t have that

which is in air/ because

I am air—” ~ Anne Waldman.

Bog-backed and mud-slacked I strip down to skin;

–bruises and –scabs and –places I smut-cut

with a blade and –mauled: purple pleasing grins.

This peat transforms. Rinds that bind me wrack what

I’ve come to shed, peel back off my back. Crone’s cock,

witch’s brat; my first love baptized me air.

From the jump drown rock, into red and mock

yellow and brown. Ruelaine and Sal and Sher

and Joyce –all gone. I’ve outlived my teachers,

friends, lovers. “Churn to the primordial,”

she said, now ash blurred in me tear. My skull,

crypt of the Lansing Hell Cats and Pranksters.

Rising. Crud from blood and mud. Dripping foul

from root-booty, cock-cowl. Edgeless. Primal.

swills

07 Saturday Nov 2026

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Haughty citrus can’t touch us. Mock orange.

Scavenge rank-rat, buoyant knotweed, bull’s mane,

bland kit kelp. Above? Sun ground satchel. Sponge

blue sea snail. Small island unwound. A skein

gone all skank. Drowned? Ferry sound: blub-dub-dank

-wank. What noise? It could mean anything, dear…

save *that*. Never that. Even at point-blank

range you miss. Saint Lisbon of Tram Cars, hear

me out. Dub step. “Don’t let your son go down

on me./ Meat for Lent, I mean/ Bent. I mean,

Bum–” O what a giveaway! Saint of hills,

thrills, warps riddled corpse. Staghorn fingers ground

round. I mean, “I know kelp.” Even brown-green

dank-drab. Crab pink. Cunt blue. Sea sucks? Sea swills.

muddy

05 Thursday Nov 2026

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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My green grudge. My rotten tooth. French Quarters

Levee slang. Newsreel of the flood. Pour ash

on my neck. Slap. Pitch and shake while cinders

rise. As in tongue, that burble, that soaked gnash,

hung in your pink-plumb’s boom-boom womb. As in,

Styx, her cervix, that slag weight, crotch logic.

Styx, you,“slaker and drench.” Mama Styx, “Djinn

in the Vaseline.” Styx, Oath Maker, thick

thighs, grand thrall (we’ve consorted like minstrels,

fiddle sticks and gall.) Styx, mother-in-law

from my first marriage. Kip of the quip. Thrust

and heal. The dead live but can’t love. Rot. Skull.

Shucks. Styx, I love but can’t live. Return, ma.

Storm. Flood. I’d drown, again, in ash and dust.

def

23 Friday Oct 2026

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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First comes the buzz, then the total bummer,

sister. Being poor, it was turpentine

mixed with fizzy Koolaid. Memphis Croaker,

the kids called it. I tried Blue Loo Moonshine,

Purple Powder Hooch, Krud Kutter rot-gut.

Too sick to write, I lay in bed for weeks.

Maggots under the skin. My brain-socket

all wrong. Praying to the Goddess of Freaks

for words. Blithe, Oven Cleaner Juice be Muse

words, and… that “total bummer” was made flesh.

Flesh to bruise and scar. Proof something happened.

Proof-filled stump of butcher’s thumb. Blue dress blues.

“Make it Def,” no longer served. “Make it Fresh,”

though, still tasted of gasoline and almond.

sough

22 Tuesday Sep 2026

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Wastelands. Uterine waters. Sweet hubris

licks the roof of my mouth; which is to say,

I’m the one who puts the “price” in priceless.

Twitch is to J: thirst we muck, then we pray.

Face down. Nape exposed. Dread bite the pillow,

biscuit. Brunt kiss; undo madness. Your slender

moistures flood unto squelches; spit-muck’s flow

spreads and splurges, whilst one crooked-stack finger

unknots the curve where you strum, drum and squirt.

Cruel? Yes, like how shadow, that fell organ,

sloughed that sough. Vast. Which is to reinsert

me in you. E ‘n U. Go Uterine!

“Dear Spit-Muck (that I first named Clit-Suck) how

I miss you? Which is to say: sough that slough.”

troll

06 Sunday Sep 2026

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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A troll writes, hoping that I’ll die by choking

on my own genitalia… I mean, sure,

if I was *that* flexible, deep throating

myself to death holds a certain allure,

though my gag reflex has proven stubborn.

Something to put on the gravestone. “He died

as he lived.” Maybe: “You living, who mourn

the dead, aren’t very fuckable.” I lied,

neither am I. Still, on mornings like this,

on tea, hash and blow, I *feel* fuckable

and so pretty and witty and… won’t last.

Never does. I remember that last bliss;

before trolls and dark times. Back when carnal

meant all that was joyful, sacred and vast.

totes

04 Friday Sep 2026

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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“salt grist in grind mill.”

Yes, there are calm lagoons *and* seas of flame

with my bier riding their currents. Harbors

are for the loveless and shameful since shame

always turns away from love. Some rivers

and sludge will drown you, if drowning in sludge

is your kink. Here’s my boat, my flesh, which floats.

Until it don’t. “Blues like that.” Like this grudge

I keep with my humours and bile. “K’, totes!”

K? “Sea’s breast/ all unrest.” “From the dark deep/

typhoons reap.” Gimme monsoons soon and storms

that swarm and waves that breach. There’s no levee

this deep. No home. No sludge. Just grudge’s sleep

and grudge awake. Tote that twists and transforms.

K’. I’ve more than Queequeg’s coffin in me.

op

02 Wednesday Sep 2026

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Today on, “Postmodern or AI slop?”

we’ll mock the Iowa Writers Workshop

for their terrible taste. Barbaric yawp

it ain’t. Stop. “Make that pussy pop”? No, stop,

fool, you can’t rhyme everything just with “op”.

Why? Who doesn’t love a stiff leather strop?

What? Like a strap, but with, how you say? Whop?

No. Chop? Yes! I love a stiff strop with chop.

“Chop chop!” Don’t try and be funny, foul fop.

See? Scenery chewing! Over the top?

A tad. Full stop? Please, just once, no bebop,

no scat singing. “Doo-be-shoo-be-shop-plop

-plop.” Ugh. I’m the top sop in the crop top?

Joypop’s flop? Ho, fuck bunny’s last Aesop.

itch

01 Tuesday Sep 2026

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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“I’m a big fat mama, got the meat shakin’ on my bones/ And every time I shake, some skinny gal loses her home” ~ Ida Cox (1939)

“Hurry up and crone!” you groan, menstrual cramps

being what they are. Change been a long time

comin’ in this world of tramp stamps and vamps.

Mental fog and fatigue. “This itch makes playtime

kinda…,” you confess. Kinda? What flows floods.

What floods transcends. The lips at the center

where the tongue slides in. Cum thick like the muds

of hell. Lolly gagging. Toe curling. Whir

and blur and… “gag me, Lolly.” Neighbors wag;

I wolf, you howl. Quake peaks. Nip slips. Blood claws.

Flash floods. Mudslide mustache. Rag ride you

home. Slag? No. Itch in witch and hag in shag.

There is no bat mitzvah for menopause.

So, dear heart, this will bloody have to do.