Tag Archives: poem

salacious

05 Friday Nov 2021

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Monster, monster; Beast knows that Belle sucks on

more than just iced cubes and sugared absinthe.

We’re told that they’re gods disguised: Leda’s swan,

Pasiphaë’s bull, Claudine’s ghostly dog. Nonsense.

What god needs deceit? Only a monster

hides its nature. I’ve lived on mezcal’s juice

squeezed by Bacchus. I’ve tripped balls and slaughter.

Unlike the Beast there’s no cursed prince to seduce

you in here –– just a salacious varmint

gorged on taproot, possessed by peyote,

taking you rough, “Coitus more ferarum,”

like the beasts in the field. Monster, you hint

at more. I say, on all fours; if, “doggy

style,” is sin, then it’s sin that brings wisdom.

glob

01 Monday Nov 2021

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Damn fuck beast, you mumble as I tremble

inside. All at once it’s a throng of beasts

bellowing through you; the stars of your skull

quail and the moon, that great gray glob of grease

and grime and gaudy guts flashes and goes

out. This is how love should end: in carnage

and fire from beastly hoofs. Owl knows. Crow knows.

Kronos knows. I pound your cum into sludge;

wallop your lust, turn your climax all grungy

grim. Love is messy, like children’s street songs,

like minced up monkey meat. As I withdraw,

I leave my beastly snail’s trail of jolly

havoc behind. I’m that which gaily wrongs

you; the only one who gulps you down, raw.

whack

31 Sunday Oct 2021

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No womb, no bloom, no plume of bloody breath

claiming divine chaos, divine vision ––

It’s the ones that want to kiss me to death,

lips to lips, our hips to hips, that won’t shun

this plump flesh, that I want. “Burn your marriage

bed,” the blind satyr said. “Dansés jémshen.”

Little daughter, kiss me. As if carnage

were that whack. Once again my swelling skin

rests in the palm of your hand, distending

the dark all around. No womb, no bloom, just

my cum coating your fingers. Lick them clean.

“Byéjémshen.” Come kiss me. I’m wanting

to want you. My whack smack. My angel dust.

My sick urges. My infernal machine.

desists

28 Thursday Oct 2021

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Pornographer of Left-hand magic, you

said. Freak. Pervert. Hecaté understands;

we both speak vulgar Latin. The taboo

that you call lust still stands. Magic commands

so much. I burn thyme, hemlock, devil’s weed,

coating my cauldron’s concave sides with ash.

My blood that I kept on ice has jellied,

along with my dumb cum. The zigzag slash

cut in my palm desists to scar. I mix

the red slop with the cinders. “Lingis,”

Hecaté said, “non futuis meam.” Lick me,

don’t fuck me. This is prayer, too. All that licks.

All that laps. All that sucks. Watch how I kiss

her cunt, phosphorescent and velvety.

][[][

Notes:

Hecaté is the Roman goddess of crossroads, witchcraft and ghosts. In a world obsessed with duality we’re told that all which is, “dark must be sinister,” (Left-hand magic), while all that is, “light must be good” (Right-hand magic). Must be, must be, must be. I find such moral claims contemptible since there is no good or bad, black or white, just muddled, ashen gray.

refute

24 Sunday Oct 2021

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“Through the wall stole a weird form who unbent

herself and stood tall.” I’ve had nbodewbi

ghosts, drunk and horny, slither like portents

to my bed before. Sex, grim and ghastly,

is all that the dead offer. Whatever

you think about lust now, that memory

will haunt you. Ghostly sex is still better

than no sex, they say. Perhaps most don’t see

it like that. Hot to leave their flesh and blood

behind they’ll grasp at any fairy tale

that says eternity is chaste. I know

how our souls refute that. These castrated

ghosts can only moan; when you’re cold and pale

come find me. You know I won’t say no.

][][

Notes:

The first line is a reworking of the beginning of George Houghton’s poem, The Witch of York, “Up o’er the hill and broken wall/ There stole a weird form, bent but tall.” In Bode’wadmi (the Potawatomi language), nbodewbi is a verb meaning drunk and horny. I think Joe Orton summed it up nicely when he said, “Enjoy sex. When you’re dead, you’ll regret not having fun with your genital organs.”

nachtmusik

18 Monday Oct 2021

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Heat haze at dusk. Ho hum clouds melt and meet

in gray and green flames until they become shrouds

for leaves of ribald trees. Across the street,

three floors up, Pauline’s cello turns darkclouds

to dew –– the most vulgar of all juices.

Each night she repeats her scales, saws out tunes,

twists old lays new. When I speak of crotches

I speak of my own; my cum, like the moon’s,

splatters in the dark while the music’s glee

sets fire to all it touches. I grind my teeth

and cum under the night’s skirts with Bach’s “Air

for G string;” while ‘neath the cellist’s airy

g-string Bach’s night heat yawns wide. Underneath

this string’s calico crotch: thick dew-slicked hair.

bacchanal

29 Wednesday Sep 2021

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“You did not know me,” Dionysus said,

“when you should have,” and proceeded to fuck

things up. I get that. Gods of rage and dread

aren’t that welcome at the office potluck,

either. But, just once, perhaps, a mellow

bacchanal would be pleasing; a laid-back

debauch with odd friends. Sadly, those I know

do not know me that well. I’m a shy Zack.

I lisp, stutter. People make me nervous;

I like quietude and sloth … except when

eldritch horrors possess me, when I rain

fire and salt the earth after. That luscious

violence when I’m not me; so I must, then,

be you, raving, both bullet and bloodstain.

unfit

26 Sunday Sep 2021

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Ask me. I will. Where I used to dwell I’d smell

the ghost of the red desert stirring, sensed

it wake at dawn. Creosote, sage, the swell

of black palm fronds flinging themselves against

a sky neon green, warm as bath water.

I will. I had the loneliness that sang,

too. It gave me songs but not one lover.

Songs of dust and rust, that horrible pang

of loss that left me sick. I still smell it.

In my sweat and sperm, my gristle. I’ll share

it, if you ask. Songs of blank bricks, Vegas

heat and heartache. I’ll sing of dawns unfit

for these dull days; when even rage is prayer

and we burn together, full of malice.

shuffle shlick

26 Sunday Sep 2021

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There were no strange colors in the streetlight.

No wet streets. No musk. No absinthe twilit

in jazz. No moon above roofs like a blight

in the sky. Just you, dead thing; while misfit

living things went flitting around inside

their hells. They make hell home under their skin

for their frail godheads; call themselves, “Brides

of,” and claim that shuffle-shlick is a sin.

Now it’s too late, dead thing, to place my hands

around their cunts and squeeze until their lips

form a heart. How the living waste living

astounds … even in this city’s wastelands.

Shuffle-shlick while the cum on your hand drips

since there’s nothing but you, dead thing, cumming.

gambol

20 Monday Sep 2021

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North winds: the old weathercock on the barn

spins, your window rattles. Rain soon. I read

to you until you grow drowsy. The warm

night lulls you to sleep. Tales of lust and greed

are your favorite. Even from here I smell

your wet spot spreading while your breath deepens.

Dreams of night queens and nymphs while the slow swell

between your thighs spreads, tracing your fountain’s

source. “Je suis l’amour qui tue,” the French say.

I’m the love that kills; chastity’s venom.

Let your mom sleep next door; the rain muffles

your old bed springs as your gambol and play

in your fountain while I, lewd ghost, watch dumb

small death bubble up from your genitals.

][][

Notes:

The quote, “Je suis l’amour qui tue,” comes from a fragment I found based on the life of Olympia Mancini, the Countess of Soissons; in theory used as evidence against her in the 1679 witchcraft scandal that implicated many members of Louis XIV’s court, the infamous the Affaire des Poisons. As far as I can tell there is no evidence that this was anything more than part of a salacious broadsheet sold to the public to titillate:

“Ma petite abomination, j’appartenais au démon de la chair; je suis l’amour qui tue.” Chaque nuit a ce criun démon de fille sort d’une cache, s’élance sur la comtesse et se met en train de lécher ardemment son clitoris dont la pointe sortait rouge et enflammée. Infernale lubricité! Par moment, la voix de la comtesse, qui râlait la volupté, dominait cette harmonie étrange, ce concert d’orgie, cette saturnale de sang.