Tag Archives: poem

dispel

20 Sunday Dec 2020

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Dry ground and graveyards pale next to the sea’s

verge when uncanny malforms crawl forth each

 

night and roam. The same infected city’s

haze of lights that drown the stars cannot reach

 

into that dark, cannot dispel horrors

that have only ire toward our neon-fused

 

age and benign witcheries. The breakers

mark me as a false witch, how I’ve abused

 

my gifts for filthy lucre and coinage.

There is no grimoire for sale that’ll let us

 

command the tide. Coven’s pride. Ghasts that feed

on brine-caked bones know this. You can’t sage smudge

 

the sea, they guffaw. They name us hubris

and crawl from the surge at the scent of greed.

resolve

19 Saturday Dec 2020

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It’s not like we’re puppet and puppeteer;

I’m balls deep in yet you grimly retain

 

control. The sheath of your ass. The severe

gape left behind in your behind like pain

 

each time I nearly pull out. Each time you

grip the sheets so that your daughter, drawn by

 

your cries, crouches in the grove of bamboo

to watch the living play. We could still ply

 

her with love, let her sleep between us, but

you can’t see ghosts. Your world is her gravestone

 

and grim resolve; rough sex won’t return her,

or burn this pain out of you, meat puppet.

 

There’s no strings for that. When you cum you moan

out something like, “daughter, daughter, daughter.”

requin

18 Friday Dec 2020

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Far-off wave, depraved. Nali leans over

the edge of the dugout, shakes her rattle.

 

She calls: “Big Sister let my Small Sister

come to me.” She does: out from the coral

 

shadows a shadow rising, a shadow

vast, vast as the tide’s rip, twisting current,

 

rising into song. I was there. I know

you don’t think women can do this. Pregnant

 

ghosts will scorn you for that. They love Nali,

though. I rowed. She sang and Femme de requin

 

came to have her snout rubbed, to feast on prayer.

Sisters swam here until men trawled this sea

 

down to its ghosts. The price of a shark fin

is when you call and only ghosts answer.

][][

Notes:

Femme de requin is French for shark woman. The inspiration of this poem came from watching Dennis O’Rourke’s 1982 documentary, The Sharkcallers of Kontu.

flares

16 Wednesday Dec 2020

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She was dead and encased her exquisite

curves in the sort of sequin disco-flares

 

called posh before I was born. Her velvet

tube top bled. Her long cadaverous hair

 

couldn’t hide the hole where the girder

had punched clear through. “Let’s do lascivious

 

things,” she’d said, rising. It’s hard. We linger,

hoping for love. The living see darkness

 

in sex and quail. The dead are beyond doubt

now that it’s too late. Randy ghost of ghastly

 

flares, you have spawned unease. If lusting for

dead things is freakish then let me freakout,

 

old-school style, with kisses, with sodomy.

Fuck’s crux. Putting the core back in hardcore.

dwindling

11 Friday Dec 2020

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There’s my Bayou shark, requiem, nimble

through swamp and misty fen. I’ve seen her twist,

 

turn and sashay away. A wolfish girdle

flitting through cypress bogs. When frost and mist

 

cake this lake, though, I can find no old souls;

just ice flows and shadows. I got conjure

 

and shine but as this wintertide gale rolls

through mud and bone I find my warm water

 

guide is blind. She cannot find me. Iced lakes.

Sightless seers. Gods fade in this pallid

 

polar light. Dwindling surf’s boom. What can

a shark haunting the Gulf know of frost’s ache?

 

Nothing good throbs under my closed eyelids

since words make a poet, gods a shaman.

nor’eastern

07 Monday Dec 2020

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It’s gray outside. Gray inside me. A thought

full of dripping clouds. Dingy to boot. Dim

sway. Dim tumult. Trifling waves that trot

along the lake shore. Shades too cold to swim

in. All my life I’ve fled winter drizzle’s

bliss. Now, even in my sick bed, I spurn

those vast rains from Canada. These crackles

in my lungs are just like a “Nor’eastern” ––

all foam, blood and drift, sundering pain.

In my sick bed I hear the ‘plash spume hiss

each time I breathe in. In my sick bed you

ask how it goes? Listen. That’s frosted rain

in my breath. Once I could’ve weathered this.

This time there’s no safe harbor to flee to.

][][

Note:

I live near the shores of Lake Michigan. Cyclones out on the north Atlantic are called Nor’easterns. It’s a fitting term to use here too, though there is a difference. Because the lake is so shallow (compared to the ocean) any winter storm coming down from Canada almost always turn extreme, generating riptides, huge waves and freezing temperatures. Often the danger for sailors is not drowning out on the lake but freezing to death.

zigga

05 Saturday Dec 2020

Posted by in A Girl and Her Submarine, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Hit it hard. A simple request. First time?

Charging batteries at night off the Great

 

Thatch. We were both filthy with diesel grime,

crude oil, acid flashbacks. We had to wait.

 

We sat up top. We passed the zigga back

and fro; enthralled with each Uncanny Queen –

 

Sappho’s term for starlight. Waves made low thwack

-lap noise in the dark. You made low obscene

 

noise, too. Smut puppet. Slush galore. A tongue

curling you up. Translucent trails all glow

 

in the waves. Surge dripped from your thighs. Hit it

hard. You clung to the sub’s drunk hull. I clung

 

to your soused conch. Writhing wraiths. Purge and blow

while Saint Elmo’s Fire played across your clit.

][][

Notes:

It would be grand to run away to sea in a submarine built for two (plus cats). Great Thatch is a derelict of an island, part of the British Virgins in the Caribbean. It’s named after Edward Teach (the pirate called Blackbeard). St. Elmo’s Fire appears as blue lightning, all squirm-dazzle in the rigging of tall masted ships, heralding an approaching storm.

newfoundland

19 Thursday Nov 2020

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Don’t mind snow, you know. If it’s for a good

cause. If it’s falling on our snug cottage

 

perched on a ridge; if there’s auks and driftwood

strewn on the beach below. My sea village

 

slang needs work, but when “the morbs” come, all bleak

and glum, then I’ll “batty fang” through crusting

 

tide pool slush. I was made for fleecy chic

sweaters, flip caps, “tempest nanty narking.”

 

I, too, shall sing up a “mafficking” storm.

Squall songs that my sea hag sisters shall hurl

 

back. There’s more here than just hoarfrost and snow,

you know. I’ll sing them to you over warm

 

mugs of tea, cats on our laps, the whole world

ahoo outside our welcoming window.

][][

NOTES:

In Victorian British slang, “the morbs,” means being depressed or sad. “Batty fang,” “natty narking,” and “mafficking,” are all 1880 terms for causing a rowdy (and usually drunken) disturbance while out in public. In nautical slang, when something has gone, “all ahoo,” it means things are disordered or chaotic.

fluttered

15 Sunday Nov 2020

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Now your soul returns. Consciousness seeps in

around the edges. Blink. Look down between

 

your splayed thighs to watch me watching you. Grin.

Blush a touch. When you said: “Make it obscene.”

 

When you said: “Are you still my big sister’s?”

I paused, poised over your plump swelling,

 

measured not in single centimeters

but in intensity, encompassing

 

everything, nestled soft, held safe by fat

baby phat lips. “I was but now I am yours.”

 

I’ve changed allegiances like that before.

Once she fluttered awake, too. “Horny brat,”

 

she called you. “Mine.” Go blind as the world roars

back in you, my lips tongue-smacking your core.

madivine

10 Tuesday Nov 2020

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“Bad girl, good vibes,” your mum said. For a week

you slept between us, the curve of my cock

 

nestled against that wet cameltoe streak

etched deep in your panties. Let neighbors talk.

 

They called her Madivine. Puberty came

round. So did we. First: “Cum in mum,” she said

 

each time I pressed to split your mound. Nicknames

flew: “Mo ve fi, bon vib.” Natty dread,

 

indeed. Madivine: a priestess loving

priestess. Pressing me in you, in your blind

 

other Third Eye deep between your hourglass

hips. The one your mum tongued awake. Tonguing.

 

Gasping. Reckless. Wrecking you from behind.

My hands in your hair. My lust in your ass.

][][

NOTES:

Natty dread is a Rastafari term for a member of the Rastafari community. In Haitian Creole, “mo ve fi, bon vib,” translates as, “bad girl good vibes.” Madivine (also spelled Madivinaise) is a Haitian term for a lesbian voodoo priestess [citation needed].