Tag Archives: poem

cast

30 Friday Oct 2020

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I went to their church just once; to see how

their side lives. There will always be good girls

 

sitting with their parents thinking eyebrow

searing thoughts. Those who leave their bawdy curls

 

unfurled all morning bore me. It’s the kink

outside their temples and mosques, all those cast

 

out, that I call blood. Cousins. Eat me, drink

me, love me; come, make much of me. We’re vast

 

in our lusts. We own this. We’re not ashamed.

We don’t turn pale each time a strange tongue slips

 

in our ear. Let them fear us. Each crusade

of theirs has failed. Cousins, come. We’re named

 

this ours. We prophets of cocks, clits and lips.

Come home with me, blood. We’re all getting laid.

morozko

30 Friday Oct 2020

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Cold hands. Warm cunt. Standing on your porch. Snow

fall at midnight. Kissing. Your mother fuming;

 

watching through the dark living room window

as my fingers trace their way home. Working

 

down the front of your jeans. Finding the O

of your cunt. Wriggling in. Your mother’s hate

 

runs deep. She calls me depraved Morozko.

Old Man Frost. “We do more than masturbate,”

 

you told her. Now she’s leery as you drench

your crotch. Eyes closed. Thighs rubbing together.

 

Blushing at my chill touch. At what she don’t

know. Which is how you cum: swaying, teeth clenched,

 

in the dark snowfall, dazed each time winter

sinks, starts to play with what others won’t.

][][

note:

Morozko is the name used in a Russian fairy tale for the Winter King, whose love, they say, brings exquisite death.

consort

27 Tuesday Oct 2020

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Blood caked. Split knuckled after brass knuckles

left a wallop scar, after mama cat’s

 

back claws dug scallop-sized grooves, red jackal’s

love, read across each palm. Your democrat’s

 

lost cause is worth fighting for. Whitman’s, “Great

Commonwealth.” The rage I find in Suffrage.

 

Left hand path’s wrath at all who live to hate

sisters while the boom box sings, “O bondage

 

up yours.” Under split skin bone shines. I’ve sewn

my flesh up before. I can manage pain

 

but not their hate; there are some nerves even

smack can’t dull. My love calls herself a crone,

 

a witch. I’m her consort; son with bloodstain

knuckles. Come. Cum in rage. Rage an omen.

][][

note:

“Oh Bondage! Up Yours!” is the title of a song by X-Ray Spex.

rebound

27 Tuesday Oct 2020

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Call it braille. These scars. This ferociously

opened flesh. You say that you know something

 

about holy texts, at least one, maybe,

that bad translation that you keep calling

 

Word. Yo. You’ve yet to touch this. If you can’t

touch you can’t read and my secrets won’t be

 

handed down to you. The last who could chant

every line aloud is gone. Her dead sea

 

called. She answered. This is one text that knows

it won’t be rebound, recovered. Some verse

 

and code and syllabary are better

lost. “Show me,” you said; but I keep my clothes

 

on. You can’t read me, call these words a curse,

or trace my broken spine with one finger.

saints

14 Wednesday Oct 2020

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“¡Ay! ¡Dámelo duro, papi!” your kid

sister said as she sank down, swallowing

 

me whole. All that your crank father forbid

we’ve done. “¡Papito!” you sang out, hanging

 

out near Daddy Frank’s. “Wanna babysit?”

With bong hits in the sauna. With frost’s hoar,

 

winter’s ire. With my mouth glued to your clit

as your sister’s toes curled. I’m thirty-four,

 

renting a cabin near Mount Pisgah. Gales

on the island last for days. Your father’s

 

rage paled before the haze of our chronic

cuddles and cum. He fears, “sinful females.”

 

Fear? This is our faith, our church, our scriptures.

¡Ay! this is what the saints would call epic.

][][

notes:

The poem takes places on Beaver Island, located in northern Lake Michigan. Daddy Frank’s is an ice cream shop in St. James (the island’s only town). When the Mormon migrated to Utah way back when a break-away sect, led by a man named Jesse Strang, settled instead on Beaver. Strang declared himself king and island a kingdom separate from America. This did not end well and in 1856 he was assassinated. Very little of the Mormon community remains except for a couple of biblical names found on the map; for example, Mount Pisgah, the highest point on the island, is a 150 foot tall sand dune. In Spanish, “¡Ay! ¡Dámelo duro!” translates into, “O! Give it to me hard!” Papito and papi are different ways of saying Daddy.

tsk

08 Thursday Oct 2020

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At last: dawn. Crows in the trees wake. The trees

wake. The virus inside me stirs. Somewhere

 

lovers feel breath on their necks. Smell of sleaze

and gods. Rough taste from the roughest affair

 

is a blessing, too. Somewhere but not here.

Here? The chemistry inside me hates me.

 

My mouth fills with a taste: I’ll call it fear

of hints, of the things to come. Irony:

 

to long for longing. The one truth I know

I can’t have. Only this virus will claim

 

me. All the rest tsk over my health then

move on. Dawn won’t last even as the crow

 

caws her love. I despair then fill with shame

at my regret; the one thing I called sin.

sannine

07 Wednesday Oct 2020

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“Damn. Lost in a forest with Pan.” That’s what

my big splashy mouth on your misfit clit,

 

nihilist cunt, felt like, you grunt: “Glut of smut.”

For hours I devoured; leaving you unfit

 

to drive. Your car slowed on the mountain road

while your son slept in the backseat. “Pregnant

 

and in middle school?” Even your scowl glowed.

“Homeless a month later.” With your silent

 

O and shayla undone you act as if

no one in Lebanon had ever been

 

finger fuck’d before. The divine appear

at odd times; parked on the side of a cliff

 

near Mount Sannine it spoke through you. No sin

or remorse; just faith found in your cum smear.

][][

Notes:

Shayla is a long, rectangular scarf popular with women in the Gulf region. It’s wrapped around the head and pinned in place at the shoulders. Mount Sannine is the highest peak in Lebanon.

glimmer

23 Wednesday Sep 2020

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Darkest night drawn to flesh, to forbidden
curves. You’re why I returned after your mom

banished me. Venus bitter sweet. “Christian
women don’t do that,” she said. Napalm

burns less than those words. “She won’t but I will.”
It’s why we’re both tensed, two bodies impaled

as one. Kisses that end in gasps. The thrill
of tough tongue lashes as you came, you wailed,

“For all that’s holy, harder!” Tongue to salve pain,
to salve darker things. My gnawing between

your hips. “Horny little demon,” she called
you. Ay, there’s the rub. “I’m your Fuckdoll Jane.”

You are while your mom works. We dream obscene.
My cock all glimmer. Your cunt cum-drenched bald.

1992

22 Tuesday Sep 2020

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We ran through the snow; from the video
store to your dorm room, with The Hunger in

our hands. You called it a vampire porno.
My friend, “Baby Phat,” you said, called it sin

divine. She lay between us on your bed
as the film played. By the time Sarandon

had gorged on Deneuve’s blood, her rounded red
nails were in your panties and her tampon

dangled from my teeth. You’d said you didn’t
like girls. “Not like that.” Apparently “that”

didn’t include girl-cum as you sucked deep
on her lips. You’ll wake tomorrow, your cunt

needing more, and find me hard, Baby Phat
wet; we two craving you, even in sleep.
][][
Notes:
The Hunger is a 1982 erotic horror movie, directed by Tony Scott and staring Catherine Deneuve, David Bowie and Susan Sarandon. Among other things it features Peter Murphy in a cage while Bauhaus’ “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” plays on the soundtrack.

urgent

21 Monday Sep 2020

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Being dead you spoke Latin, as all dead
people do. You talked of, “ligurio,”

eating your full by licking up. You said
that your, “landica,” needed a kiss. “Go

south, child,” teacher taught. Your clit mewled, snuffled
the scents on my hand. Being friends it crawled

from its shell to kiss me. I love jeweled
queens that glint cum with joy. Back then you sprawled

with your south mouth gaped. Back when Bowie, Prince
and you were still alive. Now you speak words I fear

are hard to translate; still, your dead girl’s cunt
still tastes divine. You know I love you since

we share your darkness, my light. I’m still here;
my tongue in your cunt. Chaos gone urgent.
][][
Note:
According to J.N. Adams (The Latin Sexual Vocabulary, 1982), the ancient Latin verb, “ligurio,” meant, “to eat something by licking it up,” and was used when referring to cunnilingus and oral sex. “Landica,” was the term used to describe the clitoris; however, it was considered such an obscene word that even Cicero was embarrassed to use it and simply mentioned that there was a word but refused to mention what it was.