Tag Archives: poem

ha in hell

06 Thursday Aug 2020

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Some scars glare. Split chin? Prat fall on acid.
Trippin’. Others I don’t show. Those half-healed

holes in my chest where nipples once rested?
I still keep my shirt on. Nothing revealed

but scabs peeled. I’m crafting a puckered grin
across my tum-tum, this beggar’s belly,

as if I’m trying to spill my guts. Skin
parts just like a zipper’s tug easily.

Again: skin you’ll never see. What is flesh
but a host of nerves that scream? A bit crude

but I’ve learned to live with it; I’ve cut my fat
and carved each nerve ending out. Nerves end; fresh

slices soothe. Not like you’ll soon see me nude
and ask: ha in hell did yee survive that?

braggart

05 Wednesday Aug 2020

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Some like it perverse. Rose petaled bed, warm
music and black silk wrapped around your eyes

cannot mask an abattoir nor the storm
of pain, crisis and hope between your thighs.

Slaughterhouse rules. Faith’s mystery exposed.
Faith mixed with carnage. Let other saviors

curse your soul’s carnal side; souls starve when closed.
–– Will yours? What will save you? –– I’ve got altars

ready for prayer with foreplay, with sweet words.
Ready to blow; strike you down like stockyard

bolts or old-school gods. You’ve got a drunkard’s
need to be saved that leaves me braggart hard.

Bet your soul I won’t? This, too, is rescue;
when you drip cum, my cock buried in you.

complex

29 Wednesday Jul 2020

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Sometimes it’s simple; the way your nipples
grow hard at the thought of soul-damning sex

with my cock in your throat. Face flushed, nostrils
flared; still you choke. Other times it’s complex.

When I cum on your face gods run amok,
turn odd, lecherous as any bar fly ––

Faith is as messy as this facial-fuck
that left you blinking in bloodshot, pinkeye

surprise. There’s other metaphors but they
don’t please; like in your patriarchal

faith: “the Sons of Heaven begat Daughters
of Man.” If all acts lead to the source pray

with me. There is awe when we both tremble
and cum; like fools, like divine messengers.

daemon

27 Monday Jul 2020

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Your breasts, pressed; a valley where cum gathers
like ghosts. Through your bra, your scrubs, your nipples

hardened as you bent over me, fingers
at work. Your dad warned you of white devils.

Your mom said that I wanted just one thing.
If so we’re taking our time. I’m ghostly

pale when pressed against you; all my scarring
in stark relief, my veins glowing faintly.

What do taboos do but hold back chaos?
I love chaos. I love how you bent down

while I sat in the dentist’s chair, nodding
for more. Fingertips soaked. Crudest of sauce

coating each. Dappled ash pressed to wild brown.
I’m your daemon. The best kind of haunting.

breathless

21 Tuesday Jul 2020

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I say, I am proud to be worth beating.
Love gets irksome. Today I’ll get broken.

I say, my limbs are good strung, like stretching,
but with more gore. I say, what hurts is fun;

that quick stroke, devil gone breathless, one hand
gripping. I want bruises across my hip,

dig? With your wrist, sharp red. Let it expand
with each stroke. I say, I pray to the whip

and all metal that cleaves, carves and slices.
I want it between these ribs, push in slick,

then down. I want to hear these bones of mine
shiver, splinter, crack. Grin like a corpse’s.

What pain curses it blesses. Horrific
leads to holy; my demon to your divine.

heat

20 Monday Jul 2020

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Twilight heat. Watching glowworms with no one
to share. I stand naked in the bathroom

and stare at my odd flesh. Scars mark ruin.
In bed I shuffle cards. Lewd heat. Lewd gloom.

I draw King of Wands while the night rooster
crows three times. Valraven reborn in fire.

Consort of the Triple Goddess; lover
without stain. Whose Cock-of-the-flock’s desire

do you think of when manhood rears its head?
None says mine, which is fine; rarely do I,

either. I’m the most unchaste celibate
I’ve known. I prayed that one of the lewd dead

would love me, but no. My toe-curling high
delights none, like summer heat without smut.

][][

Notes:
In Danish folklore, Valraven (“raven of the slain”) would eat the hearts of warriors slain in battle. As a metaphor for masculinity, it is a peaceless soul, restless, only able to calm its terrible hunger through the flesh of another. The King of Wands is a fire symbol, hard to control, attractive and dangerous.

nipping

19 Sunday Jul 2020

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First you scoffed at this. Ecstasy was dread
and hate. I know hate. I’m healing from rape.

I know what men hate. “Yoo’re nae godhead,
fool,” you’d said. You’d just wanted to escape

white dudes’ egos. –– But healing comes with no
strings if you let go. You shake: neck to thighs.

Curing comes when you cum. “Make me flesh flow,”
you gasped, my teeth nipping your nape. Your eyes

glazed each time you pulled me in. I’ve traveled
queer realms to find this cure, though I’m still not

sure my soul’s peace is my birthright. I call
Dionysus father, though he’s troubled

by his bent son. Let me share what he taught,
love, so Ecstasy won’t be our downfall.

propers

16 Thursday Jul 2020

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Salvation? That honor brought nothing but
the blues, the way the gods use to sing them.

The gods are vast and weep, call us, “poppet,”
and, “doll,” and croon. Certain folk still condemn

the blues as Moloch’s music. Certain folk
are fools. Salvation? Before I learned my

proper propers. Before the neighbors spoke
of me with a sneer. Before first goodbye,

my friends were all, they say, pretend until
hormones left me scarred and askew. Then none

of the holy wanted me. When gods dump
you you learn certain folk preach divine will

the way the devil preaches salvation ––
with the lie that the gods want our worship.

next

15 Wednesday Jul 2020

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You smudge your phone with cum-sticky fingers
as this fuck poem ends. The nuns that taught

how good girls don’t cum will know. The others
will know that these nasty words made you hot;

so hot that you came in the girl’s bathroom
during class. You’ve never wanted nasty

poems like you do now. Words that consume
you … bloom inside you. Sexting poetry

itches between your legs. All for you. Swear
that you’ll never masturbate in math class

again, that you’ll be good until the next
poem I send you and the next nightmare

that you’ve longed for: fuck poems that trespass
through your resolve. Nastiest of sex text.

6-2-9

09 Thursday Jul 2020

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The night is round and black, like your throat just
as you gag me down whole. You squirm, settle

your rump on my face. Slow grind as I thrust
my tongue deeper. Hell is straight boy coital,

but as I pull out concerned you gasp: “More!”
For years we put the one in lonely; now,

somehow, we’re two … even if you once swore
how all my kind made you spew. Cum is how

we cure hate. 6-2-9. We’ve got this licked
while I suck the good parts of your soul out.

I prayed for a lover and then you came.
Now we cum. They say that nothing’s perfect,

but this? So damn good. That’s what I’m about
with you: to heal from lives of scorn and shame.