Tag Archives: poem

blunder

16 Thursday Apr 2020

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

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Often I wake up sore and bent. Not riled,
but spent. As if I’ve brawled, bullied in dreams

I can’t recall; the rest of this defiled
life spent in memory. No wonder, “screams,”

and, “dreams,” rhyme so easily. No wonder
I can’t recall. I’ve been on either side

of that word: Bully. Dull One. The Blunder.
Special Ed. I thought … I hoped if I fried

my brain enough I would forget; yet hell
is on either side of that, too. What screams

more than, “sorry, dull child, I couldn’t save
you”? I broke you, child; and since to rebel

is to forget that you’re broken, all my dreams
show me, each time, that I’ve never been brave.

brogue

13 Monday Apr 2020

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In bloom. In bed. What is it that brogue brings
to you? Listen, can you hear distant moans?

Gods talk. When the air thickens and then swings
around you, when you feel deep in your bones

a wild itch for something more, that’s language,
love, each curious word. If it were fruit

you’d suck them dry, lick at the wet cleavage
juicy sounds make, each temblor’s bloom. What root

buried itself here? What sublime ache? Bloom,
baby, bloom: disco inferno. Now rogue

gods talk through you; their lexicon unique,
chaotic, but still you know. You know. Womb

words. You speak them. In bed. In your rough brogue.
You’re the translation, love –– what the gods speak.

static

12 Sunday Apr 2020

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Taxing. Distracting. Shimmer down shadows.
I spent hours yesterday … with them … talking …

knowing that they’re shade, not ghosts. Goodness knows
there’s a difference. Goodness knows everything.

This good rush of hope that just once hidden
things would want me. I listen to static

in my ears. I swear, behind that foreign
noise are words. Maybe it’s all a sick trick

just to amuse others. Who? Who knows. “Naw.
‘e’s jist de Doctor.” I’ve heard that before,

but not here, not with light and not-light criss-
crossing on the walls … like I’d grind my jaw

over some daft ghost … daft metaphor …
daft bliss that there’s more to this than just this.

withering

11 Saturday Apr 2020

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Here’s my butter’s phat: “That’s what I look bald?”
I asked as they changed the bandages: charred

pink. The wreckage of my forehead –– each scald
kiss-mark –– filleted skullcap’s split. What reward

is there in surviving? This: you shall name
the myth others will believe about you.

Withering flames traced my cranium’s frame
(ugh) left garlands of gristle. Each sinew

sutured. Each sequence to be read. Primal
as braille once my scalp’s stitches were removed.

“Can I touch it?” Love, I got scars that’ll make
each of your pheromones moan. I’m this dull

pink all over. Crunchy, you might say. Grooved
deep by heat. What the kids call: shake and bake.

disposal

11 Saturday Apr 2020

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Two tabs of Memory, a shot of Mind’s
Eye, and the tsunamis rise. Vile temper

of the garbage disposal, how it grinds
and screams on nothing behind black rubber

teeth. I’ve inched my fingers to that maw. Dread,
though, stops me: once in there’s no coming home.

That’s not love, you said. Odd, you’ve also said
it’s all love. I remember that my own

temper was filled with screaming, with sea storms
wrecking coasts. You tried to temper my muse.

Nothing calms tempests; like the disposal
I still consume all. Ghost hunger deforms

my dread, makes it something that you’ll confuse
for hope, for home, for something beautiful.

sick months

08 Wednesday Apr 2020

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Last year the sugar-making moon arrived
like my neighbors, who rendered fat, boiled sap,

finished their winter-time tales of how they thrived
in lean months. This April, though, has turned crap:

no sap runs, no tap drips, no urge itches.
The dead keep count of the throngs arriving

and each day passes without cure. “Curses
cest by gods,” some say. “Th’ End is Comin’,”

they say; as if there’s never been horror shows
before; as if spring won’t follow winter.

Maple, ghosts and spigots: “’tis not sugar
‘at kills,” in these sick months … just our sorrows.

Neighbors endure with their tales and laughter
and I listen, lean with this sick hunger.

xenomorph, darling [rewrite]

30 Monday Mar 2020

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Quench your thirst — I want to feel your heavy
cold breasts on my back when you mount me. Scrape

your claws across my skull as you hold me
down with one hand, exposing the soft nape

of my neck pulsing with my dull, mammal
blood — I’ve never let anyone do this

before. Love is so had to find. People
say that they’ll work for it, work for this bliss,

but how many do? Is this love perverse?
Then I’ll keep it for all those who’ve tasted

strange ways. Burn me with that violent green flame
in your skin. I’ve tasted rough. I want worse.

Quick, bite here, suck on my lips, lap this blood;
tomorrow none of this will taste the same —

fivefold

14 Friday Feb 2020

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We’re no burgundy brew crew; derisive
of how slow liquor takes to reach your clit.

We’ve clinched quicker means. Your conservative
spouse and his church clan claim, “effeminate

brats,” like me go straight to hell, boy. The glee
and joy we got each time we rolled your old

cuckold, sloppy drunk sick upstairs, while we
capered (plunged and hit deep, frothed your fivefold

lips, reared back to plunge again) like the brat
cats that we are: witch’s brats. Fuck buddies

with the Black Arts. Lovers of corpulent
terrors. Your husband can’t even, “begat.”

We’re progenitors of beguiling sleaze,
eldritch sex acts, love both odd and ancient.

][][

NOTE: Contrary to popular belief, a “witch’s brat,” is simply a male, of any age, who studies the dark arts under the tutelage of a licensed necromancer. Niccolo Paganini, the 17th century violin genius, was called, “The Devil’s Stepson,” and the “Witch’s Brat,” for his demonic and amazing musical virtuosity.

clean

07 Friday Feb 2020

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That queer scratchy noise; dead nails on floorboards
while my cat snarled, hissed, and backed away —

For a week we didn’t notice. The wards
were up. We were back; fucking like doomsday

was still nigh (please), grinning as I’d ravish
your mouth; feeling you gag on the chaos

of my flesh while begging me to finish
(please) on your face, rubbing my cock across

your outstretched tongue. Of course something crept in
during our shagged-out acts (please); something drawn

by me licking your bones clean. My cat’s wail.
The thing on the floor. For a week our twin

pleasures burned us clean, until doomsday, spawn
of our pride, what the kids called: “epic fail.”

godhead

03 Monday Feb 2020

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Cant (noun) 1) phraseology peculiar to a particular class or profession; 2) the private language of the underworld.

Slowly this language fills in the distance
between us. Once your clit was all the Braille

that I needed, a queer kind of bone. Once
I had no words for the suction cup gale

of your mouth: resting on your tongue love drips
down your chin. Feel how I swell full fathom

like hearts and tempests swell? Now place your lips
around my crown. Yes, suckle me down. Cum

translates into endless ways to love. Those
who drown in love live. Those who live can speak

the words only heard by shamans and bawds —
a queer kind of tongue. Will you spit what flows

in your mouth out or swallow? Let this freak
godhead fly: cunt’s cant of rent boys and gods.