Tag Archives: poem

cranked

13 Monday Jan 2020

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“Twenty minutes,” you gasp, dropping the phone.
“Beastly perversions,” as your dad calls this,

take time. This is just, “d’baw-chuh-ree,” thrown
in high gear. All that drenched, languid, “sk-hiss,”

rhythm we love gets cranked. Fury cums, it bursts,
leaving us sodden, like prayer. We all pray

in our way. I pray in you so these thirsts
and greeds might slow. No. Climax is doomsday

postponed. Once again that damned car pulls up
and I pull out. Once again we scamper

to get dressed. “¡Sodomite!” your dad christened
me. True, I swing both ways but I worship

with you. Love takes time. In prayer, however,
we cum like feral gods, fuck like legend.

unmasked

22 Sunday Dec 2019

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“Fairy tales and sex shouldn’t hurt,” you say.
“Except when I want them to.” True. Except

when I read to you tales from that ballet
of the Snow Queen and the Nutcracker kept

with her in bed. Tales that turn your requests
toward the need for my flesh. “Press it into

me,” hands pushing your bra over your breasts
and your low-down moan, “split my ass in two,”

as I redden your face … my cock engorged
in your throat. “Love me, kiss me, choke me, fuck

me,” you hiss. Unmasked the best fairy tales
reflect what scares us, like fever dreams forged

in what we refuse. Embrace love’s havoc.
Embrace all that rips away our veils.

all fours

10 Tuesday Dec 2019

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Call it a guidebook; how we survived plagues
without love. — In the scullery I breathed

in your aroma while you spread your legs
my face so close that your hips bucked and seethed,

desperate to be treated rough. Out of all
the plagues of Egypt a loveless marriage

hurt the most. In the laundry room you’d sprawl
dazed in sunlight, cum’d and tongue’d. I’m the bridge

that took you from the stink of your husband’s
disdain to places you forgot were yours.

Can’t you still feel them? Once you burst, squirted
across my face. Once you fled these wastelands.

Do it again. Here’s the map. On all fours
salvation comes in your own cleansing flood.

disquiet

06 Friday Dec 2019

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Others, those you love, have done shit. Good shit.
They’ll be remembered. That’s good. You? Perhaps

not. No one knows your name. One more misfit
writing about vinyl, buckles and straps …

about times before we were cursed with what
got called virtue and Lilith, first to grieve,

fled from such vile disquiet. Before smut
became Her code. Now the daughters of Eve

call smut sin but what do ribs know about
liberation? More than us and our lust.

The world that they want has no place for this.
They’re so certain and I’m so full of doubt.

Lilith, if smut is cursed then smut is cursed.
Then so am I, your priestess, with cursed bliss.

double down

03 Tuesday Dec 2019

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“Venus with a penis.” After Britt’s third
bong hit. After the third time I surfaced

between her legs, with, “Paphian custard,”
on my chin. We left Vegas and August

and soaked in thermal springs. Now our unsafe
sex is just some flashback, lust gone manic,

like you. Did you like your chronic? your waif
boy’s 12-inch tongue? your day that started sick

at the Double Down? She was Britt the Clit.
You were her Mama Jama. I was pleased,

thinking my dust witch happy at last. No.
Even at those springs. Even with Britt’s spit

slick on my cock and the fingers you eased
into her, red rocks still split, stoned and slow.

NOTE:
The Double Down Saloon is a bar in Las Vegas that, at least back in 2000s, had a fabulous “old school break dancing” night once a week. In myth Paphos of Cyprus was daughter of Pygmalion and built a temple to Aphrodite on the island. In Victorian sex-slang, “Paphian cream,” was a euphemism for girl cum.

szeretlek

30 Saturday Nov 2019

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Teach me, I said, all that’s obscene. Taboo.
Vulgar. You loved my poems about flesh.

I can say, “Szeretlek,” that I love you —
but I wanted to learn, “En is nedves

vagyok,” I’m wet, too. Not that it matters.
You’re gone. Lost. Somewhere that I won’t follow;

now that you’ve taught me new curses and slurs …
terms to describe my irksome libido.

That’s not to say that you were wrong. Passion
can be … complex. Perhaps you never learned

that so my words got lost in translation?
In the end what changed? Love never returned.

Are you still lonely with your bad karma?
I’m still writing about clits and vulva.

NOTE:
I use two Hungarian phrases in the poem. Szeretlek means I love you. En is nedves vagyok means I’m wet as well.

pane

25 Monday Nov 2019

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Mist moved beyond the tree tops. “Let’s resume,”
you said, guiding me. We’d hid from the snow

after school that day up in your bedroom—-
with your mom downstairs. You bit your pillow,

keeping your groans in. Off in the forest
dead things rattled; a wet dream, all rime wings,

toothy gristle, stirred. Hoarfrost and dark lust
make for some corrupting magic; somethings

good grades can’t save us from. You soaked my palm
as you curled and jerked — letting a touch more

chill in. Chill and conjure. Even your mom,
sensing cold queer power, paused at the door

while frost and nightmare pressed against the pane,
watching you watch me lick you clean again.

surge

23 Saturday Nov 2019

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With sea salt I drew the five-pointed star
and then stepped inside. I too am the heir

of nine sisters and their nine waves. El Mar-
La Mer-El Mar: they sing it like a prayer

but it’s still conjure. I know the help curled
kelp brings wrapped around my wrist. But unlike

Mer-lin I’ve been exiled from the dreamworld
of this surge. All that which gets pulled, tide-like,

like the moon, have all forgotten my name.
I still think that love can heal the mischief

others have caused here. I still give a damn.
El Mar-La Mer-El Mar: prayer to reclaim

wreckage; prayer that with the sea and enough
of your love I won’t need a pentagram.

NOTES:
El Mar is the Spanish term for the sea and La Mer the French. In the ancient Arthurian legends the wizard Merlin was, “born of the nine sisters of the cold sea, and cast up on the beach by the ninth wave.” There is a type of kelp, Nereocystis, that gets washed ashore on the beaches near where my parents live. It looks like a bull-whip ending in a large bulb with finger-like fronds radiating from it. As a child I’d wrap a bit of the whip-end around my hand and feel the sea pulsing inside.

harrowed

20 Wednesday Nov 2019

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She said: Nothing kinky. You said: Don’t break
my heart. Neither of you got what you asked

for in the end. Now she’s gone and heartache
won’t save you from what approaches unmasked,

naked in ways that you could only pine
about. Winter’s twisted passion will say:

She called you apu, daddy, but you’re mine,
I’ll call you enyém, all mine, little fey.

Once you’d have harrowed hell for her. Now hell
looms to consume you. These cold months don’t creep,

they rush thirstily to you in ways that she
never did. That’s also kink, like the smell

of ice on the wind, snowfall’s hiss: Don’t sleep,
love, just watch what I do to your body.

NOTE:
Those who possess a vague unworldly knowledge of their own doom are said to have the fey on them. In Hungarian, “enyém,” means mine and, “apu,” means daddy, as in, “apuci lánya,” daddy’s girl.

grisly sex

17 Sunday Nov 2019

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For my birthday I give you a butt-plug.
Rubber and wide. “It’ll stretch you open,”

I say, as you hunker down on the rug,
pulling off panties stained with my semen.

All day at school you wear it, feel it throb
deeper each time you sit down. After class,

after your clit’s havoc, you want macabre,
grisly sex. I’ll pull the plug from your ass,

I’ll leave a gaped dark O where my cock shall
go … now it’ll fit when I press myself in

you. I want to fill you … full. “Naaa,” you say.
“What?” “Sodomy is eur sin: naa anal.”

That was that. Still, shame that for me it’s sin
that keeps sex from being a straight cliché.

Note:
This is a re-write of a poem that I had written a couple of months ago. I know not everyone enjoys anal sex but I will admit the reaction I got surprised me: “Ahm naa ganin tuh wark aroond wi’ sum metal up me arse.” I had never realized she spoke with such a thick Geordie (Newcastle) accent.