Tag Archives: poem

coup d’etat

03 Sunday Mar 2019

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

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That’s the knife called: She Slits Open.
Once I sang that I’d slice open my gut,

reach in and drag out loops of intestine
if it ever got that bad. Before smut

and my sonnets I lived in Las Vegas,
crossroad of ghosts. I carried her with me

all the time: at the Shrine of the Goddess,
in class, at the gym. I was one sissy

hellbent on going out like Mishima.
Honor is queer, though: once it got that bad

only survival could prove them all wrong —
prove my fey soul is strong — Cosmic Vulva

strong — strong as the ghosts calling me comrade.
Stronger than this old belly-slitting song.

NOTE:
Yukio Mishima was a Japanese author and literary luminary, obsessed with beauty, homoeroticism and death. On November 25, 1970, Mishima and four members of his secret militia entered a military base in central Tokyo, took the commandant hostage and tried to persuade the soldiers there to join in overthrowing the new pacifist government in a coup d’etat. When this was unsuccessful, Mishima committed seppuku, ritual suicide by cutting open his belly.

She Slits Open

hoarfrost

25 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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After school the god Frost loves us naked —
loves how we kiss, our blood filled with fire-juice

flames. With our snowsuits peeled down, your rosebud
peeled wide, with your lewd laugh, the one you use

when you’re on the edge, with the fogged-up glass,
Mad Bad Winter watching, with your groan, “nein,

nicht mein arse,” but it’s often in your ass,
often in your mom’s shed filled with old pine

smoke as you stare without blinking. Gods lost
still love us, love our fire-juice, love the shock

of flame. Frost loves us even though my cum
doesn’t splatter plumbed, feathered, like hoarfrost

on glass. — That’s why it stares as we walk,
hand in hand, through dingy sleet and dusky slum.

crushing dark

24 Sunday Feb 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Always a pregnant shark. I stripped naked,
lurched — and fell into swiftness of her dream

down the dark column until brine chanted
night eyes transformed from iridescent gleam

to the dull brown set in my skull’s ruins.
I come back from the night sea no wiser.

Why the gods single out us twitchy ones
to be their voice I don’t know. With tincture,

with balm, with sauce, the pregnant one, ghost shark,
finds me. But her words don’t translate this side

of tide-water. I flow through crushing dark
without dogma. It’s just womb, moon and tide

without the need for priest, pride or shaman,
without the need for anything human.

groove

22 Friday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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You got klittra on your fingers from rump
shaking on your kid’s hobbyhorse saddle,

cracked curved horn. Glitter oozes at each thump,
spews the bump stroke. One sick beat — bestial,

a touch demonic, a touch of Sodom —
gets your cunt all catawampus. The groove

that spins you through space to cataclysm
orgasms is the same groove that you move

schlip-schlap against the rough saddle. No one
has seen you this high from what a blissful

state can do, heard the bwow-chcka-bwow bass
in your clit that means you are the shaman

who cums, returns and nuzzles the puzzle
of how through flesh the soul embraces grace.

NOTE:
In 2015 the Swedish government officially made klittra, a combination of clitoris and glitter, a legal definition for female masturbation.

jikʼeedgo

18 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Navajo, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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Some sacred texts of smut are smooth as ash,
afterglow’s fire — lightning’s ozone — desert’s

rain. Some are scraggy. Your mom calls it trash.
The nuns call them sin. Holy acts of perverts:

-psycho- -porno- -jikʼeedgo- toothed and notched.
Certain words crack doors wide. Your butterfly

cacti knows this. So does moon blood. Debauched
flesh flow. Sticky chin. Certain words defy

grace and good taste. Words be nasty with want.
These are our myths. Our filth and bawdiness.

The chaste fear this. They are sick in their soul
without either consort and confidant.

We’re rough, we’re smooth, we burn like a furnace —
this makes us blessed, makes us love, makes us whole.

NOTE:
Jikʼeedgo translates into the act of fucking in the Navajo language (Diné bizaad).

crooked

16 Saturday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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When dark fell the dog recoiled in disgust
at the -scritch-scratch- outside of your window.

My voice, all curved ice thorn, called in a gust
of wind for you. The young village widow

and the vicar’s wife both said that I’m one
of the angels cast down in flames. I’ve hung

with Baal’s crew before. They’re dull. No passion.
Night-clad among dark trees give me your tongue.

Under dark skies I’ll bury jackal bones
in you, raise your petticoats, your hackles,

suck your clit dry. Starved thing, invite me in.
I know what lurks in your bones and hormones,

in the dark of your soul and the muscles
of your cunt. I know your crooked, lewd grin.

she bang

15 Friday Feb 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Itchy dreams are my realms. My healing song
doesn’t heal — but it’ll lure you back alive.

Outside of Pahrump, clad in bra and thong,
you crouched in the scorching dark. There were five

of you at this women’s curing sweat lodge.
A friend’s aunt sang for you. Far off, I sang,

too. We forget. The soul is a hodgepodge
of scars. The soul grows in pain: first she bang,

then she change. Only hate and sloth blaspheme.
They sang. I sang, too: in black heat come back.

You’re loved by your sisters, the gods, this earth.
Come back home heavy with your itchy dream

filled with heat. Off in the scrub and sumac
dead things stirred as all your old lusts gave birth.

cravings

07 Thursday Feb 2019

Posted by in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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Some say it was Soyok Wuhti and some
say it wasn’t, but for a year the carved

doll of Ogre Woman, with knife and drum,
lived in my pocket. I was six, love starved,

though our bruja neighbor warned of curses:
children, even strange ones, shouldn’t be left

as toys for spirits deep in the mesas.
What did I know? I was six and bereft

for what I didn’t know. But after school
I’d take her out, play with her violent hair,

her black serpentine tongue, her jaw that clacked
at my kiss. Of course her cravings were cruel.

She taught me that lechery is like prayer.
I was six, love sick, wild for any pact.

NOTE:
Bruja is the Spanish term for witch, while in the Hopi pantheon of gods, Soyok Wuhti, is both female ogre and teacher who enforces good behavior among children. As with all gods and monsters she appears in three forms: as a spiritual being unseen by mortals, as a dancer in costume performing sacred rituals and as a kachina, a wooden doll carved from cottonwood root.

reboot

06 Wednesday Feb 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Systems crash and reboot all the time, just
like mine. I’ve been grazed and groped by eldritch

horrors, plague gods, who bring decay and lust
to the same putrid climax. A love witch

once taught me cures for those sores, but I crashed
for a week, dreaming of crackle and glitch.

After a reboot I’m dazed and abashed;
bodies freshly derelict tend to twitch

and fray while in public. Cosmic heartache
appears in rust around the edges, while

the gods, too stoned to care, watch us corrode,
laughing. What good is backbone with backache?

Off-line soul leaves flesh. Off-line I’m jut vile
numbers. Some queer hateful cipher. Hell code.

burn

05 Tuesday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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I still swear to you by scourge and blowtorch
that at the next stroke you’ll bleat ugly sounds.

Ugly deeds call for the grim “K” of scorch,
quetch, crave. Flick of a supple cane astounds,

raising welts and devils. Call this art brut,
raw burn, a perfect howling pitch locked

inside you. I’ll free it. Others live mute —
waiting for that, “one day.” I know they’ve mocked

your dire itch, your distress. But they don’t cum
when I call you. Bend down. Lift up your dress.

Trust me: I might be cruel working stiff but
I get the job done. Like prayer. Like venom.

Like the song that tells us how to transgress
with the pain that drives both saint and poet.