Tag Archives: poem

tad

16 Sunday Dec 2018

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Pain’s reign. Warm in my hand. We’re a relic
of those vanished beasts: sucked into tar pits,

etched into sandstone cliffs. We’re the brainsick
passions of gods. We listen to The Slits,

Cunt Clones, Hole. We say there’ll be hell to pay,
bastards going down. Promise or threat? Vague

reference to oral sex. Call me ashtray.
All those cigarettes scars: nebula, plague,

splatter acid. Odd shapes: relics tad queer.
Hard-core sex sentience. Wisdom through pain.

All my heroes have been old maids, spinsters,
bachelor girls packing. Those without fear

and old-school with their passion. Our freak’s reign:
thrill in my hand, tremors in your knickers.

askew

13 Thursday Dec 2018

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We pulled off the road to a shack with no
glitter on the porch, just the rancid ghost

of your father, a lost hungry Ego,
damaged Id. Fingernail scratches that boast

the things you do scare other kids. Scared stiff
but not scared straight. Love is always askew

in this curved earth, bent sky, the lush whiff
of kink under our nails. I feel for you

as I unzip your fly, ease short-shorts off
wide hips, kissing each dark stretch-mark. I feel

you, go down on you, pressed against the wall
of your childhood home. Your dead dad still scoffs

at your needs. What we do now is love: heal
all his ill work, free the ghosts in your skull.

pot, porn and boo

12 Wednesday Dec 2018

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Three girls shooting hoop with unbound laughter
the time boys weren’t around. One joked about

missed shots. One twirled the ball on her finger.
One talked about art and love and burn-out.

When I consider how my art was spent
it would never be like you and your boo,

your quick-trice slam-dunks, never a moment
all mine though I was the one you went to

when boys return, games end, your friends depart.
Even with the windows shut, pot and porn

cranked to 10, we could still hear your boyfriend
bragging down on the court. That was my art.

Not a lover, but in a world of scorn
the one who loved you, almost to the end.

choke cherries

11 Tuesday Dec 2018

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Deluge of wasps swarm. Their storm sound is huge.
When I feel hot, I flip a lid. It stops.

Complicit in your own misuse I rouge
your twinge, cum-cake your ache. I have the top’s

need for chaos in love. Though wasps flock
when touched I derange, let love bludgeon

me to confess: like witches and warlocks
my art comes from dark flame. In a garden

always in decay, where bile-born insects
swarm, go find choke-cherries. In the temper

and the tantrum find what gets you off bent,
flips your Id, fills you with buzz. All infects

are good, all wounds holy. Our vast sound. Slur
as I acquiesce. Slur as you consent.

pauper

09 Sunday Dec 2018

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First comes the anger, then disappointment
unbridled. Adults with their needs. “Promise

me I’ll never be that,” I begged. Tyrant
in bed, all spit and grit. One more callous

lover in a world of blood, indifference —
You said, “this time no lube,” and pressed in hard.

You said, “don’t tighten up.” What’s the science
deep at work here? No one wants to be scarred

but your dark art always wins. I break quick
since pain is straightforward, behooved to none.

It just is. I’m, though, messy. What I craved
paupered me down. Greed leaves me in a sick

panic so that I’ll return — in ruin,
in fear, in need, like that, once more depraved.

cram

08 Saturday Dec 2018

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Puberty was rough though I am rougher
still. You mumble, “gotta pee,” half way through

being fucked senseless. Strapped in place, collar,
blindfold, clit clamp. The wind in the bamboo

moans low. You’re low, too. You’re stretched. You take it.
Why are parents blind to children’s despair?

This urge, overflowing. First: “Will it fit
inside me?” Then: “Sooo deep!” Lastly: “Right there!”

and, “More!” Homework, after-school clubs, cram class:
all that can wait. You sit on the toilet,

dazed from bliss. It’s the one moment today
when you’re not heartsick. It takes sick love, crass

and raw, to touch you, make you mine, moppet.
Roll you chronic, thick. Fuck you like doomsday.

disembowel

04 Sunday Nov 2018

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Shocking how a shock to muscles, to brawn,
sinew and thew, can ruin me. Hellfire

in the limbs. Rust in the nerves. Pinched neuron
and all at once my head has gone haywire.

Skull pain. Dull brain. All over what? A sprain.
Something inside. A railroad spike jutting

from my chest would be easier. Cocaine
and dime-store morphine won’t dull this throbbing.

My world of muck fuck (sludge boys and goo girls)
is gone, though honorable disembowelment

still holds its appeal. Anything to blur
what I must endure, what rises and swirls

inside me. Pain is a low-down varmint,
a touch divine, a great equalizer.

who

27 Saturday Oct 2018

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I curl my fist inside you feel the slow
wet flow begin. You gnash and thrash and soak

my wrist until your voice is raw, too, though
I still keep it in. At times you mewl, “Choke

me when you fuck me.” At times I do. Lips
sloshing between your hips, your curlicue,

lathered teat: curled clit with spit. Acid trips
don’t last as long as I do down on you

while your spine shivers, mouth O, your haunted
eyes go blind. Few taste this sweet. Few can fit

me as you do. First below. Then above.
Round and around. First the flow, then the flood.

Who owns you? Whose teeth nibble at your clit?
Who taught you that depravity is love?

evermore

08 Monday Oct 2018

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So much repetition. You think I’m crass
what I do to your ass, each time I come

over. “That’s frowned on?” If I can’t trespass
why show up? You’ve been wearing my cum,

like cheap mascara, all day. — Now I frown:
“Not foul enough?” If your child could see you

right now, would she die of shame? Your nightgown
has. Each time puddles form and that funk-zoo

fuck-beast spice fills the room. How to explain
away this bruise? Those nail marks? That hickey?

Here I am, once more, knocking on your door,
“to fuck your shit up.” To spoil you with pain,

that drug of unnatural potency,
always in bad taste. Evermore hardcore.

tension

06 Saturday Oct 2018

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Tension all day. Not drug addled shakes. Not
that coy, mad disquiet soothed, by and by,

from an end of an orgasm. I’m caught
between jitter and soul’s strain. A horsefly

on an ass’s fat haunch. I feel friction
tug at the red thread of my fate. Lewdest

of love: sin. It’s how Sade’s lust has eaten
me brunt. Me grin. Then, am I a sadist?

¡Ai! to myself. — Someone has ridden me
hard. Not who, but what. Something. Some damn thing

from the graveyard where I pray has ridden
me last night. Now I’m vexed. Now I worry

how to cleanse the tension that the dead bring
when you’ve finally got their attention.