Tag Archives: poem

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.

furies

04 Thursday Oct 2018

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I, too, can’t sleep. I, too, dress in dark heat
and take a walk. Somewhere a jukebox croons.

Somewhere two kids fumble in the backseat
of her daddy’s clunker. Rain soon. Monsoons.

I love those kind of hurried fucks. Hoping
you won’t get caught. Hoping the seat won’t smell

of cum after. But … that need. Me needing
you. I can taste you in the air. Motel

neon. Passing cars. I can taste your need
all the way out here. How do people sleep

when such furies run through them? That low ache.
The sky’s violent passion. Love gone frenzied.

Scent of a wounded night. I walk, knee-deep
in lust. Drops fall but the heat doesn’t break.

giddy

03 Wednesday Oct 2018

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Kitten, run your fingers along my jaw.
This is an appetizer — The French say,

“Amuse Bouche,” mouth pleasure. As in: raw
ginger pushed inside, then sucked out. Foreplay

all day. Pleasure spent with kisses. Tracing
the seam of your jeans. I can taste your clit

through the wet fabric. A touch of teasing,
knowing that I’ll break you. You will submit.

Not now. Soon. Now your tongue is greedily
in my mouth, wrists straining against silken

ties, eyes wide. Each kiss hints at bukkake,
your face soaked with joy, giddy and drunken

licking my thumb clean from where I buried
it in you, all spit-glazed and cum-honeyed.

honey-suckled

27 Thursday Sep 2018

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Bent like so — her wet, bushy cunt is just
beyond the reach of your mouth. My tongue swirls

against your hard bud. Swirl, twirl then a thrust,
sucking your skin in. You grind. You cowgirl

my chin. With two fingers quaver you spread
her, run them back and forth, sink them in, twist,

curl. I’m cock-slapping your clit. Your forehead
is slick from where she rested as you kissed,

honey-suckled her, tempest in your throat.
Honey-blossom, passion is so fragile

in our loneliness. Cashed out blunt, wineglass,
a line of poetry that you misquote —

It’s all good. You smile as you make her mewl.
I smile as I grind away in your ass.

rattlebone

22 Saturday Sep 2018

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You brood, walk through the graveyard night after
futile night — calling on ghosts to love you

but you forget yourself. You’re no lover,
no tramp, no paramour. You misconstrue

signs. You make a cheapjack witch. Your love craft
is not love at all; it’s pure want. It’s need

gone all rough and unfulfilled. You have laughed
at your loveless life. If ghosts feed on greed

then you could screw a crew with the longing
inside you. But now you don’t laugh. The dead

have no use for you, just like the living —
Graveyard empty. You hunger. Love unfed.

Deprived. Depraved. Wolfish. Delirious
rattle-boned. Ravenous without purpose.

gimme some

21 Friday Sep 2018

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Rueful for a dead lover. For three nights
I have been at the graveyard’s dirt crossroads

praying for a wanton haunt. No ghost-lights.
No arms that hold me down; kiss that explodes

in chill across my skin; voice in my ear
going, “shhh, baby.” I’ve abused this skin,

dripped blood and cum in the dirt; read Shakespeare,
Sappho, Blake out loud. All the discipline

I’ve learned keeps me coming back but I cum
alone. Each morning my Love-Crone candle,

Lilith root, Follow Me Ghost trick remains
untouched, sperm-sticky, contrite. “Gimme some,”

the song goes, “Dead girl/ Gimme some.” Rueful
for what must lay beyond these veiled domains.

potluck

17 Monday Sep 2018

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I am naked inside the room to match
my nude mood. I cannot rub the strangeness

from my sight as I pass the mirror. Thatch
of curls. Plump root. An ass to make Venus

jealous. I am a beast with sublime thighs.
You call me, “Daddy.” I call you, “Potluck;”

cumming with you is always a surprise —
Who else cock-slaps your face? With the havoc

of crude sex comes a crude enlightenment.
When you return from class I’ll press my face

in your ass, tongue your clit. May your grand mal
climax be rough like passion; be urgent

like love. I am vain but constant like grace
when you say, “Daddy, break your little doll.”

gristle

15 Saturday Sep 2018

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

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We are still of use though the gash smells sour,
amethyst rot. We’re twitching devices —

sanded bones and stitches. The worms devour
all that the obsidian knife slices:

meaty scads and sheaves of skin. This butcher’s
love of gristle, of grotesqueness, of boils

that one picks at when they wish the blisters
to burst. The mirror knows how darkness spoils

when cast from its surface. We are of use
because we dream. The stone scalpel cannot.

The hand behind it won’t. Dreams of clabber.
Dreams of grubs in the lesion. We seduce

all that the suture holds dear: curdle, clot,
congeal. Dreams of May rot. Dreams of canker.

colony

09 Sunday Sep 2018

Posted by in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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Your path is in the sea, your path is in the great waters and your footsteps are not known. — from, Psalm 77

Rusty iron ore tramp steamer painted pink
with a great garden of vegetables up

on deck. A tribe of wayfarers, with ink
and love, to sail the steamer, to worship

the waves and all of us in it. Gorgeous
sea-rose, wide mid-ocean. A colony

of cats, of cast-off children, of purpose
other than all this land-locked misery.

Fresh food, fresh water, fresh love; the rhythm
of the voyage slumbers in us. Sea trance

and dream. I want part of this tribal blood
of friends and lovers — in a rust-bottom

pink ship. I want a myth and a romance.
I want a voyage both wild and sacred.