Tag Archives: poem

murk

08 Saturday Sep 2018

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Fruitcake and sludge love, a love-smudge, dried crust
crusting my nails. Few ghosts come back with pride,

with tales. On our last shift you were tied, trussed,
crotch-rope spreading your pudendal cleft wide

under your scrubs. Release, in all its forms:
from me, from work, that cum-sticky murk smell,

cirque-slush fog. I know how a nurse transforms
with bliss of rope kissing her, “pumpkin shell.”

Bad joke. “Peter, eat her.” Very well: last
kiss, last shift through your cottons. Moist as cake,

as fruit — as the mistake we want and yearn
for, crusts our nails. In the future our past

falls from us — Call this the sort of mistake
that leaves behind only ghost-tales, rope-burn.

niña roja

05 Wednesday Sep 2018

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NIÑA ROJA, Red Girl. SANTA MUERTE,
Lady of Death. I pray to you: bring me

the ghost of she who told me to obey
my dream: “Love, come to the cemetery,

find my grave.” NIÑA, you know I’m sinful
in bed. MUERTE, you know that I’m honest

in my perversions. She came to me, full
of ghost blood and ghostly lust. Now my lust

keeps me awake at night. If she’ll return
once more I’ll bless my next nine orgasms

in your name, bring you cinnamon and burn
your red candles. NIÑA, shaker of limbs.

MUERTE, Saint Death, I beg of you, again,
bring this lovesick ghost back to me. Amen.

[cur][tailed]

21 Tuesday Aug 2018

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Bless dawn. Breathe in fumes: quagmire or morass.

Frenzy with bong, with thong, with rot that smells.

 

Not fit for each, for pressing on. Blown glass,

twisted cotton, a necklace of conch shells.

 

Mess of brawn. The stress of faun legs, satyr

hips, the slur of rapture. But I — rudely

 

stamped and curtailed — greet dawn with the glamour

of meat past prime. Let me dillydally,

 

me loaf. None are waiting for me. None want

to see me stoned, clad in only a lash.

 

Rattle of shells and glass. Rattle of brawn

and bone. If this is frenzy its the gaunt

 

haunt of throat-fucking sort. Like fame, like hash,

like all the horrors that we’ll ever spawn.

shushing-slush

20 Monday Aug 2018

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Gushing-gust. Rammed, slammed, damned as I can slow

downward thrust. From above. From such thick stem

 

lusting-lust heat, then seed. Round cheeks aglow.

Round chin in shambles with spit, cum and phlegm.

 

Bodies are round. Muscles are a myth. No

sinew, no bones, just bliss. Just lunacy —

 

that “rave” in crave. That moan quake. That widow

maker. Fat stem in quim. In cosh. In glee

 

as I plumb the depth of your throat. Convulse.

Gag. Try to stand up. “Back to your knees, cur.”

 

This is a game. I play to win because

you play to lose. To be used on impulse

 

with a thrusting-trust. — Fuck like a centaur.

Cum like a sphinx. Without grace. Without pause.

scrum

18 Saturday Aug 2018

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Fat “B” in “balsamic.” — As in, the noise

you make glazed — “B” in “burst” and “kablooey.”

 

“Oui, spurt.” Beastly comforts. Raspy tomboy’s

face gets splattered just the same. “Oui, rugby.”

 

“B” as in “butch” with “beef shoulders.” Notchy

hips. Half dollar scar from scrum, rucks and mauls.

 

Curvy sinner heat. Makes us kiss-crazy.

Makes you shimmy out of your shorts. “Oui, brawls

 

in bed,” you call this. Hunched blood apple. Stained

bruises. Broken rib. — You could break me. Bleat

 

me. Make me go blind. — What does the tattoo’d

“B” on your thigh mean? You never explained

 

standing in my bath. All bull-girl athlete.

Brawler of beds. Insatiable and crude.

cinders

13 Monday Aug 2018

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Rive as I reach your core — primordial

fornication sprung from the dripping roots

 

of the world tree, cum and splinter. Vernal

equinox. “Toute la nuit.” Dusk fruit’s

 

marrow. I know something about stirring

the tree’s flurry. I, too, have been lovesick.

 

These scars are not from others. The slicing

of my flesh I do myself, just to pick

 

at scabs. Burn stumps. Lightning strikes. I despoiled

that gap, gouged out half my soul. A rough ride,

 

Oui, but it can be done. You want passion

and I want …? to sink into your roots: coiled,

 

packed, tight. All my metaphors leave you pried

loose, pulped with cinders, tattered, all riven.

tatterhood

12 Sunday Aug 2018

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I have followed the asphalt of your spine’s

rough mile; on down by swelter-greased steepness;

 

by back alley’s cant; by your obscure shrine’s

massive quaking hills — into your darkness

 

— shivering dark. This red-tongue landscape.

Tatterhood. Gaped girl-thing in dark jungle.

 

I must gauge this myth by the span and shape

of your splayed-out hips, the taste of your skull,

 

where your fox-headed guide leads me to play.

To pray at your shrine — to out fox the fox —

 

to gauge your gape stretched lush and surreal.

I’ll breathe in your dark, your ideal. The way

 

city’s breath makes a park real — or a box

breathing in the ground makes broken bones real.

squirrel-cry

10 Friday Aug 2018

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This glum bedlam. This sober and sexless

essence. This — I gave up to get better.

 

Others kiss. Others fuck. Others say, “Yes.”

Recall slick thighs, clenched teeth; what came after.

 

Recall, too, that I was once someone’s balm.

Sodden and gorged. Crafted in beauty, formed

 

in lust. Salve for a burning heart. Maelstrom

in those tender hollows. To be transformed

 

like this. To be sloppy in my moans. Curl

of lip. Nails stubbed. What came after heaving

 

upon sweat-soaked sheets making chit-like squirrel

grunts. What came much later with abstaining.

 

Why did you let your squirrel-cry come undone?

Even the morning breeze feels forsaken.

monstrous

09 Thursday Aug 2018

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Sucking on the onyx, the molasses,

in you, while our mothers in the kitchen

 

chortle and your country-hedge of brat fuzz

tickles my nose. Wets my chin. If we’re kin

 

we’re a queer kin. There’s hissing in your hair.

We’re snakes and snake charmers. There is nothing

 

here to vex the tongue. Clit and cock, prayer

fat with blood. An itch. Your fingers moving,

 

pulling me in. Perhaps they’ll notice grass

stains, flushed cheeks, itches itched. You’re serpentine

 

just now, spine arched, hips buckled, monstrous

with need. Sublime in the morning sun. Crass

 

with cum, with becoming love’s lore. Your seam

split wide, your hedge soaked. Perhaps they’ll notice.

hoar frost

08 Wednesday Aug 2018

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I must be careful. I am too in touch

with the wild. The wild in me. There are fish

 

that dream under the black ice. I would clutch

them, suck on their spines, for I am ghoulish

 

when it comes to design. I was designed

for ill. Ill use. Ill skill. My misshapen

 

passions, after a fashion — thick as rind,

hard as crust — follow all that is heathen:

 

cast out. No Eden for me. Hoar frost — hot,

hairy, bad — runs wild in me. I would taint

 

you. Besmirch your faith the way that the ice

lulls the fish to sleep. To leave you distraught;

 

leave you wanting. I shall betray your faint

faith in love. Love is no virtue. It’s vice.