03 Friday Aug 2018
Posted in quote unquote
≈ Comments Off on “they say the sea is loveless,” by d.h. lawrence
They say the sea is loveless, that in the sea
love cannot live, but only bare, salt splinters
of loveless life.
But from the sea
the dolphins leap round Dionysos’s ship
whose mast have purple vines,
and up they come with the purple dark of rainbows
and flip! they go! with the nose-dive of sheer delight:
and the sea is making love to Dionysos
in the bouncing of these small and happy whales.
01 Wednesday Aug 2018
Tags
cat's pajamas, crap soap, odds bodkins, poem, Poetry, shorthair, sonnet, tickless
This is a prayer. Our kiss hang in the air —
like clocks, it stops. Tickless. I have no more
ticks left to give. “By the curly shorthair,”
the kids say, “odds bodkins.” I still deplore
just how helpless I’ve become. It was not
love since I stood up and lovers lay down.
It was not sundown since I get distraught
at dusk and this was bright. Blood had caked brown
around my nostrils. Bruises filled the crook
of my arm. That cough. Easy as despair.
Easy as soap. “There are stains that baffle
soap.” That’s some crap soap, bub. Be suds that shook
the stain in the cat’s pajamas — this prayer:
it starts as a kiss, it ends as a yowl.
31 Tuesday Jul 2018
Posted in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on cupid’s malcontents
Tags
bust a cap, cocksure, cupid's malcontents, drama queen, poem, Poetry, self-portrait, soft boy, sonnet, totally rad
My trash-talk needs work. I want more than gloom’s
muzak, more than these chrome mall mannequins,
half-clothed, standing guard near the changing rooms.
Stripped, I abhor what I see. It frightens
me how I’ve changed. Once I reveled in loss,
desperate for your tongue. Transfixed with romance
halfway down my throat. I loved all chaos;
all of Cupid’s malcontents in hot pants.
I was all that I’d take a bullet for
because there will always be some foul dude
afraid of the fab, of soft boys, who’d bust
a cap in anything rad and cocksure.
Picture this: a queen standing hard and nude
in a changing room — hard and still in lust.
30 Monday Jul 2018
Tags
c'est bon, desert mint, haitian balm, Idlewild, poem, Poetry, red dirt, sonnet, telegraph boy
I want to smell the memory of you
passing on the street. Bells of Idlewild,
orange groves, nine paper roses, bayou
salt flats, the way you sang, You Wicked Child.
Wicked musk. First the cleft where your backbone
merged with your ass and then the sweat. The whine
as my hips grind. “Telegraph boy,” you groaned
out the words. “C’est bon!” Yes, it was good. Spine
bent, eyes wide, thighs akimbo. I walk bent
in boots but your scent is not here. Red dirt,
Haitian balm, incense. None of them were yours.
Or ours. A hint of desert mint, cement,
quisling’s room. It was the last scent that hurt.
Hospice’s razors, flu, IVs, bedsores.
27 Friday Jul 2018
Tags
damp gristle, euphoric heat, gore's soul, knife wisdom, left toe-cutting knife, poem, Poetry, slash season, sonnet
I want a darling not afraid of knives,
in love with the oil and the stone. Who knows
how to hone against bone. My flesh thrives
with pain, with slash seasons, with primrose
-hued welts. What do I need with a summer,
bastard dogwood galore? or an autumn
with lake storms pitching across the sour
waves? What we have is a fist, the wisdom
a fist brings holding a knife. I am yours
for the cleaving, for the euphoric heat
carved in. My skin is ornament enough,
and my will shall be done. Darling, let gore’s
soul guide you through all this gristle and meat
to my trifle of flesh, slash season’s stuff.
11 Wednesday Jul 2018
Posted in Feminism, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on fucktard
Tags
fucktard, poem, Poetry, queer love, sonnet, stay classy, we love, we rise, words always matter
We are swine, wild boars among the bluegrass
and salt-stained rocks. We are bitches, each teat
engorged, each rump distended. We are sass
and rage. Each foul word you use to mistreat
others — fucktard, ignoramus, nitwit —
that is us, too. Why does liberation
for you crave vile behavior? I’m unfit
to judge, clearly. Still, I love my cousin
even if my cousin doesn’t love me.
Today’s rebel is tomorrow’s tyrant
without this connection, without these ties
to each other that make us family.
We own the words that you use: faggot, cunt,
‘tard. So we defy you. We love. We rise.
06 Friday Jul 2018
Kindness is a strange aphrodisiac —
You show me shocking blue bruises, stitches
and a thick tattoo on your lower back
that reads: Baby Mac Sappho. Your nieces
come to visit. Your sister frowns at me.
I look like trouble. The hospital room
is small. I wait in the hall as you three
chat but as soon as they’re gone we resume
where we left off: your gown pulled to your breasts,
thighs wrapped around my neck. Your dishabille
lips, the moon-stud in your clitoral hood,
the way you spurt. All week you had no guests.
That hurt. But this kindness, you say, this feels
good. Just good? I ask. Heh, cuntablunt good.
28 Thursday Jun 2018
It’s not breaking off the tooth, it’s the living
with the exposed root. You are gone. You are
gone. I know that the rain is still falling,
that the earth is still sublime, that the star
I named you for is still out there, somewhere.
It’s this morbid time, time on my hands, time
to think that I can drink away despair,
fuck away all this pain. Time for sublime
errors in judgment. Pain will be the death
of me but what does pain prove? They still move:
the rain, the earth, the stars, all that must part
must part. I held you. You took your last breath.
You are gone. Let this long sober pain prove
that I love you, little blessing, dear heart —
24 Sunday Jun 2018
Tags
a kiss is just a kiss, base pleasures, little bliss, poem, Poetry, sonnet, truth or dare, tsk'd-tsk'd
Death then? Love now. Love what teaches. Despair
combined with sex and poor impulse control
teaches. During a game of Truth or Dare
I learned that the emotional black-hole
called my psyche isn’t good at keeping
friends. The Dare: show me base pleasures. Others
tsk’d-tsk’d. Look where it got them. Still, snogging
takes groin-stirring skill and I know what stirs
your groin, or so I thought. I got confused
and then frightened when you began to cry.
That was neither long death or little bliss,
only shame. When friends say that they felt used
that’s on you. Learn from this, fool. Don’t reply
with a sigh that a kiss is just a kiss —
22 Friday Jun 2018
Posted in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on bereft
But just then temperance whispers: you are dull
sober. You’re still a shit and self-possessed —
the way devils possess the infidel,
the way cancer still lurks in your left breast
— possessed and achingly lonely. Restraint
didn’t change that. All mild calm has brought you
is new panic, all your old fears, that quaint
dread of future fuck-ups to come. You knew
that there’d be hell to pay but why is hell
so worn? forlorn? The last horned god has left
the woods, the last great shark fished from the sea.
This is your inheritance. You shall tell
of your riches — flat, gray, cut off, bereft
— and all that happens after ecstasy.
