Tags
like your swimsuit line
I’ve trimmed this haiku to fit
these snug syllables
11 Saturday Apr 2015
Tag Archives: poem
11 Saturday Apr 2015
in the bath your thighs
rising from the wild storm waves—
clouds, deep indigo.
GLITCH IN THE FOG
11 Saturday Apr 2015
Tags
bad posture, bad rites, bad teeth, Besos de un fantasma, Cádiz ghost, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, glitch in the fog, lick her karma, palpitations, poem, sonnet, Spanish teenage demons
[[“besos fantasmas,” kisses from your favorite ghost, darling]]
Kiss like an omen. Kiss like its doomsday.
Cold bled lips. “Besos de un fantasma,”
as my lover, a Cádiz ghost, would say.
Swell. Her ozone. When I lick her karma
she melts. Love has no rules, which is why
I’m so bad at it. There should be rites, witch
craft, blood oaths; anything to defy
expectations. I ruined her death, glitch
in the fog, by calling her only half
way home. I’m a lousy fish. I keep her
asleep in my small eye. Palpitations;
she wakes, crawls out with a kiss and a laugh.
I love it all bad: bad teeth, bad posture,
bad rites and bad Spanish teenage demons.
STARTLED MOUTH
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
all blur, bipolar, curry on my tongue, flashcube, poem, retro-cool, sonnet, spork, startled mouth, tube socks, vindaloo
At the gym the boy in the stall next to
me has, “bipolar,” “lovers,” “medicine”
tattooed here and there. I’ve got vindaloo,
rice and curry on my tongue. There’s cotton
balls in my pocket, band-aids, a thing – spork?
Something that’s neither fork nor spoon, and yet
I can’t throw away. I’ve got stains, all cork
and basque, under my eyes. With comb I wet
my hair, smear the steamy mirror. My tube
socks are pulled to my knees. My gym shorts tight.
Bazooka Joe gum in one cheek. My words
might mean shame or pride. Startled, the flashcube
on your camera goes off. I hate that light,
that shows me exposed, my startled mouth blurred.
WHAT WILL BE LEFT
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
betta fighting fish, interloper, ouija, poem, Poetry, Rumi’s love dog’s bark, slack sinew, sonnet, what will be left, Yahweh’s pact
Let all the lovers be consumed into
intimacies. Let the interlopers
play with robbed muscles and slack sinew.
Let the sea give me all its pink corals,
betta fighting fish. I, too, am beta.
The slack sub-boy who has what hunger wants.
I, too, have played with a cardboard ouija;
listened to love’s whine, its nails-on-board haunts.
I’ve let the outlaws in, they’re so certain
that the fuck that they give is the right one.
There’s more plastic in the ocean than sharks;
that is what will be left to our children.
And words. And poems. About Hope’s garden.
And Yahweh’s pact. And Rumi’s love dog’s bark.
by perks
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
laughing with chunks of life
stuck in my hair – “just another
midtown addict,” by perks
WHOMEVER
10 Friday Apr 2015
Pat the bunny, the shadows
are long, sometimes I can’t
always find whomever I’m
looking for. Or whoever. I get
those mixed up. See, you
were an aunt to me. Though
I come from a different womb,
different time, different world,
all that you praised is still here,
like this child that you helped
raised though you didn’t know
it. Come, feel daddy’s scratchy face.
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
even in my dreams
trickster gods are the best fucks
rabbit kicks the moon
SPOOKY BIRD
10 Friday Apr 2015
“Kafé, kasita non kafela et publia filii omnibus suis” — an invocation to allow one to enter someone’s dreams.
Dreams are coming to
the heel just outside,
the shadow in my sly-boot
box says so. This, too, is
a love poem and like all
brief solutions is already
fading. Meanwhile go
nowhere, do nothing.
Every motion wasted.
Finger this hole. On my
lips a sticky residue: jizz,
junk, slicked back hair.
Fleshpot vespers. Spooky
bird. I will enter your dream.
ONE WHO CRACKLES
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
Doc Martins, dry ice, gurgle, mohawks, one who crackles, pale like bone, poem, sonnet, witch
Right at the down stroke, with all your weight thrown
behind the blade, my arms raised to avert
the stroke, there’s a quick blur, pale like bone,
from two small fists, and the front of your shirt
(awkward) implodes. “Witch!” you gurgle; the way
schoolyard bullies splutter when at last laid
low. We love our movies about gun-play
but the thought that a girl could dodge a blade
or punch a hole through ribs is called bollocks.
Physics baffles us. My rain-reddened fists
unflex. I exhale, luster, turn elsewhere.
I tell you of Doc Martins and mohawks –
– of a dim slip-of-a-thing with thin wrists;
one who crackles, like dry-ice in the air.
memories of my ghost sista 