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a darkness and a gleam,/ and the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank
received it.
Amy Lowell, The Pike
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09 Thursday Apr 2015
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Tag Archives: poem
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09 Thursday Apr 2015
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and if the earthly no longer knows your name,
whisper to the silent earth: I’m flowing
to the flashing water say: I am.
Rainer Maria Rilke, The Sonnets to
Orpheus, II, 29
(translated by Stephen Mitchell)
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09 Thursday Apr 2015
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screaming to god for death by drowning –/ one salt taste of the sea once more …
Edna St. Vincent Millay, Inland
SLICE BONE CRAZY
09 Thursday Apr 2015
She shows us how to pierce the neck, the shaft
all a quiver in the airway, the man’s
eyes still agog. The poor bastard who laughed,
coughed just once and then flopped forward. Her clan’s
riders swept through the green cornfields, now flame.
All their arrows rose up and then came down.
Gravity, I love you. The sort of fame
she offers in a blood-splattered nightgown
is not for me. Poets do not amuse
her. I’m telling this backwards. She can slice
bone crazy. She has the mark of Venus
in one eye. Is such violence an excuse
to be enamored? Don’t care if the dice
roll tens; I’ll always bet on this princess.
ALL ORANGE GLORY
09 Thursday Apr 2015
“The bud/ stands for all things” – Galway Kinnell
After loss then the libido snaps back
sick and mad as before. I don’t know why.
Knuckles push into moss until – hunchbacked,
straining – I pry the bud apart. My thighs
soggy sorrow burn all orange glory.
What gods would trust a mouth that makes such Os?
Thorny lips … that curl up around all three
of my fingers … a butterfly … that glows
when it dips for nectar — No, won’t go on.
What’s wrong? I feel like I’m faking it. Porn
on a Thursday. After loss why this brief
horniness? Once my fingers are withdrawn
let the bud close, leaving behind thorn,
moss-grown verge and grief. The gods’ own grief.
ALL THE DEAD LITTLE THINGS
09 Thursday Apr 2015
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dead little things, erotic poetry, gnaw at me, left toe-cutting knife, Milady de Winter, poem, sonnet
I love that my fear lives under my bed.
I’ve been down there: torn condoms, used needles,
and my left toe-cutting knife. All the dead
little things I’ve loved and abandoned. Skulls
that will always be prettier than me.
Loose teeth. I’ve swallowed at least six. The jaw
of one Milady de Winter. What she
did — no, spoilers, sweetie. The things that gnaw
at me aren’t what you think. The Internet
where I live: “None of us fuck, see? Sex is
ugly. None of your free, hippy love shit
here,” as Johnny told Nancy. It’s that threat,
you might become mine, I might become his.
Strange how just a floor can become a pit.
danube
08 Wednesday Apr 2015
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deep throating an ice cube, i love how scummy waves sounds, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the most gross water that's ever gone down my throat including lake erie
Just say, “scummy waves;” that’s the sort of kiss
I want. Something so foul that it sucks down
seagulls in its wake. There’s a dead princess
who claims she’s a Czarina. Her pocked gown
looks a tad Orthodox. We made out, once,
though it felt like deep-throating an ice cube.
That cold got everywhere. There’s a science
to it, like when I swam in the Danube;
something pulled both my legs wide. I could feel
each wave lapping. Everything should lap, dog.
And the puckering … and the — tie my tubes,
lip gloss. If you want this, make it surreal.
Like the dead who kiss since they’re only fog,
or the living with fondness for ice cubes.
with flutes and fleas and dung
08 Wednesday Apr 2015
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doing satyrie shit, girlie-satyr, poem, Poetry, sonnet, twin cocked-minotaur, with flutes and fleas and dung
Pick me clean. Strung up I’ll never go down
on my best friend. Never gape or have her
sodden laundry slap my face. All these nouns
define me. I am more girlie-satyr
than twin cocked-minotaur; with flute and fleas
and dung between my hooves. I know the more
that I write today the less I will please.
I hate being someone’s gear-notch; hardcore
engine-grind. I shift. I shaft. Stranger’s love
poems bore me. So what? They still won’t
dig graves or change diapers. Hush. There’s a hill.
(there is always a hill) with birds above
where I sit and do satyrie-shit. Don’t
it just cut ya? like bones in a gristmill.
and then that happened
06 Monday Apr 2015
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all the toys are put away, and then that happened, pegging strangers, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spring break
I yawn. I wake. I walk about bandy
legged without you staring at my scarred-up
leg or the tiger-stripes on my belly.
The crows bring hashish, vervain and julep
root to my window. The ants bring badger’s
foot. It’s good to be alone. All the toys
are put away. The urge to peg strangers
has dulled. I’ve wiped the lipstick off. This bruise
will fade in spring-light; so will all this tensed
rage. I don’t need sap to run with mischief
in my head. I’ve sharpened all the kitchen
knives. The shadows rub their muzzles against
my palm. I’m so full of myself; enough
to know I’m both antidote and toxin.
scars without flinching
02 Thursday Apr 2015
“Ugly,” is what you would call me, if you
were to call me anything. I have one
who can touch the scars without flinching. True,
“I am lucky;” what they tell the burden
so it will stop feeling like one. Sometimes
I want you to see what I look naked.
Mostly I don’t. It’s not like the right rhyme
will make the world love me, or that my blood,
once spilled, would raise a Cain. Of all the shocks
that’s the worse. That all my fears get condensed
to this: I could go out, full of desire
through the rain, with crickets clinging to stalks;
through wind, with seas of Queen Anne’s Lace against
my knees; and I would still drown in such fire.
memories of my ghost sista 