it’s not the/ act
of flight that we/ delight
in it’s/ criss-crossing
over/ tree-tops while
holding/ finger
tips
[enter title here]
15 Wednesday Oct 2014
Posted in Poetry
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Tag Archives: poem
perhaps no one ever will again
15 Wednesday Oct 2014
love, can you hear me?
we’re crows calling out to crows
and still winter falls …
dry rub
15 Wednesday Oct 2014
Tags
dry rub, dust-mote sperm, ghost egg, poem, Poetry, sand dune, sonnet, twig of clit
I have swallowed down ghost eggs; my lips dunes
gagging you down. I’m defiling. Defiled
in so many ways, so many shapes, tunes,
concord and chaos. Sink to your knees, child,
the space that you occupy (raw, sublime)
is just wrong; like glow-bugs spattered across
your windscreen. Dunes are moving all the time,
but you can’t tell; even within the chaos
of the orgasm you find no wisdom.
Pity. The things that anchor me down mean
nothing to you. Dust-mote sperm, twig of clit,
dry rub. The living are humorless, glum,
tasty. Watch me roll broken shell between
my lips and swallow. Watch me swallow it.
girl blood essence
14 Tuesday Oct 2014
Tags
drowning, girl blood essence, Hart Crane, Herman Melville, Niger River, Oya, Percy Bysshe Shelley, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Unlike Percy Bysshe it won’t be my heart
that gets washed ashore when the Niger claims
me as her bride. Flesh is complex, flowchart
of routes, tasty tasty mouthfuls. What shames
me is not how undignified drowning
leaves one, Hart Crane playing dice with Melville’s
bones, will Oya see to that, what’s shaming
is how little the soul cares of what spills
between my lips; girl-blood, essence, wave’s curl.
Spills in my lungs; panic, bone-dust, water.
What shames me is that I can’t save the last
gasp of a girly-boy, a boyish-girl.
Yet I walk on. The seas claimed you, lover,
to their depths where all souls lie, still and vast.
sister of 9
14 Tuesday Oct 2014
Tags
chaos at the three cemetery gates, Miss Candelaria, Niger River, Oya, poem, Poetry, Sister of Nine, sonnet
Chaos at the three cemetery gates,
movement all along the Niger River
in the underworld the shadow that waits
shadow in the marketplace the Sister
of 9 her whirling skirts Black Madonna
jabbing the spur of arousal into
the side of the cock’s offense grave lingua
that drew me near the grave I’m with Wilde’s crew
boys of black and blue their DJ’s love lost
for my Oya, goddess and tribe, my Miss
Candelaria; Miss Thang at three gates. Let rocks
sleep, they make you star-crossed; all you lost
in the blue Sister-Brother, please dismiss
this child, this sad post-colonial fox.
grave miscreant
11 Saturday Oct 2014
Shiny grass. Smell the
noun’s shadow. Write
down: “I’m the grave
miscreant,” “Water that
cleans/, flowers that clean
as I go.” Hell’s pronoun.
Mother, each waiting,
for the other queen’s
brilliance, and I love
such queenly
brilliance. Drag, “St.
Michael slay that
old demon,” yet all
my brothers walk through
you, monstrous and
gay. Let us speak,
guest front and fast,
sweat out words,
untruthful land like day
like dew. There is no
beginning. Just this: cloth
burns, oil burns, kisses
burn. Dream of me. Canto
and love. We twist spliffs.
My lover, Zulu and
ghost. Braided and …
her coffin: irons
coppers and
“flowers that
clean as I go.”
][][
Shiny grass. Smell the noun’s shadow. Write down:
“I’m the grave miscreant,” “Water that cleans/,
flowers that clean as I go.” Hell’s pronoun.
Mother, each waiting, for the other queen’s
brilliance, and I love such queenly brilliance.
Drag, “St. Michael slay that old demon,” yet
all my brothers walk through you, monstrous
and gay. Let us speak, guest front and fast, sweat
out words, untruthful land like day like dew.
There is no beginning. Just this: cloth burns,
oil burns, kisses burn. Dream of me. Canto
and love. We twist spliffs. My lover, Zulu
and ghost. Braided and … her coffin: irons
coppers and “flowers that clean as I go.”
prayer bed
09 Thursday Oct 2014
Tags
erotic poetry, hell waiting, phantasmic orgy, poem, Poetry, prayer bed, sin that you can snort, sonnet
“honey, I know something about
talking with ghosts.”
– Yusef Komunyakaa
My bed can always
accommodate one
more; this ain’t a threat
or bet, it’s a damn
promise. Like all
the stone-cold dead
fortune smiles on
a phantasmic orgy.
A gram of sin that
you can snort
down; even ghosts
can have sticky
fingers. Slack-jaw
we blame love
each time things go
wrong. I have
the host’s job of
not placing blame.
Those who slut-
shame have their
own private hell
waiting. My prayer
bed is vast, even
you’re welcome.
You’ve come from
such a far distance,
lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe
your feet with my hair.
I’ll lick you back to life.
I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash
away the dried
cum and snot.
][][
My bed can always accommodate one
more; this ain’t a threat or bet, it’s a damn
promise. Like all the stone-cold dead fortune
smiles on a phantasmic orgy. A gram
of sin that you can snort down; even ghosts
can have sticky fingers. Slack-jaw we blame
love each time things go wrong. I have the host’s
job of not placing blame. Those who slut-shame
have their own private hell waiting. My prayer
bed is vast, even you’re welcome. You’ve come
from such a far distance, lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe your feet with my hair.
I’ll lick you back to life. I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash away the dried cum and snot.
one lame whinny
09 Thursday Oct 2014
Tags
Carthage, one lame whinny, poem, Poetry, Pop-Art Hannibal, Punic War, sonnet
[H]oney carnage Carthage
Hannibal deep in mud,
his horse, one lame whinny,
hobbled, watching her rider,
a man churning, weep
as Rome pulled out.
The Delphi oracles sang
a capella; for the gods
had grown deaf, could
only question the melody
of the worshiper, not
the words or tone.
But there were no
gods here, just
the bloody swarm of
bees in Hannibal’s ears,
splish-splash of his limbs
quivering with boggy
earth, wax comb carrion,
raked horse-hide,
braying. Carnage
and honey. What
else is there? Clash
of arms and then
peace. Death and
then a birth. Deaf
gods and that terrible
whinnying.
][][
[H]oney carnage Carthage Hannibal deep
in mud, his horse, one lame whinny, hobbled,
watching her rider, a man churning, weep
as Rome pulled out. The Delphic oracles
sang a capella; for the gods had grown
deaf, could only question the melody
of the worshiper, not the words or tone.
But there were no gods here, just the bloody
swarm of bees in Hannibal’s ears, splish-splash
of his limbs quivering with boggy earth,
wax comb carrion, raked horse-hide, braying.
Carnage and honey. What else is there? Clash
of arms and then peace. Death and then a birth.
Deaf gods and that terrible whinnying.
][][
notes:
Hannibal (247-181 BC) was the Carthaginian general who crossed the Alps with war elephants to invade Rome during the Punic Wars. The Oracle of Delphi was the name of the priestesses who served at the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, located on the slopes of Mount Parnassus, in ancient Greece.
xenolith
09 Thursday Oct 2014
Tags
a mosquito's song of pain, Claribel Algeria, miscreant ghost, poem, Poetry, sex-mad wraith, sonnet, xenolith
Ahora/ en esta hora/ crepita
más la muerte/ que la vida.
–Claribel Algeria
Under the patio’s
intricate leaves she
strolls off, clutching
quick Faust, her
pupil, to her breasts.
Finito. The man
deceives himself that
he’s unique, that
his cleaved skull
won’t be used as
a smashing
drinking cup,
and that, “Now/ at
this hour/ death
crackles more/
than life.” If I
were a defrocked
bishop and you
sin, would you
still bite hard?
Folklore says it
just takes a soul,
a mosquito’s song
of pain, and it’s done.
But what does myth
know? eh? myth?
myth! yes? But I
have no faith, no
books, no calling.
Bite me. Hard. Blood
slows. Eyes blank.
Heart – tie me
to the xenolith,
make me strange:
miscreant ghost,
sex-mad wraith.
][][
Ahora/ en esta hora/ crepita
más la muerte/ que la vida.
–Claribel Algeria
Under the patio’s intricate leaves
she strolls off, clutching quick Faust, her pupil,
to her breasts. Finito. The man deceives
himself that he’s unique, that his cleaved skull
won’t be used as a smashing drinking cup,
and that, “Now/ at this hour/ death crackles more/
than life.” If I were a defrocked bishop
and you sin, would you still bite hard? Folklore
says it just takes a soul, a mosquito’s
song of pain, and it’s done. But what does myth
know? eh? myth? myth! yes? But I have no faith,
no books, no calling. Bite me. Hard. Blood slows.
Eyes blank. Heart – tie me to the xenolith,
make me strange: miscreant ghost, sex-mad wraith.
][][
note:
a xenolith (ancient Greek: “alien rock”) is a rock fragment which becomes trapped and swallowed within a larger rock.
song of claws tapping
07 Tuesday Oct 2014
Tags
claws tapping, damn that's tight, I'm judging you, licking licks all night, poem, Poetry, polish my blue horns, sonnet, tramp stamp
when I bend over
tattooed on my lower back
runes: l-o-v-e
][
[S]udden love won’t
dark jazz be heard
deadbeats in my
fingertips white
sun beaten ice
red clouds gold
threads in my sax
I can bleats on
them drums grow
wings let the keyboard
slice you down
the middle sing,
then, song of claws
tapping, rap-rap-
rap. What you need
right now is more
than just love. What
sort of outlaws did you
expect, child? I raise
one eyebrow, snort
down miasma, polish
my blue horns until
they shine. There is
beauty in jack
hammers, echoes. That’s
me in the spotlight.
That’s me. How high
the moon? My tramp
stamp scorns you
for judging. I want
risk, go bareback,
licking licks all
night and say,
“damn, that’s tight.”
][
[S]udden love won’t dark jazz be heard deadbeats
in my fingertips white sun beaten ice
red clouds gold threads in my sax I can bleats
on them drums grow wings let the keyboard slice
you down the middle sing, then, song of claws
tapping, rap-rap-rap. What you need right now
is more than just love. What sort of outlaws
did you expect, child? I raise one eyebrow,
snort down miasma, polish my blue horns
until they shine. There is beauty in jack
hammers, echoes. That’s me in the spotlight.
That’s me. How high the moon? My tramp stamp scorns
you for judging. I want risk, go bareback,
licking licks all night and say, “damn, that’s tight.”
memories of my ghost sista 