Tag Archives: poem

BUT THE MACHINERY OF HALLUCINATION …

06 Thursday Mar 2014

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“and ’tis known a pretty piece of flesh am I.”
— Shakespeare

… is just simple brass trapezoids, organs
attached to organs, atoms to atoms.

The thermometer’s quicksilver lengthens.
Wheels whirr. Steam steams. These retrograde systems,

archaic even, concentric streamlined
gadgets, working elements that Dante

called hell, all of this, everything I find
inside myself, this heart beating away

in the dark, will one day melt into air.
Stop. Cease. Listen. Hear it? The cynic’s star

laughs, makes signs of the hobo and the bum.
What a piece of work caught between despair

and joy. I count the beats, play the guitar
and wait. I’m air. I’m song. I am rhythm.

epigrams xi.99

23 Sunday Feb 2014

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Feb 23, 2014 (1)

Feb 23, 2014 (2)

 

De cathedra quotiens surgis — jam saepe notavi — pedicant miserae, Lesbia, te tunicae … sic constringuntur gemina Symplegade culi et nimias intrant Cyaneasque natis.

“I’ve noticed when you get up from the couch you’ve been assfucked, Lesbia, by your wretched skirts. Your skirts are caught between your massive cheeks as big as two Gibraltars — it’ll be a tight fit.”

— Martial, «Epigrams XI.99»

root bound

23 Sunday Feb 2014

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Midnight sweetly suck soft peaks hard ridges
a cute twitching ear. Clandestine, candle-

less acts each panting partner’s pubic fuzz
old-growth jungle in darkness the cruel

sticky fun things that we who in stillness,
nocturnal fragrance, tongues in the sun, gag

down our dear flora moon’s rootbound tresses.
Holding captive junk, black ink, midnight skag,

eyelids close — our hats tipped forward, low slung
guns, or pecs or whatever you call it.

Just think: I will never sleep with you, you’ll
never know such love, or taste such a tongue.

And yet you go on — thinking all this shit
is good. And it is. It is just awful.

venus that drips

12 Wednesday Feb 2014

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Where do the dead — all the sleepless — belong?
This dark world swollen with song. Their throats singed,

bellies bloated, eyes milk; what do they long
for? Was it the bitter tune that unhinged

them? What strains hard at the leash? What chomps down
at the bit? What, indeed, bawls through the mist?

Something wicked. Ignition and meltdown.
Toes curled. Well greased. No stifled screams. Hips twist.

Jaws lock. A web of spit between their lips
and a slither of light between their thighs,

since the garden was empty. It was night.
Twitch the curtains apart. Venus that drips.

Luna, there is nothing in your moonrise.
Nothing but song that I heard by moonlight.

the erotic key

12 Wednesday Feb 2014

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“Started with a kiss,” you wrote, “this winter
of change and debauchery,” which, sadly,

more of us don’t get to write; the writer
being more repressed than most warm bodies.

Still, Sir Francis Varney and Carmilla
were born from the fear of carnal knowledge

and so were you. Yes, hashish and vodka
blur lines. Yes, there is a vulgar language

even the most repressed can speak, even
you; when the winter wind sings a welcome

at the door and pine wood burns in the fire.
Still, if I’m the erotic key, you shun

me; sex-mad puritan. If I’m freedom,
you fear me; one more blood-phobic vampire.

the sick art

11 Tuesday Feb 2014

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The time has come to tell tales of the dead.
Strictly speaking, terror is rational

fear, fear of what is known; horror, instead,
is fear of all that is irrational.

The night versus the day. Dionysus
versus Apollo. But the erotic

world has no such separations; lewdness
is just what we make it. I know the sick

art to make you flood; the soft seduction.
A slick, sultry mouthful; these are queer tastes.

Do you care? Day or night? Crude or sublime?
Rational? Irrational? Moon or sun?

Living or dead? When your dam bursts
I will drown, going down for the third time.

in praise of selfies

10 Monday Feb 2014

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“they can only do harm” — depeche mode

][][

Please let there be no sexting, no naked
photos of me out there; the things I’ve sent

over the aether, the whether, the flood
of cocks and cunts — thousands of indecent

problematic photos —- gwads all the wads
and spume and pleasure from which comes all this

photography. Call it “selfies.” Gods
know we earned it; we who don’t dismiss bliss;

honest pleasance; this rude thrill of others
watching what we do. Because you watch. You

do. You fuckers, and I mean that in all
truth. We’re the ones who slide our tongue on slurs,

foreskins, clits, Christian folly, honeydew
rhyme; we’re the saints who fuck in saviors’ hell.

mayhem of the night [2]

30 Thursday Jan 2014

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If we forget this kindness in winter
that is fine for it still remains. Springtime

persists. The new moon bulbs rise, no longer
held down by the mayhem of the night. Slime,

pulp and blood of a different kind birth;
the realm where there is no mercy. Nothing

can be reborn at this depth. With no earth
or prayer; where do the souls of those drowning

alone at sea go? Who will call for them?
Who will remember? These seasons, solstice,

new moons fix nothing. Love, where do you lie?
I will find you, raise you from this mayhem,

little fish, stillborn — — It was no kindness
when the sea washed clean your death-clouded eyes.