01 Sunday Dec 2013
thoughts are of muscle and
bone thrash under ankles
and wrists ache as the ropes
cut into muffled moans permeate
the dark truck stop bathroom
straddling at the neck slowly
rip the tape off force
it into the back
of the throat re-enter
with a renewed determination
hard pleasure dead man
switch cutting through
my belly watch
everything spill
01 Sunday Dec 2013
a river of stars flooded
out of me even what’s
beautiful can be pain can
be violent joy where
the first arrow ended
marked the path you must
take to cross to me
the scene has been
set the bow tense
quiver in anticipation
][][
note:
Forever young and looking good tied naked to a tree, a saint popular with solders and athletes, Sebastian was a curly-haired Roman youth shot with arrows on the orders of emperor Diocletian, martyred by the establishment. In 1976, the British director Derek Jarman made a film, Sebastiane, which caused controversy in its treatment of Sebastian as a homosexual icon; though, as many critics have noted, this has been a subtext of his martyr story even before the Renaissance. In his novella Death in Venice, Thomas Mann writes about the Sebastian-Beauty as the “supreme emblem of Apollonian beauty, that is, the artistry of differentiated forms; beauty as measured by discipline, proportion, and luminous distinctions.” From these roots as well as the work of Susan Sontag and other pre-Stonewall theorists arose the aesthetic known as Camp; an acceptance of masculine effeminacy and a “heroism born of weakness.”
01 Sunday Dec 2013
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on cheat the fates
Tags
I.
boom shocka — true love
is not for everyone but
if we are to meet then
we shall like that — boom
II.
Sleepless, I toss and turn
in my bed and listen to
the rain. I cannot see
a way out of this. Of all
the shepherds I am the one
who guides the bull to
heaven. All of the nurses, roots
witches and loving spinsters
I am the one who
will guide you to
the other side. But the green
rain came, washing
away all my paths, the heavy
temple bell reminding
me of all I must
leave behind
just to cheat the fates
and get you back.
III.
if we are to meet
again then let it
be if we are to
meet again then
let it be if we are
to meet again
then let it —
01 Sunday Dec 2013
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on i sat up
I sat up all night
last night knowing
just where you were
who you were with
knowing that everyone
wanted to be your
first because you still
don’t know what you want
yesterday I would
have said do not let
me be your first let
me be the one who
stays but today
I am not so sure
29 Friday Nov 2013
Tags
humans love misery, I love you, no demands, no promises, open mic poetry readings, poem, Poetry, praise the horrible, the twitchy, why we are alone
Praise this frustration. Praise a life without
an ounce of erotic hope. Praise the minus,
the loss, the single bed. Praise all the doubts
that make us sleep alone. Praise the daftness
that says the next world has to be better.
Anything than this, please. Praise the ones
who believe it; that our life-long quirks, our
foul habits, will somehow get us lovers.
At the end of each open mic. I’d ask
the audience, “how many of you are
in good, stable relationships?” and you’d
get a smattering hands. “Yeah, well, we
hate you. This last poem isn’t for you.”
But when I asked who had just gotten dumped,
broken up, slept alone, separated,
divorced, torn asunder by howling wolves,
lost in splitsville, terminated, fucker,
almost always half of the crowd would cheer.
“Yeah, cheers, this is for you, it’s a haiku:
‘Tonight we’re lucky/ you’re coming back to
my place/ we’re all getting laid.’” And like that
the show would be over, the crowd would up
and leave and you could see, even seconds
after the offer, that everybody
was justifying in their heads why it
must be a jape, a joke, performance art
anything other than what it really
was — offering you something new tonight.
Just one night, out you’re entire life,
where all you had to do was show interest,
some spark, that dull Prometheus damage,
and you’d lift the hex, the curse, whatever
it was that kept you from being happy,
from making that fairy tale you keep up
in your skull-bone come true; if misery
is the only shared language that we know
then praise the odd, the twitchy, the outcasts,
fools who ruin their own love, misfits all.
Praise everything that keeps us from this joy.
][][
“Did you know that the first Matrix was designed to be a perfect human world? Where none suffered, where everyone would be happy. It was a disaster. No one would accept the program. Entire crops were lost. Some believed we lacked the programming language to describe your perfect world. But I believe that, as a species, human beings define their reality through suffering and misery.” — Agent Smith, The Matrix (1999)
28 Thursday Nov 2013
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on night’s orphans
Tags
all that's forbidden, alone, poem, Poetry, sonnet, star gazing, Walt Whitman
— I am not naked under summer sky.
There’s so much forbidden to me; so much
you and I can’t do. Here’s our lullaby:
we’d sit on a grassy hill at night, touch
of heat in the air, and with night’s orphans,
crickets, we would sing to you. But twilight
is when you must go home and the heavens
always seem empty without you. Tonight
I’ll sit on our hill and star-gaze. Our future
feels far away, a void full of star-beams
and dark. You can’t join me. I can’t join you.
But if we could — we could — we would whisper
secrets under stars. My heart pounding, dreams
within dreams within all that we can’t do.
][][
“go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families” — Walt Whitman
28 Thursday Nov 2013
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on autobiographia literaria
child of a russian night
witch and spanish poet
in a world of picture-
perfect porn I am curious
about the desires
of the unlovable
and the doomed;
those of us who
dream under the light
of the dog-star.
24 Sunday Nov 2013
Tags
dark honeyed air, drown in it, guitar, ocean's outrage, poem, Poetry, sonnet
… then we were nearing the end of the song.
The sea calmed; each note turned hushed and sublime
and then faded away … I am not strong,
but my strings are tight; full of tears each time
you play me. You have no soul, nothing lies
inside. I’ve seen it drip from your mouth, run
down your chin, melt out of your hollow eyes.
Each time you squeeze me tight these songs summon
mermaids who live in my dark honeyed air.
Each time I sing tales of the sea-gypsies
I find new words for the ocean’s outrage.
My waves are chaos. Sometimes they enter
all your harmonies … they make me vicious,
one day I’ll drown in lascivious rage.
][][
notes:
“Well she’d held a bass guitar and/ she was playing in a band.
And she stood just like Bill Wyman,/ now I am her biggest fan …”
—The Smithereens, Behind the Wall of Sleep.
22 Friday Nov 2013
Tags
love affair with the living, my heart huuuurts, poem, Poetry, something organic, sonnet, Sylvia Plath
I want to keep you. I want to swallow
you. I want to do your laundry. I want
to feed you all your meals. I want to know
the taste of your sleeping eyes. Do not haunt
me like this. What am I to you? A dumb
toy? You do not do. You once let me kiss
each crumb from your mouth. You fed me on crumbs.
I feel my heart—it beats—hurts. What is this
need for something organic? something warm
to sleep on—the breasts of a trespasser
returning from alien dreams—let dawn
creep in. Even I can be a newborn,
screaming about this ghostly encounter
of ours, screaming until my voice is gone.
][][
“you do not do/ any more … ”—Sylvia Plath
21 Thursday Nov 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on cold tongue on warm flesh
Tags
art, Buzzcocks, cold tongue on warm flesh, death changes nothing, erotic pain, ghost lover, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Of course I believe in hell—What’s worse
than this? Wanting one you know you shouldn’t?
No, that’s what we all do. It’s that old curse;
finding out just what a vile and blatant
bastard you’re stuck with. That’s lamentable.
That’s a joke. That’s the one thing we all say,
“this must end.” I was inconsolable
when you left. I was wretched on the day
you came back home. It’s hard not to despise
someone who takes my love for granted. Death
changed nothing; you’re still a pig when you touch
me. Cold tongue on warm flesh, between your thighs,
your cock filling me. I can feel your breath
coming in quick gasps. I hate you so much.
][][
you disturb my natural emotions/ you make me feel I’m dirt/ and I’m hurt
and if I start a commotion/ I’ll only end up losing you/ and that’s worse
—buzzcocks, “ever fall in love with someone you shouldn’t’ve?
