Tag Archives: poem

waterloo sucking

27 Friday Sep 2013

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A man stepped out of fantasy, where you
called him Master and he called you Bad Slut;
ending always in your own waterloo:
sucking the cock of a man you hate. What
tedious repetition, exactly
unlike sunlight that streams with grace. I love
kink, too, but Doms seem to be creepily
similar. Drop the whip and the kid glove.
I will mark you, there will be pain. Your streaked
gaping cheeks across the vacuum of space,
into a tale where my shadow assumes
its face. I have no needs, save that you piqued
my interest in your need for pain. With grace,
love, I will dominate you from the tomb.

notes:

The French emperor, Napoleon Bonaparte, was finally defeated at the town of Waterloo. To say that someone has “met their Waterloo,” means that they have had an unexpected defeat. As in that ABBA song of the same name, “Waterloo/ knowing my fate is to be with you”

horny goat weed

26 Thursday Sep 2013

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He would look like a girl, save for that curl
of a beard, that fine, thick hair, those antlers.

He skips girlishly but in ways no girl
ever skips. When he kisses he offers

you all of Arcadia, for his tongue
is far sharper than his pipes. During sex

you catch him maa-ing with pleasure. He’s young,
bound in the response of the moon, reflex

of the stars. Imagine heavy, round limes
lost in the leaves. When you swallow his cum

he melts into you like myth. His singing
is of worlds you will never see. Sometimes

you hear his hooves clicking in the kitchen,
his rude goat cock hanging silent, dreaming.

glee of the wind

26 Thursday Sep 2013

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Frozen Lake Michigan, a flat ocean
of ice; a sight that I don’t want but will
come and find me, like the night to the sun,
or two headlights to a deer. We say “chill,”
we say “cold,” but what barefooted pilgrim
could walk these beaches and still be happy?
What warm sympathy could the winter’s grim
love have? hidden in our houses the glee
of the wind is both orderly and daft.
Singing but what does that mean? Storm shamans
might know, but there are none left to answer.
Winter! I would defeat you if my craft
would do so; but such magic and options
aren’t mine. So I must live with your burdens.

faith is faith

26 Thursday Sep 2013

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window

What was it like on your first starry night?
the one thing we all have at least one of.
If you’re old enough to understand light,
to be able to raise your head above
your chin then you’ve seen stars. You were not born
back then, for me. And all the love and hate
and small words we use to describe well-worn
emotions meant nothing while all the great
weight of the heavens hung over my head.
How is it that just then the child is sure
that we are part of something far larger
than just ourselves, but later call faith dread?
Before faith was a faith is faith. Before
we had words for enemy or lover.

metal never forgives

25 Wednesday Sep 2013

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all the ancient classic fairy tales
have always been scary and dark.
—- Helena Bonham Carter

How much cold can you abide? If you kissed
me now you’d hear how the wind mews and talks
to you. Across the tundra of this tryst
you called me, like the warmth of a snow fox
in the endless night. I come from the west,
dreaming about blackberry juice; roughly
watching it trickle down your chin. Tongues pressed
tip to tip, although warm flesh on icy
metal never forgives. Little candle,
moppet, June spark, I would lick the hoarfrost
from your breasts, if I could; I think you’d just
sputter, though, warmth being such a fragile
play thing. How far will you go, my star-crossed
flame? The winter dark is my name for lust.

trying to explain the internet to my dead aunt

25 Wednesday Sep 2013

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The ghosts of my hard aunts all called themselves
butch and worked the graveyard shift making jeeps.
I am a fey thing, in love with bookshelves
more than pool and Patsy Cline, one who keeps
family close in this wild new age. Type
in “aunt,” “jeep,” “butch,” and, “Squirting on my truck’s
gearshift,” appears. Aunties, my waiting past,
where does Stonewall fall when these finger fucks
cock sucker blues can be found anywhere?
The dead give little reply. I’ve built worlds
on their broad shoulders. Love is a small price.
Just know your daughters and sons are a prayer
unasked for but here all the same. Your girls
and boys love you, I hope that will suffice.

yes, sin

24 Tuesday Sep 2013

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Slowly, summer waking, you rise, lovesick
beastie, cacophonous, the way all fucks
before dawn make noise. We’re not awake, slick
in dream, wet under the sheets. Your stomach’s
end, the last stopping point of pubic bone
before the drop off and the hard column
rising before me. Wheeling in a blown
sky we are only voices. Come, we cum,
sea fire berries so ripe we cast shadows
on the waves like a Berber tale. Slowly,
with North Africa’s heat, rise. Are you sin?
Yes, sin. You pull away, crying like crows
denied their due. I’ll sail to Barbary,
aboard a tramp steamer, The Jianzhen.

what sleeps inside

24 Tuesday Sep 2013

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“Know thyself and all will be revealed.”
― Pamela Theresa Loertscher

Find what they would do but cannot. Find what
sleeps there, the other nature, disjointed
but still distinct. Words that we use — hag, slut,
bitch, dyke — all have their sacred counterpoints.
The witch, the lover, the queen, Brynhildr’s
shield maid who’ll stand by her side at World’s End.
There are other dreams, of course, ones that stir
sleeping souls. Rose and amber. The girlfriend
who dreamed of a necklace — white, frothy, thick
— hiding each breast — then along came a tongue
and left them slick. The soft ball coach who aches
for war like a field marshal. Be you sapphic
or straight, pink or brown, rich, poor, old or young,
tell us whats inside, what rises, what wakes.

notes:

Brynhildr : Old Norse legend name from the Nibelungenlied, queen of the Valkyries. Her name is composed of brynja, meaning “armor, coat of mail,” and hildr meaning, “battle,” from which we get: armored warrior woman.

peaches and herb

23 Monday Sep 2013

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Chocolate and booze, sighs the diabetic
alcoholic, while Reunited plays
in the background. There’s nothing poetic
about this shit. Poets make lousy lays.
Despise their words they don’t last long in bed.
Promise me you’re not like that, letting your
ego dictate your libido. The dead
give much better head than any cocksure
pre-teen. Tween. Teasing. Of course, cock sucking
is your forte. It’s why you write about skanks
instead of being one. Just look at me,
diabetic, alcoholic, bragging
like I bought my own lie. The booze I drank.
The fucks I gave. All the shit I sell you.

suffer fools

23 Monday Sep 2013

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You said, “steal only from the dead, rarely
do they file plagiarism charges.” But
we the dead do not suffer fools lightly
in all your hundredweight and penny pound.
You don’t even know what a banyan tree
looks like, so how can you sit under it?
Mecca means nothing but Robot TV.
Instead you rip off the Jews, yet omit
the small detail that those words are not yours.
So, you say, what does that matter? We built
our world on the shoulders of the Other.
Plus, they are our words now, it’s what our wars
prove. Yet you still don’t know the word for guilt?
Odd, that theft to you could ever matter.

note:

The line “hundredweight and penny pound” was stolen from Johnny Cash’s song “When The Man Comes Around,” and it doesn’t even rhyme with“but” … But …!