Tag Archives: poem

faith the scar

29 Thursday Aug 2013

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Sexless – godless — raptus — itself a drift
without dim mortal faith the scar-marred home
of sand wind look into the sea the rift
between walking naked into froth-foam
of tide naked before a vast junkyard
of words that do not please. To worship sea
is to worship alien a graveyard
for the others to worship mystery
all that words cannot name a god shark finned
I will not die. On land dry I will swim
out drown drown drown into bliss into bliss
into bliss into that which drives the wind
because it has come to this it has come
to this O faith it has come to this.

cut here

28 Wednesday Aug 2013

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Tonight I’ll drink and think. Tonight I’ll pluck
from the air one last clamorous kiss. Ghost
lovers shall come and cum. As in: we’ll fuck.
As in: I’ll boast of my dumb brute brawn. Boast
of my blade, but not this blood. Rouge’s belly.
Twin-twined guts. Cut here. Though each layer flails
the skin nothing to breathe in what body,
what shape, what pains to give you my entrails
I got guts beating days off through the blur
of stone and dark bud. All that I still trust
I still love. I’m weary of ugliness,
but not drinking, not thinking. And after?
Will we still fuck when I’m dead? When our lust
is the only thing standing between us?

ghost winds

28 Wednesday Aug 2013

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Hearing nothing, understanding nothing,
I have wandered out among the long, dry
ghost winds. The sky has stolen everything.
My eyes are full of dust. Why does the sky
blind me and wish me ill? On my two hands
tattooed stars shine, but they are useless guides.
Blind. Blind. Blind. Maybe up in the highlands
I’ll find rest, make a dress out of goat hides
and sleep among the sad daphi-daphi-
dillies. Then I’ll forget to be afraid
and eat raw honey right out of the comb.
Maybe. But look what’s been stolen from me;
my sight, my soul, my name and why I prayed,
even this mirage that I called my home.

overshot

25 Sunday Aug 2013

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dunce2

once I overshot from the drunk
that she siphoned off pleasure
from base to tip perhaps
she just liked the word dunce
as if all her students weren’t
young and dumb and full
of cum I sucked her lime
sodden lips tasting queer
tequila, salty, on her rim
and too young to know
what the hell did she
just put in her mouth

the ghost of frank o’hara

20 Tuesday Aug 2013

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The ghost of Frank O’Hara leaves early

huge with desire. He sees through you, ogles

your ass while on the Metro; this fleshy

world! It’s what the living do that dazzles!

Only in poetry are ghosts obsessed

about panties. In novels it is briefs.

Plays call for jockeys. Textbooks might suggest

underwear. This language, ghosts claim, motifs

about buttocks and thongs. “We died before

thongs!” If you see a ghost gaping at you

in the changing room, say: “Bad Ghost!” I’m sure

it’s tough being behind the times, tattoos

and rings and whatnot being in right now

except for Frank who is always hip somehow.

sister vagabond

18 Sunday Aug 2013

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Who made this big O? Who milked all this cream
then got off? Which shaman brought the secret
of the orgasm back? Who brought the dream
of how to speak to the gods home? Read smut,
those hoarse orgasmic screams make this worship
look like child’s play. But I’ve been down on you
all night and you’ve yet to fling yourself back-
forth in the tall duffled grass. Sure, I knew
that not all prayers are heard. Between loadstones
and ghost loads both point to something beyond
grasp, but only one causes you to touch
the true divine. After gushing cum moans,
return and tell me, sister vagabond,
about what you once laughed off as nonsense.