Tag Archives: Poetry

fool

16 Tuesday Mar 2021

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You look sad, Auntie. We’re shadows, azure-

eyed, made from lust and stardust and despise

 

blood and afterbirth. Fools fear our power

to peel off our pelts. Fools fear change, disguise,

 

the way floods deform and do not deform

dry earth. But, Auntie, what use are nightmares

 

if you can wake up? Why try to transform

when we can slaughter? We don’t need more snares

 

Fools keep slipping free from. Call Onibaba.

She’s a friend. She has farseeing vision

 

and short cruel knives. Fools call her, “Hag with Tusks

and Fangs Chitter-Chatting in her Vulva.”

 

Fools fear her carnage; her love of carrion;

how she sucks both down to their very husks.

][][

Notes:

In Japanese folklore Onibaba is a female demon.

chars

07 Sunday Mar 2021

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Next time you’ll count the scars. There will be more.

Grizzled, you’ll think. Frost burn. It takes time

 

for me to undress. Stitches hold my gore

in place for now. This pain isn’t sublime,

 

the sort that shamans use. It’s not De Sade’s

doomsday, either. First time I saw someone

 

tear at their clothes as they transformed gnawed

at me for weeks. I will be fifty-one

 

in less than a week. If I come back all

grizzle gray and limping will you confuse

 

me for the Moon? I can read all the scars

on her face. Can you read mine? This queer scrawl

 

that spells my fate each time these stitches ooze

fevered flames. Heat that grizzles. Heat that chars.

bakkheia

28 Thursday Jan 2021

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Some just loathe Ecstasy; like the Roman

who turned our Gorgeous Boy of Lust and Rage

 

into some frail sot. To fear masculine

beauty is to fear the divine. That age

 

that tried to switch Dion-(bow chicka bow

wow)-ysus with besotted ol’ Bacchus

 

ended bad. This isn’t heresy. My vow

is still to He Who Swaggers With Quenchless

 

Thirst. The one god not appeased by widespread

worship, sacrifice or floor pie. Altars

 

do not sooth him, nor prophets who soothsay.

Only madness in dance, in art, in bed.

 

No priests or holy laws. Only lovers;

we few who obey when we disobey.

lolls

27 Wednesday Jan 2021

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Slick from a randy varmint, your nipples

swell in your strappy tee as I watch you

 

take the pills that we found on the motel’s

bathroom floor. You taste just like witch’s brew,

 

rancor, a chloroform soaked handkerchief.

Ill pills freeze time then turn our lust heinous.

 

You are the color of storm and I grief.

On your back, your head lolls off the mattress

 

as I grind in. Your throat bulges, jaws twinge

as my balls smother your nose. You gag-retch,

 

spitting cum, bile and ache down your forehead.

Fuck fiend, you called me, words that made you cringe,

 

once … like love, or every time that I stretch

you wide; an act that you both long for and dread.

xenolibido

22 Friday Jan 2021

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Panspermia: Life hidden in drifting

space dust; scatterings of queer DNA

 

awash in the high heavens. Begetting

the ones zealots fear on Earth. Castaway,

 

satyr, witchling; this would explain but not

excuse my lecherous bursts. The drama

 

of throat fucking in public. Your distraught

“¡Oi!” as you wear my cum like mascara.

 

There is no ill will in our tribe. We hunt

all who love their carnal but odd essence.

 

Xenolibido. “Whores of Babylon,”

the saved sneer. No, try Betelgeuse. Try cunt.

 

Try cock. Try us all. But they won’t. Not once;

their junk genes come from dullest of god-spawn.

][][

Notes:

Besides being a great name for a drag queen, panspermia is a theory that life on Earth originated from alien DNA drifting on galactic winds, searching for a suitable environment to call home. The plot of the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers explains that the pod people came to Earth in the form of gelatinous creatures able to survive in the vacuum of outer space. I tend to fall on the side of astrobiology and ask for some actual proof before announcing that something is possible, but I do like playing with the idea in poetry. People who are very very keen on the idea of extraterrestrials tend to point to Fermi’s Paradox (which more or less states, “Empirical evidence is for Sucka MCs/ P-Funk’s Mothership Connection puts/ the xy chromosome in sexy”) and speculative fiction as to why they got a D- in high school science but an B+ in creative writing (naming no names, of course).

barco

18 Monday Jan 2021

Posted by in A Girl and Her Submarine, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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Santa Muerte, escúchame. Pretty

Lady, hear me. It’s not alms that I crave

 

but a submarine for my poetry.

Submarino del poeta. With wave

 

and tide, with cat and book, I’ll learn liquid

-rolling verbs, new words for endless motion.

 

Is a boat too much? I’m not craving blood.

Mother mine, mi madre, if your children

 

in FARC have one, might I too? They call theirs,

“Narco barco.” But mine will be your shrine

 

in the brine; a place to write, sail and pray

under a seafaring sky. Hear my prayers,

 

Pretty Lady. Mamá Roja Divine.

Grant me: Templo de la Santa Muerte.

][][

Notes:

We call her Our Lady of the Holy Death (Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte). She is a folk saint, unrecognized by the Catholic church but worshiped by both members of law enforcement and Narco cartels. Outcasts and outlaws are drawn to her for it is said that she answers prayers immediately and protects against violent death. I use several Spanish words and phrases in the poem. “Escúchame,” translates into, “listen to me.” “Narco barco.” is slang for any sort of boat used in drug smuggling. According to the BBC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) once utilized homemade submarines for that purpose, each costing around £1.3 million to build and could hold a crew of five.

bait

10 Sunday Jan 2021

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You got us, trolls. We’re the unhappy few

with sub-par brains. We got no savvy. Our

 

tribes of scribes? Dim-witted. Our no flow crew?

Sucka MCs. Our erotic lives? Sour

 

grapes. All that you accuse us of is true.

This is the safe way out. “Poet is Priest,”

 

Ginsberg cried. But trolls got no god. They spew

hate. They laugh when we take the bait. “Artiste,”

 

they sneer. “Poseur.” All that grief, misery

and fear that drives us means nothing to them.

 

Ire we’re seen, dead we’re raised, gods who return

for our love: all proof of our lunacy.

 

We’re fools, drunkards, dullards who think mayhem

is art, who think it means something to burn.

faux

30 Wednesday Dec 2020

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“I too Analyze,” the spambot confessed,

“with Safe and Sexy cam models!” “Big Dick

 

Trickle.” “Dajuana Cox.” “Mother Knows Breast.”

So much for my Shakespeare essay. Type, “Schlick,”

 

in by mistake and whole new worlds open

up. It makes research a tad hard, bastards.

 

Still, I’m sure friend Spambot had lots of fun

crafting wretched sex puns from all my words.

 

Kinda respect such asinine zeal

to the Absurd. Genet would’ve been proud.

 

Flarf. Faux Joejobs. Spoems. Ass-‘n-9. None

of it sparks joy … like Dick Trickle. Surreal

 

but not clever. Cold but not kinky. Loud

but not sublime. Zealot but not shaman.

][][

Notes:

Jean Genet is one of my favorite petty criminals and playwrights. Champion of Theatre of the Absurd he wrote The Thief’s Journal and Our Lady of the Flowers (where Divine, of Pink Flamingos fame, got her name). The idea of this poem came from Steven Frank’s Spamusement! which took subject lines from spam emails and turned them into single-panel gags. Flarf, Joejobs and Spoems do the same thing but, as I’ve often found, without the humor and self-awareness that makes Frank’s work a joy to read.

nostalgia

29 Tuesday Dec 2020

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Around the time when earthly pinks and pearl

had been drained from the sky and the crows rose

 

in their trees to caw gray into the world

I stirred in nightmare, in sodden nightclothes,

 

in that sick sweat I get when pneumonia

curls cute in my lungs. I type in a fog

 

while in bed, one fingered, the nostalgia

of lust both heavy and out of reach. “Flog

 

a dead horse,” you text back. “Lust is all that

you write about.” Perhaps. These new gray days

 

of crow caws and ice match my libido.

Who do I turn to? Even my tomcat

 

retreats. Once I called lust prayer and could praise

pleasure. Now it’s less grace and more deathblow.

études

28 Monday Dec 2020

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Climax, crescendo and the Devil’s joy

wrung from her violin in the café.

 

Later she said: “Oui. You’re ah ‘ice fuck toy.

I weehl steahl you.” Soon she turned to risque

 

tunes coaxed from Paganini’s cursed fiddle;

four strings hinting at uncanny glamour.

 

“Oui. Zat despair een ‘is eyes, unable

to speak because, you know, lairynx can’cair,

 

as I slipped eet from ‘is ‘ands.” The dying,

she said, were, “ah ‘oot,” to fuck with. “Love eet

 

with zair, ‘but mon Dieu loves me’, attitudes.

Pourquoi?” Hers was a fugue seducing

 

glamour and the rest just,“’ippy bullsheet.”

Hints of crassest sex from refined études.

][][

NOTES:

Niccolò Paganini (1782-1840) was an Italian violin virtuoso and believed by many to have sold his soul to the Devil for a legendary red violin. I go back and forth as to whether regional accents help a poem or hinder other people from understanding it. The truth is that I have a lot of fun figuring out various accents but there’s no point in writing something no one else can read. Here’s the translation if any of my fake Parisian words confuse:

Climax, crescendo and the Devil’s joy wrung from her violin in the cafe. Later she said: “Yes. You’re a nice fuck toy. I will steal you.” Soon she turned to risque tunes coaxed from Paganini’s cursed fiddle; four strings hinting at uncanny glamour. “Yes. That despair in his eyes, unable to speak because, you know, larynx cancer, as I slipped it from his hands.” The dying, she said, were, “a hoot,” to fuck with. “Love it with their, ‘but my God loves me’, attitudes. But why?” Hers was a fugue seducing glamour and the rest just,“hippy bullshit.” Hints of crassest sex from refined études.