Tag Archives: Poetry

tad

16 Sunday Dec 2018

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Pain’s reign. Warm in my hand. We’re a relic
of those vanished beasts: sucked into tar pits,

etched into sandstone cliffs. We’re the brainsick
passions of gods. We listen to The Slits,

Cunt Clones, Hole. We say there’ll be hell to pay,
bastards going down. Promise or threat? Vague

reference to oral sex. Call me ashtray.
All those cigarettes scars: nebula, plague,

splatter acid. Odd shapes: relics tad queer.
Hard-core sex sentience. Wisdom through pain.

All my heroes have been old maids, spinsters,
bachelor girls packing. Those without fear

and old-school with their passion. Our freak’s reign:
thrill in my hand, tremors in your knickers.

faith

14 Friday Dec 2018

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Glutton, your mom warns. Good girls do not dare
to breathe or move or listen when the moon

calls out. Each night you kneel and beg in prayer,
luna-lune, for toe-curling fucks: typhoon

in strength, cosmic in scope, untold power
in your clit. You kneel by your dark window,

foreplay, leaning into the witching hour.
Foreplay as in what moons discard: their glow

fit to be worn by unicorn-tamers.
Don’t call this smut, call it faith: that someone

somewhere craves you as much as the moon craves
you. Faith that one day soon all your lovers

will come home. If that makes you a glutton,
so be it. It’s your faith that keeps you brave.

askew

13 Thursday Dec 2018

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We pulled off the road to a shack with no
glitter on the porch, just the rancid ghost

of your father, a lost hungry Ego,
damaged Id. Fingernail scratches that boast

the things you do scare other kids. Scared stiff
but not scared straight. Love is always askew

in this curved earth, bent sky, the lush whiff
of kink under our nails. I feel for you

as I unzip your fly, ease short-shorts off
wide hips, kissing each dark stretch-mark. I feel

you, go down on you, pressed against the wall
of your childhood home. Your dead dad still scoffs

at your needs. What we do now is love: heal
all his ill work, free the ghosts in your skull.

pot, porn and boo

12 Wednesday Dec 2018

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Three girls shooting hoop with unbound laughter
the time boys weren’t around. One joked about

missed shots. One twirled the ball on her finger.
One talked about art and love and burn-out.

When I consider how my art was spent
it would never be like you and your boo,

your quick-trice slam-dunks, never a moment
all mine though I was the one you went to

when boys return, games end, your friends depart.
Even with the windows shut, pot and porn

cranked to 10, we could still hear your boyfriend
bragging down on the court. That was my art.

Not a lover, but in a world of scorn
the one who loved you, almost to the end.

pauper

09 Sunday Dec 2018

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First comes the anger, then disappointment
unbridled. Adults with their needs. “Promise

me I’ll never be that,” I begged. Tyrant
in bed, all spit and grit. One more callous

lover in a world of blood, indifference —
You said, “this time no lube,” and pressed in hard.

You said, “don’t tighten up.” What’s the science
deep at work here? No one wants to be scarred

but your dark art always wins. I break quick
since pain is straightforward, behooved to none.

It just is. I’m, though, messy. What I craved
paupered me down. Greed leaves me in a sick

panic so that I’ll return — in ruin,
in fear, in need, like that, once more depraved.

disembowel

04 Sunday Nov 2018

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Shocking how a shock to muscles, to brawn,
sinew and thew, can ruin me. Hellfire

in the limbs. Rust in the nerves. Pinched neuron
and all at once my head has gone haywire.

Skull pain. Dull brain. All over what? A sprain.
Something inside. A railroad spike jutting

from my chest would be easier. Cocaine
and dime-store morphine won’t dull this throbbing.

My world of muck fuck (sludge boys and goo girls)
is gone, though honorable disembowelment

still holds its appeal. Anything to blur
what I must endure, what rises and swirls

inside me. Pain is a low-down varmint,
a touch divine, a great equalizer.

tension

06 Saturday Oct 2018

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Tension all day. Not drug addled shakes. Not
that coy, mad disquiet soothed, by and by,

from an end of an orgasm. I’m caught
between jitter and soul’s strain. A horsefly

on an ass’s fat haunch. I feel friction
tug at the red thread of my fate. Lewdest

of love: sin. It’s how Sade’s lust has eaten
me brunt. Me grin. Then, am I a sadist?

¡Ai! to myself. — Someone has ridden me
hard. Not who, but what. Something. Some damn thing

from the graveyard where I pray has ridden
me last night. Now I’m vexed. Now I worry

how to cleanse the tension that the dead bring
when you’ve finally got their attention.

rattlebone

22 Saturday Sep 2018

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You brood, walk through the graveyard night after
futile night — calling on ghosts to love you

but you forget yourself. You’re no lover,
no tramp, no paramour. You misconstrue

signs. You make a cheapjack witch. Your love craft
is not love at all; it’s pure want. It’s need

gone all rough and unfulfilled. You have laughed
at your loveless life. If ghosts feed on greed

then you could screw a crew with the longing
inside you. But now you don’t laugh. The dead

have no use for you, just like the living —
Graveyard empty. You hunger. Love unfed.

Deprived. Depraved. Wolfish. Delirious
rattle-boned. Ravenous without purpose.

gristle

15 Saturday Sep 2018

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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We are still of use though the gash smells sour,
amethyst rot. We’re twitching devices —

sanded bones and stitches. The worms devour
all that the obsidian knife slices:

meaty scads and sheaves of skin. This butcher’s
love of gristle, of grotesqueness, of boils

that one picks at when they wish the blisters
to burst. The mirror knows how darkness spoils

when cast from its surface. We are of use
because we dream. The stone scalpel cannot.

The hand behind it won’t. Dreams of clabber.
Dreams of grubs in the lesion. We seduce

all that the suture holds dear: curdle, clot,
congeal. Dreams of May rot. Dreams of canker.

colony

09 Sunday Sep 2018

Posted by in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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Your path is in the sea, your path is in the great waters and your footsteps are not known. — from, Psalm 77

Rusty iron ore tramp steamer painted pink
with a great garden of vegetables up

on deck. A tribe of wayfarers, with ink
and love, to sail the steamer, to worship

the waves and all of us in it. Gorgeous
sea-rose, wide mid-ocean. A colony

of cats, of cast-off children, of purpose
other than all this land-locked misery.

Fresh food, fresh water, fresh love; the rhythm
of the voyage slumbers in us. Sea trance

and dream. I want part of this tribal blood
of friends and lovers — in a rust-bottom

pink ship. I want a myth and a romance.
I want a voyage both wild and sacred.