Tag Archives: Poetry

ten

30 Tuesday Nov 2021

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Later you asked, “What are you?” Your sister’s

child? “What are you?” Did you know that the Hex,

what I called these scars, had left their horrors

cut in me? Before puberty and sex

I thought you were hairless, too; but, hunkered

in the store’s bathroom, I was unprepared

as you unbuttoned your cut-up, tortured

jeans. I didn’t have hair, “down there.” I stared

as you straddled the toilet. The Hex vexed.

Yes: what was I? Neither two-heart nor queen.

“Babe not mine, elves stole/ you in the moonshine.”

Stolen? I waited for my turn. Perplexed,

you glanced then gawked at the scars between

my hips; ten infernal marks meaning, “mine.”

writhingly

26 Friday Nov 2021

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

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Tangled hair in foam. Desolate skin. Breasts

beaten in waves. Where will my ghost shark go

when my lung start to fill? The sea’s conquests

shall all pass overhead while terrors flow

around. Listen: even darkness can blur

in the deepening depths. Without gravestone

or bones you won’t call me your ancestor.

Child of stars and storms. Child of a sea crone

and her fishwife. Orphan of all the drowned.

What good are husky-wet lips when you won’t

kiss them? Underflow: make me writhingly

grotesque, like the Sea’s fey or Brine’s hellhound.

Once I pressed to enter you. You said, “don’t.”

We stopped. My grave lays here: in memory.

caked

22 Monday Nov 2021

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Discord in the backseat. Once, as a child

in Rome, I paused too long next to a parked

car at the sound of our neighbor’s voice, wild

and weird. “Leccamela tutta,” she barked.

Lick it up. Blake talked to fiery angels.

Dama Belle in black also knew secrets

but did not explain what, “finding Naples

on a map,” meant. Later, wayward spirits

would teach me how to make my own earthquakes;

but, back then, as both car and my neighbor’s

voice shook, I gawked through the fog-caked window,

baffled. “Fiery the angels rose.” Blake’s

voices were not mine. He saw holy choirs

and I saw la Dedova, the Widow.

][][

Notes:

“Leccamela tutta,” is an Italian phrase that falls somewhere between, “lick it all up,” and, “lick my pussy.” In 1765, when he was only eight years old, Romantic mystic and poet William Blake is said to have had his first vision when he saw a tree full of angels in Peckham park. Naples is the third-largest city of Italy, after Milan and Rome.

mixed

14 Sunday Nov 2021

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Did your mother-in-law ever once guess

that your best friend, Chava, sat in the front

seat while you and I made an unholy mess

under your niqab in the back? “My cunt

needs this,” you shivered and Chava giggled.

Love is so hard to grasp. It’s all taboo

and shame until your friends arrive. Cuckold,

they call it … though what that is in Hebrew,

I don’t know; just that under your niqab

you are flood-warning wet. Later, back home,

Chava will tongue-fuck you in the bathroom,

tasting my cum mixed with yours while you grab

the sink and quake at the touch of a tongue

so long it feels she’s licking out your womb.

cathartic

13 Saturday Nov 2021

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“Secrets of Primal Chaos,” the book said;

an odd find in a dour Baptist bookstore.

A gray girl with a beguiling squid head

beckoned from the cover … as if rancor

and lust were something that the gods just gave

away. I’ve snogged Set, finger-fucked Tiamat,

licked my own cum off Hades’ hands. To rave

possessed is the province of the poet.

Chaos can be chthonicly cathartic.

I took that tome home. It’s on my bookshelf.

Why read it? Turmoil is its own romance;

like how quick licks turn us into mystics.

Sex is prayer. Perhaps one day you, yourself,

will want this, too. Perhaps? Perhaps? Perhaps.

][][

Notes:

Set (Egyptian) and Tiamat (Mesopotamian) are both ancient gods of chaos. When something is Chthonic that means it is from the underworld, subterranean, infernal, much like Hades himself.

glob

01 Monday Nov 2021

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Damn fuck beast, you mumble as I tremble

inside. All at once it’s a throng of beasts

bellowing through you; the stars of your skull

quail and the moon, that great gray glob of grease

and grime and gaudy guts flashes and goes

out. This is how love should end: in carnage

and fire from beastly hoofs. Owl knows. Crow knows.

Kronos knows. I pound your cum into sludge;

wallop your lust, turn your climax all grungy

grim. Love is messy, like children’s street songs,

like minced up monkey meat. As I withdraw,

I leave my beastly snail’s trail of jolly

havoc behind. I’m that which gaily wrongs

you; the only one who gulps you down, raw.

desists

28 Thursday Oct 2021

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Pornographer of Left-hand magic, you

said. Freak. Pervert. Hecaté understands;

we both speak vulgar Latin. The taboo

that you call lust still stands. Magic commands

so much. I burn thyme, hemlock, devil’s weed,

coating my cauldron’s concave sides with ash.

My blood that I kept on ice has jellied,

along with my dumb cum. The zigzag slash

cut in my palm desists to scar. I mix

the red slop with the cinders. “Lingis,”

Hecaté said, “non futuis meam.” Lick me,

don’t fuck me. This is prayer, too. All that licks.

All that laps. All that sucks. Watch how I kiss

her cunt, phosphorescent and velvety.

][[][

Notes:

Hecaté is the Roman goddess of crossroads, witchcraft and ghosts. In a world obsessed with duality we’re told that all which is, “dark must be sinister,” (Left-hand magic), while all that is, “light must be good” (Right-hand magic). Must be, must be, must be. I find such moral claims contemptible since there is no good or bad, black or white, just muddled, ashen gray.

bacchanal

29 Wednesday Sep 2021

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“You did not know me,” Dionysus said,

“when you should have,” and proceeded to fuck

things up. I get that. Gods of rage and dread

aren’t that welcome at the office potluck,

either. But, just once, perhaps, a mellow

bacchanal would be pleasing; a laid-back

debauch with odd friends. Sadly, those I know

do not know me that well. I’m a shy Zack.

I lisp, stutter. People make me nervous;

I like quietude and sloth … except when

eldritch horrors possess me, when I rain

fire and salt the earth after. That luscious

violence when I’m not me; so I must, then,

be you, raving, both bullet and bloodstain.

unfit

26 Sunday Sep 2021

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Ask me. I will. Where I used to dwell I’d smell

the ghost of the red desert stirring, sensed

it wake at dawn. Creosote, sage, the swell

of black palm fronds flinging themselves against

a sky neon green, warm as bath water.

I will. I had the loneliness that sang,

too. It gave me songs but not one lover.

Songs of dust and rust, that horrible pang

of loss that left me sick. I still smell it.

In my sweat and sperm, my gristle. I’ll share

it, if you ask. Songs of blank bricks, Vegas

heat and heartache. I’ll sing of dawns unfit

for these dull days; when even rage is prayer

and we burn together, full of malice.

gambol

20 Monday Sep 2021

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North winds: the old weathercock on the barn

spins, your window rattles. Rain soon. I read

to you until you grow drowsy. The warm

night lulls you to sleep. Tales of lust and greed

are your favorite. Even from here I smell

your wet spot spreading while your breath deepens.

Dreams of night queens and nymphs while the slow swell

between your thighs spreads, tracing your fountain’s

source. “Je suis l’amour qui tue,” the French say.

I’m the love that kills; chastity’s venom.

Let your mom sleep next door; the rain muffles

your old bed springs as your gambol and play

in your fountain while I, lewd ghost, watch dumb

small death bubble up from your genitals.

][][

Notes:

The quote, “Je suis l’amour qui tue,” comes from a fragment I found based on the life of Olympia Mancini, the Countess of Soissons; in theory used as evidence against her in the 1679 witchcraft scandal that implicated many members of Louis XIV’s court, the infamous the Affaire des Poisons. As far as I can tell there is no evidence that this was anything more than part of a salacious broadsheet sold to the public to titillate:

“Ma petite abomination, j’appartenais au démon de la chair; je suis l’amour qui tue.” Chaque nuit a ce criun démon de fille sort d’une cache, s’élance sur la comtesse et se met en train de lécher ardemment son clitoris dont la pointe sortait rouge et enflammée. Infernale lubricité! Par moment, la voix de la comtesse, qui râlait la volupté, dominait cette harmonie étrange, ce concert d’orgie, cette saturnale de sang.