Tag Archives: Poetry

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moxie

01 Friday Nov 2019

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First I drew her muscles. She had obliques
that would make titans sigh. Her broad shoulders

carried the weight. There are certain physiques
only found in men’s myth, though the daughters

of the gods come in all sizes. I drew
her as she held the world aloft. It’s odd

to call Atlas male. The one that I knew
had no machismo … just mortal, no god,

no false ennui. At her feet I drew her
sisters. That’s who she carried this for, with

a horned-moon on her forehead, storms above
her hips. — I’ve never had a big sister

like what I drew; one made not from men’s myth
but her own common muscles, common love.

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without blood

31 Thursday Oct 2019

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This blood letting. That itch. You don’t approve
when I slice a burr-hole in the soft parts

of my flesh to extract … what? hurt. The groove
I cut is deep but I don’t need Dark Arts

to count the days before it will itch once
more. Let the bad blood, the stone of madness,

out. You’ve called me savage in the essence
of my faith … but without blood it’s useless

to pray. That itch seizes me more and more
these days. I’d let it out if I could cut

where it crawls under my skin and I’ve tried.
Trust me. I’m squeamish of razors and gore

yet I’ve still tried to cut it out. Cut what
itches me. Cut what runs riot inside.

midway

24 Thursday Oct 2019

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

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“Midway through this maddening life,” you know
how this goes, “I found myself unredeemed

in a dark wood.” The “right road” was wrong. No.
The road was gone, as in, damned. What I dreamed.

What I blasphemed. Lovers of words must name
horror. I have swallowed demons before,

felt their workings in me. “Clock: tock-tock.” Same
shame. Same grief. Damn me with a touch of gore

on the cogwheel. Things slow down. In your heart
there is a murmur. You know how this goes.

X-rays show blood clots. Demons I can’t squeeze
out of you. That is my horror, sweetheart,

I’ll lose you midway … despite all of those
prayers and tears and pathetic “don’t leave me”s.

that question

12 Saturday Oct 2019

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

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In a way it’s just like loving a ghost.
Even on our “date” you vanished long

enough to be rude. “Only you,” you boast;
but as I read your new posts am I wrong

to doubt that truth? The problem with the dead
is that they don’t change. You can beg, threaten

and wail but it changes nothing. I’ve said
I hate not trusting you, but that question

refuses to die when I read your posts.
Why hire a soothsayer when I know I

deserve better? — Ghosts might even agree,
they just refuse to stop; that’s why they’re ghosts.

That’s why I’ve finished turning a blind eye.
Little ghost, keep posting. I set you free.

sirloin

11 Friday Oct 2019

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

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I’d hoped I’d have no need to get upset
though I’ve been others’ sirloin before, burned

outside but juicy in. Juice they won’t get.
I stopped being eatable when they earned

all their scorn; insisting that I just don’t,
“get it.” True, there was a lot I never

got from them, which is why they’re not a note
I sing, a name I’ll claim as a lover

who did me wrong. They’re dead space I cast down
like a jealous god; heartbroken to find

out what they did when I wasn’t around.
Odd how the hungry ones get left behind.

I’d say: Tell me that I’m wrong about you.
Show me that’s something you can even do.

doldrums

27 Friday Sep 2019

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I saw him first among the early hills.
It was arousal that drew me. I heard

voices among the brambles and the chills
I felt just then were odd. It’s been rumored

that the lovelorn can love him. He comes, spun
flakes of winter in hues of gray. — He cums

in ways I do not these days. I’d loved one
who loved others. My long sexless doldrums

were a drag but in the hills I heard song
that roused in me what many a Bacchae

before felt, I’m sure. I won’t tell you what
the two of us did, you’ve proven me wrong

to say what a fey goat-god calls foreplay
with a forlorn queen in a bone corset.

][][

NOTES:
The Bacchae were the female priestesses of the Greek god Dionysus. It is from that word we get Bacchanalia, or holy orgy. The doldrums are an old nautical term, now applied to any period of time involving stagnation and depression.

unsex

26 Thursday Sep 2019

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I loved Mad Gruoch the most. All of her poor
impulse control. That hunger for something

like love. Despair. We’d, “feck,” as if some cure
would be found hidden in cresting, crashing

flood tides. It won’t. But in bed her cries
for the spirits to, “unsex,” her—make her

booty thick, came, as she’d cum, with both thighs
quaking. Heartsick, she kept that damn dagger

by the bed. She thought the quip of, “damn spots
on sheets,” droll. Whoadie: she never once walked

in her sleep, but loved my,“milk of human
kindness,” pearled on her breasts. She had her Scots’

unsexed madness. I loved what others mocked:
the witch, the queen, the last highland gorgon.

the morbs

16 Monday Sep 2019

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I want more kisses. I was ten; glum, dim
child, full of shakes and flu-fevers. “Gain dull

wi’ th’ morbs,” you said, as you, my dear Grim
Grin Ghost, perched on my bed. They say feral

kids make feral ghosts. Perhaps. But you held
my hand, sang of Eynhallow the Prankster,

who slit you ear to ear. What you beheld
when you returned you told me in whisper,

in my fever. Spirits don’t keep secrets
from their lovers, not as the living do.

All I get are emojis and dearth. Ghost,
I don’t boast; I’m footnote to both spirits

and the living. Ghost, I want to kiss you.
I want your ruined, slit-slush lips the most.

NOTE:
The morbs is 1880s British slang for melancholia.

blue-fox acid

03 Tuesday Sep 2019

Posted by in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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All my sisters are feminists; all my
mothers gods. But, like in Recovery,

there are three passions that I still deny
I do: 1) Of the tricksters, that foxy

blue-fox acid drove all my low gnostic
thoughts. 2) Once cum was our libation;

now it’s sacrifice. 3) I was shaman
for you, infidel. Back when seraphic

truths felt down and dirty, I thought constant
carnal acts could free us, since chastity

was a curse. I was wrong both times, clearly.
Odd. These days there’s no talk of cock or cunt,

and though I have the blood of witch and nerd,
somehow, “lechery,” is just one more word.

what lasts

23 Friday Aug 2019

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I lost the graveyard today — Lilith’s tree,
Her owls and crossroads; all the souls and shades

I’d call on each night that would wait for me
because I loved them — are gone. For decades

I searched for connection to our dead kin;
though I’m not gifted with Sight, wasn’t born

to walk between worlds. Is a grudge a sin
when it’s over all that left you lovelorn

and lost? They came, tore down Her tree today,
smashed Her altar, stole my gifts. It’s what lasts

when Love is elsewhere. When Love is elsewhere
it’s what I need most. This isn’t dismay,

just a sign that Lilith still loves outcasts;
those of us who live on prayer and despair.