Tag Archives: Poetry

brogue

13 Monday Apr 2020

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In bloom. In bed. What is it that brogue brings
to you? Listen, can you hear distant moans?

Gods talk. When the air thickens and then swings
around you, when you feel deep in your bones

a wild itch for something more, that’s language,
love, each curious word. If it were fruit

you’d suck them dry, lick at the wet cleavage
juicy sounds make, each temblor’s bloom. What root

buried itself here? What sublime ache? Bloom,
baby, bloom: disco inferno. Now rogue

gods talk through you; their lexicon unique,
chaotic, but still you know. You know. Womb

words. You speak them. In bed. In your rough brogue.
You’re the translation, love –– what the gods speak.

static

12 Sunday Apr 2020

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Taxing. Distracting. Shimmer down shadows.
I spent hours yesterday … with them … talking …

knowing that they’re shade, not ghosts. Goodness knows
there’s a difference. Goodness knows everything.

This good rush of hope that just once hidden
things would want me. I listen to static

in my ears. I swear, behind that foreign
noise are words. Maybe it’s all a sick trick

just to amuse others. Who? Who knows. “Naw.
‘e’s jist de Doctor.” I’ve heard that before,

but not here, not with light and not-light criss-
crossing on the walls … like I’d grind my jaw

over some daft ghost … daft metaphor …
daft bliss that there’s more to this than just this.

withering

11 Saturday Apr 2020

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Here’s my butter’s phat: “That’s what I look bald?”
I asked as they changed the bandages: charred

pink. The wreckage of my forehead –– each scald
kiss-mark –– filleted skullcap’s split. What reward

is there in surviving? This: you shall name
the myth others will believe about you.

Withering flames traced my cranium’s frame
(ugh) left garlands of gristle. Each sinew

sutured. Each sequence to be read. Primal
as braille once my scalp’s stitches were removed.

“Can I touch it?” Love, I got scars that’ll make
each of your pheromones moan. I’m this dull

pink all over. Crunchy, you might say. Grooved
deep by heat. What the kids call: shake and bake.

disposal

11 Saturday Apr 2020

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Two tabs of Memory, a shot of Mind’s
Eye, and the tsunamis rise. Vile temper

of the garbage disposal, how it grinds
and screams on nothing behind black rubber

teeth. I’ve inched my fingers to that maw. Dread,
though, stops me: once in there’s no coming home.

That’s not love, you said. Odd, you’ve also said
it’s all love. I remember that my own

temper was filled with screaming, with sea storms
wrecking coasts. You tried to temper my muse.

Nothing calms tempests; like the disposal
I still consume all. Ghost hunger deforms

my dread, makes it something that you’ll confuse
for hope, for home, for something beautiful.

sick months

08 Wednesday Apr 2020

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

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Last year the sugar-making moon arrived
like my neighbors, who rendered fat, boiled sap,

finished their winter-time tales of how they thrived
in lean months. This April, though, has turned crap:

no sap runs, no tap drips, no urge itches.
The dead keep count of the throngs arriving

and each day passes without cure. “Curses
cest by gods,” some say. “Th’ End is Comin’,”

they say; as if there’s never been horror shows
before; as if spring won’t follow winter.

Maple, ghosts and spigots: “’tis not sugar
‘at kills,” in these sick months … just our sorrows.

Neighbors endure with their tales and laughter
and I listen, lean with this sick hunger.

xenomorph, darling [rewrite]

30 Monday Mar 2020

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Quench your thirst — I want to feel your heavy
cold breasts on my back when you mount me. Scrape

your claws across my skull as you hold me
down with one hand, exposing the soft nape

of my neck pulsing with my dull, mammal
blood — I’ve never let anyone do this

before. Love is so had to find. People
say that they’ll work for it, work for this bliss,

but how many do? Is this love perverse?
Then I’ll keep it for all those who’ve tasted

strange ways. Burn me with that violent green flame
in your skin. I’ve tasted rough. I want worse.

Quick, bite here, suck on my lips, lap this blood;
tomorrow none of this will taste the same —

fiasco

17 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Your dead breath on the neck as my hair stands
erect. “Why be ashamed of being dead?”

I asked. “I can’t hold you with wispy hands.
My lips are so cold when we kiss.” You said

you dread going down; all those small complex
movements that oral sex requires. “I know,

I know, death robbed me of my gag-reflex.”
To spit or swallow turned pure fiasco;

my cum flew through your face. Was that what lured
you in, though? Hope for one last kiss — the snips

and snails of my breath? What’s a, “little death,”
to the dead? The air tasted of frost poured

on grave dirt. You couldn’t baptized my lips,
so you stared, enthralled by my fleshy breath.

disquiet

06 Friday Dec 2019

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Others, those you love, have done shit. Good shit.
They’ll be remembered. That’s good. You? Perhaps

not. No one knows your name. One more misfit
writing about vinyl, buckles and straps …

about times before we were cursed with what
got called virtue and Lilith, first to grieve,

fled from such vile disquiet. Before smut
became Her code. Now the daughters of Eve

call smut sin but what do ribs know about
liberation? More than us and our lust.

The world that they want has no place for this.
They’re so certain and I’m so full of doubt.

Lilith, if smut is cursed then smut is cursed.
Then so am I, your priestess, with cursed bliss.

harrowed

20 Wednesday Nov 2019

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She said: Nothing kinky. You said: Don’t break
my heart. Neither of you got what you asked

for in the end. Now she’s gone and heartache
won’t save you from what approaches unmasked,

naked in ways that you could only pine
about. Winter’s twisted passion will say:

She called you apu, daddy, but you’re mine,
I’ll call you enyém, all mine, little fey.

Once you’d have harrowed hell for her. Now hell
looms to consume you. These cold months don’t creep,

they rush thirstily to you in ways that she
never did. That’s also kink, like the smell

of ice on the wind, snowfall’s hiss: Don’t sleep,
love, just watch what I do to your body.

NOTE:
Those who possess a vague unworldly knowledge of their own doom are said to have the fey on them. In Hungarian, “enyém,” means mine and, “apu,” means daddy, as in, “apuci lánya,” daddy’s girl.

damn-cans

15 Friday Nov 2019

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Prayer stink of diesel fumes, heavy with spew
and retch and thirty-three sailors sublime

depth charge billow; surging, rippling through
lean meat hull. Old-school counting time;

the way any cult embraces its fate —
a hint of dark ecstasy. Coffin boats —

how the drowned baptized them. Damn-cans with hate
of brine crushing through the screams in our throats

and the rivets and the hull. Lone language
of war sounds like submariners at prayer,

counting down seconds until the next blast.
Would you speak love to me in such carnage?

Would you kiss me? or let the sea’s anger
hush me love while you stare numb and aghast?