Tag Archives: Poetry

wet with spots

21 Thursday Mar 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on wet with spots

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

On the playground kids sang, “girls with glasses
love it in their asses,” while sugar cubes

melted on our tongues. We’d skipped our classes
to hide under the jungle-gym. Your pubes

poked out from either side of your panties
wet with spots blossoming in the cotton.

When the acid hit us our high school sleaze
cranked to eleven. Some say that children

should be obscene and not heard. “¡Dámelo
por culo!” Your glasses slipped to your nose

as I buried myself balls-deep. My, O!
your, ¡Ai! Back before we learned of sorrow

and our beastly bent acid-fueled shadows
fused. Back when your afro glowed all halo.

name

15 Friday Mar 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on name

Tags

, , , , , , ,

So much ego wrapped up in minimal
space, those vain names. I’m strapped in strapless flame,

split to the hip, one of those criminal
little black dresses whose name you can’t name

but crave all the same. “Unsung,/ well-hung: come
hither, as/ in, slither and cum.” I know

why you feed on praise, need praise, any crumb
tossed your way. Your plain name, your low-down woe

at not being a god, the way you dress
your pride. One day, when you crave more than bliss,

come slink with me. We’ll prowl wearing glamour-
cut cloth. Instead of arrogance we’ll bless

our souls. Nameless. Simple. If you knew this
you would. But you don’t. Not now. Not ever.

NOTE:
According to Buddhism the Second of the Four Noble Truths is that suffering is caused by selfish craving and personal desire.

coup d’etat

03 Sunday Mar 2019

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

≈ Comments Off on coup d’etat

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

That’s the knife called: She Slits Open.
Once I sang that I’d slice open my gut,

reach in and drag out loops of intestine
if it ever got that bad. Before smut

and my sonnets I lived in Las Vegas,
crossroad of ghosts. I carried her with me

all the time: at the Shrine of the Goddess,
in class, at the gym. I was one sissy

hellbent on going out like Mishima.
Honor is queer, though: once it got that bad

only survival could prove them all wrong —
prove my fey soul is strong — Cosmic Vulva

strong — strong as the ghosts calling me comrade.
Stronger than this old belly-slitting song.

NOTE:
Yukio Mishima was a Japanese author and literary luminary, obsessed with beauty, homoeroticism and death. On November 25, 1970, Mishima and four members of his secret militia entered a military base in central Tokyo, took the commandant hostage and tried to persuade the soldiers there to join in overthrowing the new pacifist government in a coup d’etat. When this was unsuccessful, Mishima committed seppuku, ritual suicide by cutting open his belly.

She Slits Open

crushing dark

24 Sunday Feb 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on crushing dark

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Always a pregnant shark. I stripped naked,
lurched — and fell into swiftness of her dream

down the dark column until brine chanted
night eyes transformed from iridescent gleam

to the dull brown set in my skull’s ruins.
I come back from the night sea no wiser.

Why the gods single out us twitchy ones
to be their voice I don’t know. With tincture,

with balm, with sauce, the pregnant one, ghost shark,
finds me. But her words don’t translate this side

of tide-water. I flow through crushing dark
without dogma. It’s just womb, moon and tide

without the need for priest, pride or shaman,
without the need for anything human.

she bang

15 Friday Feb 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on she bang

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Itchy dreams are my realms. My healing song
doesn’t heal — but it’ll lure you back alive.

Outside of Pahrump, clad in bra and thong,
you crouched in the scorching dark. There were five

of you at this women’s curing sweat lodge.
A friend’s aunt sang for you. Far off, I sang,

too. We forget. The soul is a hodgepodge
of scars. The soul grows in pain: first she bang,

then she change. Only hate and sloth blaspheme.
They sang. I sang, too: in black heat come back.

You’re loved by your sisters, the gods, this earth.
Come back home heavy with your itchy dream

filled with heat. Off in the scrub and sumac
dead things stirred as all your old lusts gave birth.

laid bare

11 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on laid bare

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Cyclones and bones blown all pell-mell. Sky-bound,
umber dust lifts your heavy skirts — debauched

with rage, rushed with umbrage, with the crude sound
of storm of sex of my tongue in your notched

plash first gush and then whirl. The earth’s domain,
red gold, laid bare. Mixed with ache aren’t we all

peeled down. On the side of a side road. Rain
on the car’s hood. In the backseat I sprawl

inside you, slouching in your cunt-soaked heat.
Curved thighs crisscross my neck. Conjured hormones

from ghost meat and bones blown high from their graves.
The wind brings us red rock, ozone, heartbeat,

rage. Your clit trembles. It’s what the storm moans,
the gods hunger for, what the cyclone craves.

old school

09 Saturday Feb 2019

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

≈ Comments Off on old school

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Lift your skirts and face the wall. Such good pain,
De Sade’s pain, takes a cane to make your pawg

wobble. With three strokes I’ll break you, again.
There’s an art to the trounce, the wax, the flog.

It’s how I flayed «Z» into your tush. Blush
with what smolders under your petticoat.

First the gush of endorphins, then the rush.
We drop loony toons, microdot, blue goat

so that old-school worlds open. Once I kissed
you. That was wrong. It’s hard being discrete

when it comes to craft but splattering cum
like paint is absurd. A flick of my wrist

brings forth new terror. New wisdom. New heat
freeing you from flesh. Bondage is freedom.

cravings

07 Thursday Feb 2019

Posted by in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on cravings

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Some say it was Soyok Wuhti and some
say it wasn’t, but for a year the carved

doll of Ogre Woman, with knife and drum,
lived in my pocket. I was six, love starved,

though our bruja neighbor warned of curses:
children, even strange ones, shouldn’t be left

as toys for spirits deep in the mesas.
What did I know? I was six and bereft

for what I didn’t know. But after school
I’d take her out, play with her violent hair,

her black serpentine tongue, her jaw that clacked
at my kiss. Of course her cravings were cruel.

She taught me that lechery is like prayer.
I was six, love sick, wild for any pact.

NOTE:
Bruja is the Spanish term for witch, while in the Hopi pantheon of gods, Soyok Wuhti, is both female ogre and teacher who enforces good behavior among children. As with all gods and monsters she appears in three forms: as a spiritual being unseen by mortals, as a dancer in costume performing sacred rituals and as a kachina, a wooden doll carved from cottonwood root.

reboot

06 Wednesday Feb 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on reboot

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Systems crash and reboot all the time, just
like mine. I’ve been grazed and groped by eldritch

horrors, plague gods, who bring decay and lust
to the same putrid climax. A love witch

once taught me cures for those sores, but I crashed
for a week, dreaming of crackle and glitch.

After a reboot I’m dazed and abashed;
bodies freshly derelict tend to twitch

and fray while in public. Cosmic heartache
appears in rust around the edges, while

the gods, too stoned to care, watch us corrode,
laughing. What good is backbone with backache?

Off-line soul leaves flesh. Off-line I’m jut vile
numbers. Some queer hateful cipher. Hell code.

gut-bone

03 Sunday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on gut-bone

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Debauched, my pelvic bone recalls some things.
How she got off on my vestige tail stump.

Craving his 2-heart heart. Breaking bed-springs
in his 2-heart ass. Razing your plump rump

down to the ground, all savage child. “Break me,”
you said on our first date. I did. Twice. Sweat

on your breasts. Dried cum on your phat belly.
You crowed and cawed as I entered. Coquette

of the meat counter. Coquette of maimed flesh,
buff and dastardly. Passions are fickle, —

they change. My gut-bone knows this. My gut-bone
is down for — “Debauched?” you said. “That ain’t fresh.

It’s rad. It’s bitchin’.” Recall how your skull
bloomed as I turned your phat ass to pulpstone.