Tag Archives: Poetry

high tea

23 Wednesday Jan 2019

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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The Green Slime bucket read: gooey, drippy,
oozy, cold n’ clammy. It’s where you hid

all your Boogity Brown. Your mom forbid
you from seeing me, but after high tea,

after kisses, after school we’d sneak down
to the playground to loiter and giggle.

Adults, with their divorce and post-coital
despair, were odd things. I could hear you frown

over the phone after one more lecture
over what good girls don’t do. Cicadas

were just stirring in the bent magnolias.
You stirred, too; back in our skunk heat rapture.

Back when I was your strange, little squeeze toy
and you were my roaring girl, my tomboy.

written at 3:22 in the morning while flying through winter storm harper (somewhere over the midwest)

22 Tuesday Jan 2019

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Of course it’s magic: when the airplane leaves
the laws of gravity, that slight shifting

in my awareness. The sky opens, heaves
us up into it. Just then everything

flows, a tingling in my teeth and toes —-
vodka, cocaine, even the Mile High Club;

it all might happen. Like magic that shows
us how to escape. Millay’s candle stub

sputtered, burned out at both ends. My passion
seems a small thing up here, too. The sky rifts

around us. It’s not the will, it’s the means;
miles high in a box indifferent to sin,

to lewd moods, to all of desire’s gifts.
This realm of celibate gods, sexless fiends.

pique

08 Tuesday Jan 2019

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Visions of an inferno. Queer fire dwells
out there. Fire of the fallen is still fire

that loves you; down to your genes, to your cells.
I do not question what I call desire.

It’s the twist of vulgar gender that piques
me. The drive of geezerbirds and chickboys.

All that bright rich sky in a storm that shrieks
leaden control. Rebel angels knew joys

that their coup d’état brought. To rise. To romp
in flesh that we’re given. To love secrets

that fill the soul, fill up an inferno.
Let’s be messy children who love to stomp,

sing and burn; let’s be the flame that poets
dream of. This fire: make it love, not sorrow.

suck face

07 Monday Jan 2019

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I dream I drown. I vanish with a splash,
somewhere. What love does not osculate? play

smack lip? My face: two black eyes and a gash
cleft by an axe. An indifferent doomsday;

you will never kiss flesh lost to the sea,
never kiss me and we say that a kiss

is where all romance roosts. My velvety
tip of tongue shall be lost. My faith in bliss,

sacred like the tide, shall be lost as well.
Hell shall be tulip sauce, sounds of suck face

elsewhere. My grave mistake shall be no grave
dirt for you to weep over, to bless. Hell

shall be knowing that your kiss would bring grace
but still being lost in this surge and wave.

mort douce

03 Thursday Jan 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Haven comes in psychokick flick-knives, nails,
poor boy honey, joombye and beat-up doll’s

spit, the kind kids call: knee tremble details,
vicious buttercream, phat fanny bomb brawls.

Circle jerks and splooge shissom are code names.
We dance to Kunt Kustard trance, Cock Vomit

and their five finger solos. Roaring-flames.
Lusty-guts. Rump-shakers. Fabulous smut

is my bible, nancy high boy my priest,
roundheeled gal my oracle. Like acid

I lick both sides of the stamp. Odds be raised,
I’m still your lollipop stop, your greased feast,

batty rider. Clit club, a stud of blood
in your sweet death. Mort douce. Dog-knotted glaze.

mercy

27 Thursday Dec 2018

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

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Christmas Eve’s “No First Drink” Recovery
Meeting. The reek of Pall Mall in the air.

Don’t talk now. Don’t stand out. Not of Gyumri.
Not of dead orphans. Not of the nightmare

that haunts you from Nagorno-Karabakh.
Everyone here carries their own horrors.

Right now just listen, just be present. Black
humor, Lilith’s mercy, depraved lovers

kept you, if not lucid, at least sober …
but not tonight. You woke. You sit and grieve,

nod and listen. You love these survivors.
You love everyone but yourself. No prayer

will heal what you conceal under your sleeve,
under your burn scar, your broken knuckle.

aslant

19 Wednesday Dec 2018

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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After dinner your mom pours the coffee
while the grownups gossip. You take me up

to your room. We sit on your bed, your knee
pressed up against mine while distant grownup

voices come from down the stairs. “They’ll hear us
if you do that,” you warn. “I know I’m … loud.”

More than just loud: each time you’re a circus
of sound. You cum with the noise of a crowd

brawling. Hormones tow us. Our bodies
aslant. Sex spray. Lovesick sparks through your clit.

Once your mom caught us; called this sin. Parents
are odd ducks. It’s all sin to them. Your cunt’s

muscles flex. They know we’re both freaks, misfits.
They know if I move you’ll shout: “More sleaze, please!”

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

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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

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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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.