09 Sunday Sep 2018
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The sea is a wilderness of waves,
a desert of water.
We dip and dive,
rise and roll,
hide and are hidden
on the sea.
Day, night,
night, day,
the sea is a desert of waves,
a wilderness of water.
09 Sunday Sep 2018
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Why does the sea moan evermore?
Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,
it frets against the boundary shore;
all earth’s full rivers cannot fill
the sea, that drinking still thirsts still.
09 Sunday Sep 2018
Posted in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet
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Tags
colony, ocean poetry, poem, Poetry, sacred voyage, sea fever, sonnet, tramp steamer, wayfaring
Your path is in the sea, your path is in the great waters and your footsteps are not known. — from, Psalm 77
Rusty iron ore tramp steamer painted pink
with a great garden of vegetables up
on deck. A tribe of wayfarers, with ink
and love, to sail the steamer, to worship
the waves and all of us in it. Gorgeous
sea-rose, wide mid-ocean. A colony
of cats, of cast-off children, of purpose
other than all this land-locked misery.
Fresh food, fresh water, fresh love; the rhythm
of the voyage slumbers in us. Sea trance
and dream. I want part of this tribal blood
of friends and lovers — in a rust-bottom
pink ship. I want a myth and a romance.
I want a voyage both wild and sacred.
05 Wednesday Sep 2018
Posted in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet
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Tags
ghost lover, holy death, niña roja, poem, Poetry, prayer, red girl, santa muerte, sonnet
NIÑA ROJA, Red Girl. SANTA MUERTE,
Lady of Death. I pray to you: bring me
the ghost of she who told me to obey
my dream: “Love, come to the cemetery,
find my grave.” NIÑA, you know I’m sinful
in bed. MUERTE, you know that I’m honest
in my perversions. She came to me, full
of ghost blood and ghostly lust. Now my lust
keeps me awake at night. If she’ll return
once more I’ll bless my next nine orgasms
in your name, bring you cinnamon and burn
your red candles. NIÑA, shaker of limbs.
MUERTE, Saint Death, I beg of you, again,
bring this lovesick ghost back to me. Amen.
21 Tuesday Aug 2018
Tags
curtailed, dillydally, gaunt haunt, hashish, mess of brawn, poem, Poetry, slur of rapture, sonnet
Bless dawn. Breathe in fumes: quagmire or morass.
Frenzy with bong, with thong, with rot that smells.
Not fit for each, for pressing on. Blown glass,
twisted cotton, a necklace of conch shells.
Mess of brawn. The stress of faun legs, satyr
hips, the slur of rapture. But I — rudely
stamped and curtailed — greet dawn with the glamour
of meat past prime. Let me dillydally,
me loaf. None are waiting for me. None want
to see me stoned, clad in only a lash.
Rattle of shells and glass. Rattle of brawn
and bone. If this is frenzy its the gaunt
haunt of throat-fucking sort. Like fame, like hash,
like all the horrors that we’ll ever spawn.
13 Monday Aug 2018
Tags
cinders, dripping roots, lovesick, lovesick ghosts might, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Toute la nuit, Vernal equinox
Rive as I reach your core — primordial
fornication sprung from the dripping roots
of the world tree, cum and splinter. Vernal
equinox. “Toute la nuit.” Dusk fruit’s
marrow. I know something about stirring
the tree’s flurry. I, too, have been lovesick.
These scars are not from others. The slicing
of my flesh I do myself, just to pick
at scabs. Burn stumps. Lightning strikes. I despoiled
that gap, gouged out half my soul. A rough ride,
Oui, but it can be done. You want passion
and I want …? to sink into your roots: coiled,
packed, tight. All my metaphors leave you pried
loose, pulped with cinders, tattered, all riven.
12 Sunday Aug 2018
I have followed the asphalt of your spine’s
rough mile; on down by swelter-greased steepness;
by back alley’s cant; by your obscure shrine’s
massive quaking hills — into your darkness
— shivering dark. This red-tongue landscape.
Tatterhood. Gaped girl-thing in dark jungle.
I must gauge this myth by the span and shape
of your splayed-out hips, the taste of your skull,
where your fox-headed guide leads me to play.
To pray at your shrine — to out fox the fox —
to gauge your gape stretched lush and surreal.
I’ll breathe in your dark, your ideal. The way
city’s breath makes a park real — or a box
breathing in the ground makes broken bones real.
10 Friday Aug 2018
This glum bedlam. This sober and sexless
essence. This — I gave up to get better.
Others kiss. Others fuck. Others say, “Yes.”
Recall slick thighs, clenched teeth; what came after.
Recall, too, that I was once someone’s balm.
Sodden and gorged. Crafted in beauty, formed
in lust. Salve for a burning heart. Maelstrom
in those tender hollows. To be transformed
like this. To be sloppy in my moans. Curl
of lip. Nails stubbed. What came after heaving
upon sweat-soaked sheets making chit-like squirrel
grunts. What came much later with abstaining.
Why did you let your squirrel-cry come undone?
Even the morning breeze feels forsaken.
08 Wednesday Aug 2018
Tags
besmirch, hoar frost, misshapen passion, no eden for me, poem, Poetry, sonnet, vice
I must be careful. I am too in touch
with the wild. The wild in me. There are fish
that dream under the black ice. I would clutch
them, suck on their spines, for I am ghoulish
when it comes to design. I was designed
for ill. Ill use. Ill skill. My misshapen
passions, after a fashion — thick as rind,
hard as crust — follow all that is heathen:
cast out. No Eden for me. Hoar frost — hot,
hairy, bad — runs wild in me. I would taint
you. Besmirch your faith the way that the ice
lulls the fish to sleep. To leave you distraught;
leave you wanting. I shall betray your faint
faith in love. Love is no virtue. It’s vice.
07 Tuesday Aug 2018
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It is Isis the mystery/ must be in love with me.
