Tag Archives: Poetry

goatish, dim soul

21 Tuesday Oct 2014

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[first a sacrifice]

Now cup your hands. Hold them out like begging
or prayer. In that space where your palms do not

touch think of something decaying, something
alive. Breathe in this goatish swamp air, what

others call “swamp pussy.” Now cup your hands.
Hold them out to implore, pray. All the rot

of your swamplands are burning. Your swamplands
on fire in your poor, cupped hands. You cannot

let go. I’ll pray for you and your goatish,
dim soul; a beast led to slaughter. Don’t hope

that the goat knows the end of the rope. Prayer
stops when the goat is pulled forward. I wish

I had never seen that. The knife, the rope
and the terrible motion in the air.

dry rub

15 Wednesday Oct 2014

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I have swallowed down ghost eggs; my lips dunes
gagging you down. I’m defiling. Defiled

in so many ways, so many shapes, tunes,
concord and chaos. Sink to your knees, child,

the space that you occupy (raw, sublime)
is just wrong; like glow-bugs spattered across

your windscreen. Dunes are moving all the time,
but you can’t tell; even within the chaos

of the orgasm you find no wisdom.
Pity. The things that anchor me down mean

nothing to you. Dust-mote sperm, twig of clit,
dry rub. The living are humorless, glum,

tasty. Watch me roll broken shell between
my lips and swallow. Watch me swallow it.

girl blood essence

14 Tuesday Oct 2014

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Unlike Percy Bysshe it won’t be my heart
that gets washed ashore when the Niger claims

me as her bride. Flesh is complex, flowchart
of routes, tasty tasty mouthfuls. What shames

me is not how undignified drowning
leaves one, Hart Crane playing dice with Melville’s

bones, will Oya see to that, what’s shaming
is how little the soul cares of what spills

between my lips; girl-blood, essence, wave’s curl.
Spills in my lungs; panic, bone-dust, water.

What shames me is that I can’t save the last
gasp of a girly-boy, a boyish-girl.

Yet I walk on. The seas claimed you, lover,
to their depths where all souls lie, still and vast.

sister of 9

14 Tuesday Oct 2014

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Chaos at the three cemetery gates,
movement all along the Niger River

in the underworld the shadow that waits
shadow in the marketplace the Sister

of 9 her whirling skirts Black Madonna
jabbing the spur of arousal into

the side of the cock’s offense grave lingua
that drew me near the grave I’m with Wilde’s crew

boys of black and blue their DJ’s love lost
for my Oya, goddess and tribe, my Miss

Candelaria; Miss Thang at three gates. Let rocks
sleep, they make you star-crossed; all you lost

in the blue Sister-Brother, please dismiss
this child, this sad post-colonial fox.

grave miscreant

11 Saturday Oct 2014

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Shiny grass. Smell the
noun’s shadow. Write

down: “I’m the grave
miscreant,” “Water that

cleans/, flowers that clean
as I go.” Hell’s pronoun.

Mother, each waiting,
for the other queen’s

brilliance, and I love
such queenly

brilliance. Drag, “St.
Michael slay that

old demon,” yet all
my brothers walk through

you, monstrous and
gay. Let us speak,

guest front and fast,
sweat out words,

untruthful land like day
like dew. There is no

beginning. Just this: cloth
burns, oil burns, kisses

burn. Dream of me. Canto
and love. We twist spliffs.

My lover, Zulu and
ghost. Braided and …

her coffin: irons
coppers and

“flowers that
clean as I go.”

][][

Shiny grass. Smell the noun’s shadow. Write down:
“I’m the grave miscreant,” “Water that cleans/,

flowers that clean as I go.” Hell’s pronoun.
Mother, each waiting, for the other queen’s

brilliance, and I love such queenly brilliance.
Drag, “St. Michael slay that old demon,” yet

all my brothers walk through you, monstrous
and gay. Let us speak, guest front and fast, sweat

out words, untruthful land like day like dew.
There is no beginning. Just this: cloth burns,

oil burns, kisses burn. Dream of me. Canto
and love. We twist spliffs. My lover, Zulu

and ghost. Braided and … her coffin: irons
coppers and “flowers that clean as I go.”

prayer bed

09 Thursday Oct 2014

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“honey, I know something about
talking with ghosts.”
– Yusef Komunyakaa

My bed can always
accommodate one

more; this ain’t a threat
or bet, it’s a damn

promise. Like all
the stone-cold dead

fortune smiles on
a phantasmic orgy.

A gram of sin that
you can snort

down; even ghosts
can have sticky

fingers. Slack-jaw
we blame love

each time things go
wrong. I have

the host’s job of
not placing blame.

Those who slut-
shame have their

own private hell
waiting. My prayer

bed is vast, even
you’re welcome.

You’ve come from
such a far distance,

lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe

your feet with my hair.
I’ll lick you back to life.

I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash

away the dried
cum and snot.

][][

My bed can always accommodate one
more; this ain’t a threat or bet, it’s a damn

promise. Like all the stone-cold dead fortune
smiles on a phantasmic orgy. A gram

of sin that you can snort down; even ghosts
can have sticky fingers. Slack-jaw we blame

love each time things go wrong. I have the host’s
job of not placing blame. Those who slut-shame

have their own private hell waiting. My prayer
bed is vast, even you’re welcome. You’ve come

from such a far distance, lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe your feet with my hair.

I’ll lick you back to life. I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash away the dried cum and snot.

one lame whinny

09 Thursday Oct 2014

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Hannibal

[H]oney carnage Carthage
Hannibal deep in mud,

his horse, one lame whinny,
hobbled, watching her rider,

a man churning, weep
as Rome pulled out.

The Delphi oracles sang
a capella; for the gods

had grown deaf, could
only question the melody

of the worshiper, not
the words or tone.

But there were no
gods here, just

the bloody swarm of
bees in Hannibal’s ears,

splish-splash of his limbs
quivering with boggy

earth, wax comb carrion,
raked horse-hide,

braying. Carnage
and honey. What

else is there? Clash
of arms and then

peace. Death and
then a birth. Deaf

gods and that terrible
whinnying.

][][

[H]oney carnage Carthage Hannibal deep
in mud, his horse, one lame whinny, hobbled,

watching her rider, a man churning, weep
as Rome pulled out. The Delphic oracles

sang a capella; for the gods had grown
deaf, could only question the melody

of the worshiper, not the words or tone.
But there were no gods here, just the bloody

swarm of bees in Hannibal’s ears, splish-splash
of his limbs quivering with boggy earth,

wax comb carrion, raked horse-hide, braying.
Carnage and honey. What else is there? Clash

of arms and then peace. Death and then a birth.
Deaf gods and that terrible whinnying.

][][

notes:

Hannibal (247-181 BC) was the Carthaginian general who crossed the Alps with war elephants to invade Rome during the Punic Wars. The Oracle of Delphi was the name of the priestesses who served at the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, located on the slopes of Mount Parnassus, in ancient Greece.