Tags
My nectar will
make you swoon
my sweet rotten
scent will make
you sweat all
noon, your lunch
pale break,
coming
home bewildered
dog, shame-headed,
fury-foot, child,
hoping for more.
waiting for you at the gate
10 Thursday Jul 2014
Tag Archives: Poetry
lick me here, swamp thing
05 Saturday Jul 2014
Tags
Cthulhu, cunnilingus, glowing green, haiku, poem, Poetry, Swamp Thing
waiting for thunder
lightning along your green tongue
kiss me here, swamp thing
][
plagued by spring fever
wind parting long curling grass
licking red marsh earth
][
it won’t ever end
it won’t get any better—
this need to be loved
][
under all these stars
addicted to dark matter
Cthulhu, I cum
cropped marshlands
03 Thursday Jul 2014
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
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From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust
clear and erect into coming twilight.
How did Freud ever pass through such forests?
They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.
Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates
flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.
Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along
my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.
fill the sky
29 Thursday May 2014
Tags
Cthulhu, fill the sky, haiku, lewd eldritch horror, poem, Poetry
Cthulhu, my love
a nameless ache fills the sky
lewd eldritch horror
tuft
29 Thursday May 2014
Tags
pulling my jeans down
your breath like a mountain breeze
wild feathered-grass parts
nursing haiku
29 Thursday May 2014
ham-hocks and fish
29 Thursday May 2014
Posted in sonnet
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“Give them pleasure — the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.”
— Alfred Hitchcock
To the edge of the dream he comes; barefoot,
cloven-hoof, crooked goat legs. I do not know
his name, but from his pipes and his man’s root,
a cock from hell, garbled prayer-songs grow;
like a root, a tree, a mountain, vaulting
heaven and shadowing earth. To the edge
of the dream he comes; unabashed, playing
nightmare to my dreams. Passing a stone hedge,
a street, a market where ham-hocks and fish
dangle in the window, I follow. Dream
logic says I can do nothing else. Prayer-
songs on cobbles, his clip-clop, his goatish
delight that I’m there, to hear his obscene
song, to be the dreamer to his nightmare.
flaw
16 Friday May 2014
Tags
bolts and bones, flaw, nanobot womb, poem, Poetry, sonnet, venus-wise
welding of the soul. touch this arc-light, heat
on the rim blast bay gal jack the damned mouth
the sores heel dog pity those who must bleat
like sheep when they cum. i’ve gone down, round south
america, round the bend, the glory
and the hole. i’m venus-wise, pricked and pecked.
got scars on thars you wouldn’t believe me
if i showed ya. i’m more bolts than bones. wrecked
as a lover, wrecked as a friend. bragging
is a sign of flaw. the things that they made
me do. flesh let enter nanobot womb.
daughter to rust. son to rot’s fathering
maggots. you say that you want to get laid.
i am the empty chair, the empty room.
this is how i learned
16 Friday May 2014
Tags
counting as song, green goddess, poem, Poetry, snog, sonnet, tee-tee ta
It all goes away. Ta. Evening after
evening after. Tee-Tee Ta. The Mantis
rubbing claws, cleaning her mandibles, her
lover’s weed, her root and roe. Green goddess,
Eater of Men, it’s how I learned to count:
Ta, Tee, Tee-Tee Ta. Your luminescent
charms. Light. Happiness. How you let him mount
you, then off with his head. Tee-Tee Ta. Scent
of the demon in heat. Mansbane. Conquest
of your mates. Shh, I’m counting. Ta. I give
myself. Tee-Tee Ta. I count. It’s my choice
to count. The beat of the heart at rest. Rest.
Counting as song. There’s nothing to forgive,
darling. And if I sing you are my voice.
dinner with famous dead people
16 Friday May 2014
They ask ya, who’d you like to have dinner
with? or fuck? or have a conversation
with? I’m the child of a witch and nightwalker,
trust me, hanging with the living as fun
is the last thing that the dead would ever
want to do. It’s not all local haunting
and brain eating; but it’s complete torture
to cross the void, called back by the living
for what? a cheap date? bad sex? to answer
questions? There’s a reason why famous dead
people aren’t spending time with me right now
and it’s not because they can’t. We offer
little but demand much. What the dead said
to me was this: “let me sleep, you daft cow.”
memories of my ghost sista 