Tag Archives: Poetry

peaches and herb

23 Monday Sep 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art

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Chocolate and booze, sighs the diabetic
alcoholic, while Reunited plays
in the background. There’s nothing poetic
about this shit. Poets make lousy lays.
Despise their words they don’t last long in bed.
Promise me you’re not like that, letting your
ego dictate your libido. The dead
give much better head than any cocksure
pre-teen. Tween. Teasing. Of course, cock sucking
is your forte. It’s why you write about skanks
instead of being one. Just look at me,
diabetic, alcoholic, bragging
like I bought my own lie. The booze I drank.
The fucks I gave. All the shit I sell you.

suffer fools

23 Monday Sep 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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You said, “steal only from the dead, rarely
do they file plagiarism charges.” But
we the dead do not suffer fools lightly
in all your hundredweight and penny pound.
You don’t even know what a banyan tree
looks like, so how can you sit under it?
Mecca means nothing but Robot TV.
Instead you rip off the Jews, yet omit
the small detail that those words are not yours.
So, you say, what does that matter? We built
our world on the shoulders of the Other.
Plus, they are our words now, it’s what our wars
prove. Yet you still don’t know the word for guilt?
Odd, that theft to you could ever matter.

note:

The line “hundredweight and penny pound” was stolen from Johnny Cash’s song “When The Man Comes Around,” and it doesn’t even rhyme with“but” … But …!

low-tide

22 Sunday Sep 2013

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Take me to the unexplored dark once more.
I know all about this pressure. Without
you with me I’ll never get to drift pure
in these deep waters again. Ignore doubt
and the shaking needle of the meter.
I do remember you holding your hands
out to the far surface, your face under
pressure was beautiful. Then failed commands,
screaming, rupture. Once love you kissed my skin,
breathed me in until I filled you. You should
have lived on love instead of air. Hell bound
you could only see yourself escape in
rising sea foam, while the rest of us stood
at our posts, watching you flee as we drowned.

ugliest words

22 Sunday Sep 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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It’s a weird world. She tells me of a date
and how later they both fornicated.
Yeah, that’s the word that she used, “fornicate,”
one of the ugliest words to describe naked
lust, sex magic, lucid pleasure. But she’s
foreign, recently dead and her English
broken. What do I know? I lost the ease
of my tongue when I passed, too. Her anguish
and fear with sex, especially anal,
remains, bit daft, since she’s lost her booty.
She’s more mist, more soul made froth. You living
call lust sin; but if you’re not a lustful
soul death tends to be … shocking. Poor banshee,
love won’t hurt you. That’s what death is: loving.

because it is love

21 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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What can bind us to another? Crimson’s
smear on the tongue. A stain no spell can break.
Blood is blood is blood. I’ve drunk from demons
like you before, felt that wild fiery ache
run all riot through me. I’ve begged, I’ve screamed,
I’ve been bled in turn, but not like that. Knives
reveal secrets, tell our fears. I blasphemed
when I took you inside me. Love survives
because it is love. Here are my secrets,
here are my fears. I’ll drink all that once ran
in your heart, all that you no longer need.
Call it greed or bondage, all that riots,
all that aches. It is where I first began,
where I’ll return. I’m hungry. I must feed.

every shuddering part

21 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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“in youth is pleasure,”
Denton Welch (1944)

Hold on, urgently try. But gasps become
moans; a fire in every shuddering part
of your lungs, your legs, your skull. Each spasm
quickens, then that flavor, salty and tart,
fills your mouth. Weeds wrap around collarbone,
making subtle curves. Your flesh unstained
by whips or teeth, even when your last moan
turns to silence. Accept this gift of pain.
They did not believe you. They who pursue
your flesh simply to condemn it. Amour
is pain, even while taking your last breath
it is pain. I was there, I believe you,
for when they dredged the lake it proved what your
blush claimed; that beauty lies in youth and death.

amazon, babylon, depravity

21 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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I have never understood the allure
of so-called innocence, that mythical
state, like virginity, they ascribe, pure
and fresh, to others. Using a carnal
measuring stick is foolish, every kid
I have ever met knows what’s going on.
Adults call it taboo, and they forbid
descent. They fear a new dawn: Amazon,
Babylon, Depravity; for the cult
of the virgin will always kill Eros
once a few parents are shocked into rage.
Call it Fire, or the Erotic Occult,
Venus, or the Phallic Stage. All of us
are burning souls trapped in this fearful age.

without death

20 Friday Sep 2013

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I call on the forces higher then I,
to wake the guide that sleeps outside, inside
the North, the South, the East, the West, the sky,
the sea and the ground. I call on the guide
that knows of my need, come with assistance,
come with dire speed. Sanctuary will not
be found here: in crystals and light, essence
of rose hip, runes bought at a store. Who taught
you this? Without death there is no magic
or art or life. The gods aren’t toys. They won’t
jump up each time you say, “so mote it be.”
Here’s the blood of our bond. Here’s the coptic
blade that served. I call on forces that don’t
answer, I call on guides that don’t serve me.

was l.s.d. eliot’s

17 Tuesday Sep 2013

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But the Factory? They all pretended
to be limo rich, starlet junkies preaching
about Chelsea love and money. Acid
was LSD, Eliot’s peach, rotting,
lay in the sand and crabs was a disease.
Tonight the fucking world has forgotten
the phone next door rings off the hook. The sleaze
of this city knocks on my door —- like sin,
flesh will always be nu-vogue. Take my smut
pour yourself a glass —- Pop Art’s sticky glue
needs to be sucked, re-blown —- O, you virgin,
it’s cute the way you worship Warhol —- but,
darling, anything I can break with two
hands can hardly be called a religion.

erotic obscura

17 Tuesday Sep 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Kiss me, fool. I’m the last clockwork djinn. Kiss
me. You’ve always wanted an infernal
toy made of Tesla glass and Anubis
fire. Now distill breathing love from crystal
ardor. Like Las Vegas, I glow green
in the dark, I’m an amorous engine.
Where else but to Sin City would a djinn
go? Now bare flesh and sing incantation.
Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. By high backstreets
and dark thoroughfares I come: a loosed wild
wind, the last of the spring-propelled djinni.
The old gods did not die – not with Yeats
and mad Crowley. Why would they? Come, love child,
erotic obscura calls you. Kiss me.