Tag Archives: sonnet

awry

29 Sunday Apr 2018

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Would we conjoin? The well-cut and wicked
know how to fuck. But you and I? We’re crass

and ill-shaped — Flesh not meant to run naked
under plump green vines, wind’s wild pampas-grass;

asses not meant to be tapped. We were born
under the signs of phlegm and oddities;

less chic and more shriek. In all of their porn
nothing looks like us. That’s good. Others please,

we tire, swamp-corpse and bloat. Our carnal sin:
sloth. Our lewd god: nuzzling gone awry.

When you tell me, “your body will haunt mine,”
that’s a threat. We’re not grape’s whine: its juice, skin,

madness. We’re what’s left: hot dust, empty sky
twitchy things, the grotesque in the grapevine.

itchy ghost

21 Saturday Apr 2018

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Praise to the needle and praise to the thread;
how they suture a pucker together.

Picture a moonface, my face, my forehead
slit in two. Beastly flap flopping, glimmer

of bone mixed with blood. A doctor at work:
that jab thrust pull, jab thrust pull on my lip

diced, seams leaving me with a grotesque smirk,
jackal grin. My chin sliced. My finger tip.

My odd hip. Itchy ghost of zipper scars
and flick knives. Small lewd ghost of aortal

blood and wire. You both know the infamy
that is sewn under these clothes; mark of Mars,

mar of bloodshed, held in place with needle
and thread. Y’all put the “scar” into scary.

snog

06 Friday Apr 2018

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Susurrus: “a soughing of the waves;
murmur of flow.” Kissing you in the fog,

under stunted myrtle. When the flesh craves
more than just fingers and tongues, when a snog

goes on for too long – your jeans unbuttoned,
dew drops in your pubes, mica-flakes under

your nails – you make that lechery-moistened
groan. The sea cries in want and you answer

with your own cum-soaked sob, estuary
soaking your jeans. In those fifteen minutes

during recess – with dune grass, pear cactus,
with wet panting in us and susurrus

around us – we become the wind’s secrets
to the surf; children of chaos and glee.

mad sea

23 Tuesday Jan 2018

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There is always more to love. For you love
is a koi gliding through water: content,

at peace, blest. For me it is the clawed glove
piercing fish-flesh, feeling you wriggle, bent

double. Come, cum, pray: intense, phrenetic,
like a pretty piece of flesh — or a crushed

chrysanthemum — or the gothic chronic
that I roll for you. You have blushed and blushed,

swimming in circles. I do not love pools.
I love the mad sea. I love the forces

that no soul can control. Pierced and hoisted
high, fish, you crash back down. Seas have no rules.

Gape and gasp as all inside you gushes,
geysers, squirts such thick chaotic fluid.

scratch

10 Wednesday Jan 2018

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I’ll give you the, “root of suffering.” That
and the damn shag carpet will leave fresh rug burns

on your chin, your ass, over each knee, brat.
Sure, they’ll fade soon, from tart’s rosette to slattern’s

brown. The scabs will follow, crusty as lace.
And all around your precious throat, bruises,

both blue and yellow, will mark an embrace
that’ll match my fingertips. There aren’t sutras

for such love; but since all flesh aches, which leads
to such base urges, Buddha will know the itch

that we scratch. Under the shower steam flows
up our backs, soothing our cocaine nosebleeds,

letting heat soak into each scar, each stitch,
burning away all remorse, all sorrows.

Notes:
The basis of Buddhism is a doctrine known as the Four Noble Truths. A loose interpretation of the First Truth is that all life is suffering, pain, and misery. The Second says that the root of this suffering is caused by cravings and desire … at that point I stopped reading.

where it was

03 Wednesday Jan 2018

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“Wo es war,” where it was leads us to it.
There were days as if it were not hunkered

in the distance; from gangrened to frostbit
to flesh in the cold. Where it was. Absurd

to think of it: beastly, feral, depraved.
Absurd to follow. “Wo es war,” and yet,

I do. There be dragons; all that it craved,
ravings. I crave for you: take the blade, whet

stone, carve such German words on my neither.
Twist me this where it was hunkered. Our tryst

begged. I follow. I rave. May memory
be my only brood; the past such future.

You lay with your ass in the air — I kissed,
you clenched; puckered again, I thought, briefly.

memphis levee

20 Wednesday Dec 2017

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Of course this is tenderness. Of course, this
shall hurt — tenderly. Memphis’ levee

cracked, as levees do. From pressure. The hiss
of sea, two fingers just so, that achy

need to let go. Let those fingers in. Deep.
But you said no. No. Let the pressure build.

Then, not yet. Then, fuck me. Let waters seep
around stones gone cracked, stone left unfulfilled.

Sea is passage yet you’ll find it a vast,
rough fuck. You, precious stone, go splinter-splish

this way and this. Tender be tide, we’re told,
all which sucks feeds, all which flows needs, aghast

that such levee broke. Old sea was brutish,
nothing rose from the depth, child, nothing rolled.

fat palm

18 Monday Dec 2017

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Cum drips from your pretty little asshole,
rimming your cheeks. You shift your hips as I

slowly pull out. Your muscles form an O
where my cock has been; until, with a sigh,

your bud closes, trapping my cum inside.
Such orgasmic haze, when the soul, who fled

returns and we giggle, I let you guide
my hand back. You’re seeping cum. Fingers spread

you wide and you pour. My own sperm, millions
of them, pool in my cupped palm and you lick

my palm clean. I keep putting bits of me
in you. Gleefully. These are good omens.

That’s good. What’s better: there’s nothing cryptic
about ravaging your ass. Gleefully.

dumb bone

17 Sunday Dec 2017

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Hunger. Always hunger. Restless. Never
still. The weeping ghost on the other

side of the door. I am elsewhere. Not here
but in need. Bent. Bulging. Dragging this queer

longing about. Hungers need to be fed —
witch-tongue, witch-word, words will do. What you said

about madness, ache, need. What you said. Words.
Your words sate even the dead, craze blizzards,

make dumb bones cum. I heft your words in hand,
finger their whip-like grooves. The world was bland

and then I read you. Now I am frantic,
lust sick. The way the hungry are. Hard, slick

with need. The sound that comes to you, a ghost
on the wind. You can feel this frenzy, almost.

zed

16 Saturday Dec 2017

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Z. Like the Weegies say, “yoo’re feckin’ zed.”
Which is true. I am obnoxious, bratty.

All these chemicals. Havoc in my head.
Scrimshaw. Cuts. Cairn. Marker. What we bury

when we bury ourselves. This doesn’t work
well. You say that I’m better, like Delphi.

Visions that I don’t get. Let the gods smirk
when my name comes up. I shall have your thigh

around my hips, wrecking you. Even Pan
wept. For all my faults you let me bury

myself in you. No regrets. Just more praise.
Just. You are all. Just. We want a human

that we can call our own. And I, banshee,
death in the last name, wail: love born of haze.