Tag Archives: sonnet

troll

06 Sunday Sep 2026

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A troll writes, hoping that I’ll die by choking

on my own genitalia… I mean, sure,

if I was *that* flexible, deep throating

myself to death holds a certain allure,

though my gag reflex has proven stubborn.

Something to put on the gravestone. “He died

as he lived.” Maybe: “You living, who mourn

the dead, aren’t very fuckable.” I lied,

neither am I. Still, on mornings like this,

on tea, hash and blow, I *feel* fuckable

and so pretty and witty and… won’t last.

Never does. I remember that last bliss;

before trolls and dark times. Back when carnal

meant all that was joyful, sacred and vast.

totes

04 Friday Sep 2026

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“salt grist in grind mill.”

Yes, there are calm lagoons *and* seas of flame

with my bier riding their currents. Harbors

are for the loveless and shameful since shame

always turns away from love. Some rivers

and sludge will drown you, if drowning in sludge

is your kink. Here’s my boat, my flesh, which floats.

Until it don’t. “Blues like that.” Like this grudge

I keep with my humours and bile. “K’, totes!”

K? “Sea’s breast/ all unrest.” “From the dark deep/

typhoons reap.” Gimme monsoons soon and storms

that swarm and waves that breach. There’s no levee

this deep. No home. No sludge. Just grudge’s sleep

and grudge awake. Tote that twists and transforms.

K’. I’ve more than Queequeg’s coffin in me.

op

02 Wednesday Sep 2026

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Today on, “Postmodern or AI slop?”

we’ll mock the Iowa Writers Workshop

for their terrible taste. Barbaric yawp

it ain’t. Stop. “Make that pussy pop”? No, stop,

fool, you can’t rhyme everything just with “op”.

Why? Who doesn’t love a stiff leather strop?

What? Like a strap, but with, how you say? Whop?

No. Chop? Yes! I love a stiff strop with chop.

“Chop chop!” Don’t try and be funny, foul fop.

See? Scenery chewing! Over the top?

A tad. Full stop? Please, just once, no bebop,

no scat singing. “Doo-be-shoo-be-shop-plop

-plop.” Ugh. I’m the top sop in the crop top?

Joypop’s flop? Ho, fuck bunny’s last Aesop.

itch

01 Tuesday Sep 2026

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“I’m a big fat mama, got the meat shakin’ on my bones/ And every time I shake, some skinny gal loses her home” ~ Ida Cox (1939)

“Hurry up and crone!” you groan, menstrual cramps

being what they are. Change been a long time

comin’ in this world of tramp stamps and vamps.

Mental fog and fatigue. “This itch makes playtime

kinda…,” you confess. Kinda? What flows floods.

What floods transcends. The lips at the center

where the tongue slides in. Cum thick like the muds

of hell. Lolly gagging. Toe curling. Whir

and blur and… “gag me, Lolly.” Neighbors wag;

I wolf, you howl. Quake peaks. Nip slips. Blood claws.

Flash floods. Mudslide mustache. Rag ride you

home. Slag? No. Itch in witch and hag in shag.

There is no bat mitzvah for menopause.

So, dear heart, this will bloody have to do.

ease

27 Thursday Aug 2026

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All that is cupped. All that is pumped, gushing,

from the faucet — across your open palm.

Scant damp lacquer. Love enough dribbling

drown my lip in honey-soaked, big-bone mom

folds. Tongue of needle. Mire of mollusk. Bog

rich. Rime and lilies but not hoar frost. Glee

burgling between thighs. Glee like sweat. My dog

debt to you. “Nothing but the dog in me.”

Stop. “Crone zone”? No. But clit lit leaves a stain.

Disco’s bane? P-funk’s kismet. How whet works

across your plump lump. Let the ease of sleaze

leave your sighs split, thighs jelly. Leave my brain

broken? Your stoned crone boned. Where bedlam lurks?

From the pump. Across the palm? Gushing. Please.

slang

22 Saturday Aug 2026

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No, take it literally. One eye. Cyclops?

Slutclops. One horn? Flugelhorn, naturally.

Purple? “Make it plop, boo.” Deep purple plops

sound rude. Why Earth? To play rock on TV.

Like MTV? And to wear, “short-shorts.” What?

“Booty butt.” What? “Tutti frutti is bomb

booty/ alien booty.” What? “Butt-slut:

awop-bop-a-loo-mop alop-bom-bom.”

And the purple people eating? Dah-link,

that’s glam cock slang; all bisexual porn

martyrs ate purple. “When the kids had killed

the man…” Stink in the twink? “That’s not pink kink.

That’s just cock flock.” Rock and roll flugelhorn.

Plops da perk? “Plop it, boo.” Plopped it & chilled.

pleasure

22 Saturday Aug 2026

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There are reeds, pussy willows, that burn. Fire

knows this, feux follets. Blue dull candle haze

out in the swamp. Copse-deep, naked in mire,

sick-stuck glow. A dusk full of purple-grays.

Grays and purples. Twilit from my hips down.

Pure muck. Bum from my hips up: bunglesome.

“Also, leeches… so, fire, leeches, might drown.”

“While nude in a swamp, yes, I know.” “For some

that’s a perk.” For some. Fire burns reeds. I see

them out in the gloam. Reeds riot — Ruh-roh,

Raggy — sick-stuck in muck. Dengue fever

burns, feux follets. Hazy blue gloom. Hazy

blue doom. Ah, prophecy. Fade away glow.

Then chill. Not in muck but mucker’s pleasure.

dearth

21 Friday Aug 2026

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The muse, which is to say, all these taboos.

She bop. Shave ’em dry. “Just a little bit

of juice/ keeps him in line.” If these are blues

they’re the sloppy kind. Fit for a misfit

pervert rinse, perhaps. Any damn long song

that longs that gone, that wrong, and still wants more,

is dearth the trance. Any thing marred and long

from pain and cocaine, muse. Your bedroom floor

took our abuse blues. Little bit of juice

sung down low. “No, chow down/ on my downtown,

goy.” Fit for a squirt, I’ll blurt, from between

your thighs. Croons tunes, titties. “Juice will seduce.”

“Go south and get me some more.” “Cum and drown

me” ————–The scratch of a needle drop, I mean.

quaffers

20 Thursday Aug 2026

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Risking rot, snot, chlorine and the neighbor’s

backwash, their hot tub, that far out relic,

blobbed, then globbed [metaphor: won-ton oyster’s

glaze] in globs on the waves. ‘That’s freakin’ sick,’

you gagged, hunkering. We’d been hunkering

ever since the backyard lights had blinked on,

then off and then on. Constantly risking

absurdity… and rare diseases. Lawn

diseases, too, ones that make your knees green.

Oysters? Won-ton? No, you’re crap when it comes

to metaphor. Just say we saw stranger’s

cum in the tub, okay queen? ‘Okay queen’?

Ah, said Arthur Dent, abuse. Like scrotums?

Goiters? Quaffers? Tweakers? Punters? Tossers?

snarls

19 Wednesday Aug 2026

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There’s two blues, Lady Day claimed, the hot blues

and the cool blues. It’s August. Must be hot.

“I’m the people. The mob. The mass.” The news

reports downtown burns. Tear gas. And the fraught

stand-offs. Blues? you say. Hon, you ain’t peoples.

Just good with your tongue. Sirens, still distant,

strut, pout, put it out; your skull-fucked tonsils,

“my seed, my plow, my storm.” Where’s the blunt?

you grunt, while outside the hotel window

smoke still rises. Cool blues in late August’s

swelter. You call your husband. Somewhere Carl’s

ghost sighs. The Good Work comes, but it is slow,

like the blues. It sounds nothing like my thrusts,

your gasps; our meager cries and cum and snarls.