Tag Archives: sonnet

hard-on and honeydew lips

09 Thursday Feb 2012

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Author’s note: Abu Nuwas was one of the greatest of the classical Arabic poets (756–814). “Father of Curls,” so named for his long flowing hair that hung down to his hips, his work has been collected in the book “O Tribe That Loves Boyish Men.”

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‘Father of Curls,’ Abu Nuwas: “Always
I will scatter god and gold to the four
winds. I love heathen boys, devil girls; praise
what the Book forbids, embrace what you swore
were sins.” Dead Uncle Abu came to me
in a dream: “I am drunk by this pisser,
all hard-on and honeydew lip. Cocky
boy, come kiss me.” I’m a ghost’s boy lover,
the sort that sleeps in the margins unseen.
I love the cold lips of a ghost: carnal,
sad eyes, passions straight out of hell. Obscene
dreams are all that keeps us alive, Uncle.
I’m your heathen, devil, boyish man, too.
Raise up, dead, I want to go down on you.

soft boys and hard girls

07 Tuesday Feb 2012

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Sappho wrote: love shook me like a mountain
wind in the oaks. I’d fuck you like eagle-
god Zeus fucked Ganymede. Raging, drunken
on speed and cum, coming down, an awful
lightning bolt. I like soft boys and hard girls.
When dear Hercula won the boxing match
I crowned her with laurels, then gave the curls
over her bloodied face three kisses. Snatch
pleasure, bittersweet like myrrh, where you will.
I’ve felt lightning, wind in the oaks, all this
we call lust. But it was her broken face
that turned me on. Scars and the urge to kill.
Kiss me, love. I want to feel your rage. Kiss
me with something like a murderer’s grace.

Das Nachthexen Sonett: 01

07 Tuesday Feb 2012

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Lily, unless the gifted Anahit
lies at your side, sleepless you must now be.
To watch a lover burn up, like mincemeat,
over No Man’s Land. How your poor empty
bed must recall the groans then moans? Again
all these odes to war. Nine muses, you say?
Sappho the Bisexual makes it ten.
Poet of Wars and Clits. Old Boss DJ
still spins your tracks. “I am what I say.” Poor
Sappho, you are bones and dust. Lily’s love
lays, burned in a field. Not even the sky
can drink up all her tears. What fool said war
was good sport? Let her grave be of foxglove,
wild plums; even bisexuals must die.

blood feud

14 Friday Oct 2011

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I tell you this, revenge is not a sin.
Yes, the craven are always saying we
should turn the other cheek. But, then again,
they are the ones who caused more misery
in their short lives than all the rest of us.
You hurt me, then you left; as if distance
would then protect you. Child, from my malice
there is no escape. All this dark science
at my disposal shall hunt you down, blood
feud. Ten thousand dollars and the pinkie
of your left hand will placate my hatred.
Something to tell your wretched progeny;
that all karmic debts call for sacrifice;
that for grace your finger was a small price.

the pope blames chick lit.

27 Saturday Aug 2011

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Mostly it’s hard to think about The Fall
or Eve’s Sin or Great Satan’s Odd Toenail,
rat rot disease, on most good days. The gall
of our bedtime stories is that female
prophets keep stepping up, trying to fix
things, though no one seems to give a rot’s shit
for their blood, sweat and queers. A few cynics
blame it on pornos. The Pope blames Chick Lit.
(true fact) but mostly I keep forgetting;
for we worship each other with our trust
and our deep inner parts recall gushing
spray, the comfortable odor of our lust,
passion’s birth, rebirth, we feed on friendship,
like new priests crying in awe at worship.

outlaws

26 Friday Aug 2011

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And how? And now it’s all about dumb-cum
sex, filth, onan, sad pussies and big old
balls in our poems. In the best poem.
Why else write it? Why else read it? I’m told
someone out there’s getting laid, but not us.
Not us poets. It’s hunger, not food, we
require. As Anne Sexton is my witness;
this is our own ballad of us lonely
masturbators. Outlaws know this hunger
like how the well-fed knows despair. Outlaws
love this searching, like a sleepless dreamer
or like a priest without a god. Because
who is devout enough to keep searching
for such an unobtainable longing?

i crave. i crave. i crave. something.

31 Monday Jan 2011

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I crave. I crave. I crave. Something. Something

else. Not this. It comes unasked for. Unsought.
Not all sex is sordid or degrading,
which is a shame. Someone, somewhere, is not
doing it right. Tonight the city sings
God Save the Queen’s Cunt. Let me go solo.
That is good, too. Tonight all these longings
feel brand new. Did you ever writhe and glow
and squirt? I plan to. Crave my mouth, my voice,
my hair. Search for the liquid sound of my
steps all day. I will wait for you. The choice
is yours. Tonight no one will hear this cry,
which I make for you. All old joys and new
pleasures, all that I know, this is for you.

your last orgasm [1]

27 Thursday Jan 2011

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Of all the kinds of hells, I am the Hell
of Ache and Thrill. The raw material
Eros heaps on the bed. Watch the moon swell,
the tides slap up against you. The cruel
way the Earth does not like you. She sent me
to you. The curse at the end of the prayer.
Only if it’s rough.  I am all fury.
There is torture and then there is torture.
The moon knows, the tides know, the Earth knows. You,
it seems, do not.   Because you always need
more and I am the pain that you welcome.
I have never understood the taboo
of hurt or why it turns you on. But bleed
you I will, down to your last orgasm.

kinky god-boy

23 Sunday Jan 2011

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Passion has a price. A thing of beauty
is a toy forever. Come over here,
I want to play with you. In the ivy
wall a kinky god-boy hides. He appears
only to the devout and the sex starved
sacred. Passion does not claim possession
rather it gives us our freedom. I’ve carved
all that sets me free on my arm: shaman
drug, kick-boot sex, tsunami orgasm.
Even when you are with me the god-boy
watches you watching me: our queer threesome.
Lover, a thing of beauty is a toy.
We love toys like we love sin and reefers,
vodka and coke, cum and sticky fingers.

kafka and rough sex and faith

21 Friday Jan 2011

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“Man, that’s what I call a New York joint … you
can pick your teeth with a New York joint.”
— Jim Morrison
I start my mornings with vodka, a New
York joint and plenty of eggs. It’s the yolks
I love, like cum on the pillow, mildew
in the bath: a little proof that invokes
ghosts of a good time. Thus the day begins.
Some days all we got is Kafka and rough
sex and faith. Of the Seven Deadly Sins
I have tried the sweet five and that’s enough.
I’m too wired for Sloth. Anger only half
interests me. But Lust and Pride? Just believe
me, dear, that’s the stuff dreams are made out of.
I’ve blown Baudelaire, made Sylvia Plath
cum. I love fucking ghosts, lovers who leave
mist cum-stains: all ectoplasm and mauve.