Tag Archives: sonnet

EXHALE

18 Sunday Mar 2012

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“Breath is the bridge which connects you to passion,
which unites your body to your desires.”
~Sanskrit Proverb

 

We speak with the breath of saints and demons.
Exhale: we have the whole cosmos hidden
in each breath. The atoms of lesbians
and gay men, gods and heroes — everyone
who has ever drawn breath — live within us.
We rub. We squish-slish-squish. We cum crazy.
When you take me; when I taste your wetness;
we are immortal. What is jealousy
but sin? First love, last love; for a thousand-
thousand years we’ve been doing this. Come taste
my past. Each hard cock; each cunt that glistened
with need. Exhale. Breath in all my debased
needs. When all our breath, all our cum mingles
we’re more than just lovers, we’re immortals.

call me a witch’s brat

02 Friday Mar 2012

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Author’s note: Contrary to popular belief, a “witch’s brat,” is simply a male, of any age, who studies the dark arts under the tutelage of a licensed necromancer. Niccolo Paganini, the 17th century violin genius, was called “The Devil’s Stepson,” and the “Witch’s Brat,” for his demonic and amazing musical virtuosity.

* * *

Call me a witch’s brat; with sex magic
all this is more fun. Your cum-stained panties
on the clothes line; used condoms, slick with sick
pleasures, lost in the tall grass. Fuck buddies
with a bit of black arts. Lovers of skin,
fleshy terrors. I’ll ride you like a horse.
Jockey for your night mare. My cock will pin
you to the floor. Your voice, scratchy and horse;
crying out “Ishtar,” over and over;
and I just switch from your cunt to your ass,
over and over. I’ll ride you with fire
and spurs, hexes and saddles. I’m a crass
brat, crude, feral. But you, slave to passion,
thirst for all that is taboo and pagan.

until the clay cums

14 Tuesday Feb 2012

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Let me draw down the moon, unless she wants
to be left alone. It’s why we share our
first names and respect. Lady Macbeth haunts
all those who think that she and the flower
can still be sold – which of us has not gripped
a knife? pressed it against the fleshy bits
of our bellies? Out, out, damned spot. Horsewhipped
until the clay cums. There’s more than cocks, tits
and cum in this breathing life. I consort
with the long dead. What hangs between their thighs
has long confirmed their worth. ‘Le petite mort’
ruptures when my guts give forth. Samurai’s
cold steel piercing me. All my happiness
comes down to this: strife, sex and cannabis.

together like geysers

10 Friday Feb 2012

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“I love myself when I am laughing … and then again
when I’m looking mean and impressive.”
— Zora Neale Hurston

Slow, slow, all gooseflesh your cunt, I keep time
with your boisterous brassier, tongue tricking,
slower, O yes, panting, our gentle crime
of bed springs. Listen to sloppy sucking
that our adultery bears. Sappho sang
about cuckolding delights, but all we
need is a touch of the herb, your gangbang
porn and hours of fucking. You know sissy
boys know best. Let cum fall in showers, snow
upon your hills, drop, drop, drop, drop, nature’s
passion is now ours. I love your afro;
the way we cum together like geysers.
If life isn’t about cum and foreplay,
at least we can pretend during the day.

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.”

* * *

‘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?