Tag Archives: sonnet

in praise of older women

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Lordy, I’m getting up in years but mama

ain’t too old to shift her gears” — Ida Cox.

It’s sort of a fetish with me. Your ass
in fishnets; I’ve always had a thing for
older women in fishnets, their hourglass
lips, ball-breaking boots. Out on the dreamfloor
of our bedroom someone stands up. Someone
begins calling me home. Home is hardcore,
ancient and changing. I love your shaven
lips and your whiskey hip voice. I love your
smile while you’re gagging me down, while bending
down in that skirt. You’re somebody’s mother.
Tonguing your two cheeks apart, those two thigh
pillows. That letter from mama, calling:
come home child, before I die, the letter
from her, I die, I – come before I die.

dull and bestial

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Tonight I want you dull and bestial;
honey mammals on all fours. do not think
while I reach around you for a nipple
or grab your hips to lean forward and drink
in your flesh scent, kiss the back of your skull.
grovel on your hands and knees while I press
in slow. yes, the wicked and the sacral
all know these muddy blues, too. hiss out, “yes,
baby, yes.” hiss out nasty, delightful
things. this ghost broth is what rude boys, sassy
girls all speak about. mad delirium.
let us go beyond words. take our push-pull,
push-pull to a sweat fuck that cannot be
captured, written down, put in a poem.

with pollen, with sap

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Orchid. I shall call you Orchid. Call me
your fat bumble bee and I will suck dry
your wet parted lips. Call me your oak tree.
Let your hungry mistletoe feed on my
wild sap. Let it dribble across your thigh,
down your chin, all over. The French call this
Soixante Neuf; numbers and all they imply.
You were never good at math; but to kiss
and suck and swallow? Even an orchid
knows to open up for pollen. Even
an oak will bend in the wind. Let us lay
side by side. Let us drink from pure liquid
delight. Let us spend all day, with pollen
and with sap, at what others call foreplay.

grind

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Ghost of Yu Luo Sha shakes her mane of hair,
dandruff everywhere, sits by the bedside
and grinds. We think the dead are unaware
of their genitals, but this is The Bride
with White Hair – at night she returns, touches
former lovers, cat-like, raises one leg,
lowers her hips onto upturned faces.
“Tongue out, love,” she whispers. Look, do not beg
that the soul is dull; as if ghosts don’t seize
every chance to watch you undress at night
or the dead, now pregnancies, S.T.D.s
are not a threat, do not use their birthright
for bliss. Yu Luo Sha, hair loosed, knees up, dress
ripped off, grinds. This is what the dead possess.

tensed, a girl

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Tensed, a girl in a Kyoto public
bath felt her sphincter contract, a hot jet
pulsating from a hand-held Aqua Pick
on her clitoris. Her marionette’s
legs giving way, just as once on a whim
she took a boy to her old neighborhood
temple; Aizen Myo-O’s shrine, Shinto’s grim
god of wicked sex. It felt awfully good
to be dazed as he kissed each nipple; dumbstruck
as he licked his way to her crotch, pulling
down her ‘Hello Kitty’ undies to suck
her clit right into his mouth. The hot sting
from the shower, mist on her legs, the leer
of the god, the smear on his chin, the smear.

nothing rooted

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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There is salt on my lips. I love that salt.
I am in love with all far-seen places.
All that rooted — red woods, sea beds, asphalt,
teeth — makes me happy. All the past, pieces
no one can recall, fascinates me. Why?
Why would we look back? Our love and hatred
all lost, a root pulled free, a flowing sky
going nowhere. Because nothing rooted
lasts and we love to root. I love the past
tense and its lies that says we have survived.
I love that you still think your memory
is your own. Kiss this salt off. What can last
beyond now? Nothing. Kiss me here. Deprived
of past. Rootless child, odd skylark. Kiss me.

chaos in the flesh

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Often the body acts like an engine,
or if not an engine at least chaos
in flesh. All this bloodroot, all this brazen
passion boiling over, seeping across
our palms, between our fingers, down brute wrists.
Chaos in flesh. Why talk about pain? loss?
shame? Let us have rendezvous, affairs, trysts
today. I will call you Boss Eros, Boss
Venus. In your boots come calling. Let me
seek a slit in your denim. Let me come
to warm flesh, then curls. Let me find sticky
what I hope. Let me grope. Until your numb
flesh curls. Buckles. Spurting volcanic fur.

each finger drowned

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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You look good on the subway, uncrossing
your legs just like that. You look good, your face
mirrored in the window darkly; hitching
up your skirt just above your knees. The space
between your legs glowing darkly. You look
good now, winking, one finger tip to trace
your lips, one finger tip to find and hook
the O of your pain. There is no disgrace
in pain, not this type; just sweat-fuck-feral
need. You look good making me your voyeur;
your eyes closed, mouth open, each finger drowned
in your wetness. All the noise and people
around us blur, the wheels keeping time; your
legs wide open, your fingers underground.

lava and sea salt

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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When the volcano turns shale and basalt
liquid, when the coast melts and heat and steam
rise up in the air, when lava and salt
water mix, then nature loves blaspheme.
These earth tremors and quakes, these little deaths,
the whole world shifting on its foundations.
I have heard in each of your sleeping breaths
how the oceans will pause, how the millions
of small sea moans will hush, how this lipless
world knows we’ll go explore this ravaged shore
of a kiss. If the sea loves our crudeness,
if this is our blaspheme, I want more.
I want your flow and tides, steam and beaches,
lava and sea salt, your cum and kisses.

my daughter the pornographer [version 1]

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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It was when she started bringing her work
home that I began worrying. Walking
into the kitchen to find some girl jerk
a boy off as my daughter, capturing
it all on film, shouts instructions. Finding
the sink full of sex toys just washed. A new
tube of anal lube in her purse. “Watching
others fuck,” she told me, “is what I do
best.” I can’t help but think there are voyeurs
in all of us. Even the printed word
was once another’s. “You would be surprised
what we all will do in front of others,
given the chance,” she said. “It is absurd
to say we don’t love what others despise.”