Tag Archives: sonnet

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.

silt

16 Sunday Aug 2026

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Tongue tapped. Tasted blood. I abide in blood,

monthly lune; having no womb I must swim

elsewhere. I’m tomboy’s toy and you’re pure stud,

as in, Stone Butch with strap-on. “On a whim,”

you said, when I asked you how you had come.

“Gotta tongue tap that.” Pulling a muddy,

bloody tampon out with teeth; like I’ve swum

before. Scars on your amputated knee

smelt of cloves. Yes, you’re brutal but I’m built

like cake. What him-femme isn’t? “grrls with girth,”

your right tat spat. “Pussy Power,” your left

tit tat spat back. Ghost of mud-flow and silt.

Ghost of tampons to come. I still taste earth

in you. Ghost of whims and menstrual theft.

das

16 Sunday Aug 2026

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First I spoke to the dead. Dull. Then I spoke

to the gods and got cum over your face.

Fucking sober was different: without coke,

skag or das chronic, finding that hard grace

to fill you with jarred me out; as in, “freaked,”

and I streaked your cheek. The gods are vulgar,

being divine. They sound like a gasp shrieked

in pure need, unless that was me. “Gusher

force,” you called it. Whatever, Muse. Take this

with you, proof that someone once volunteered

for das ass. Back in primes, they say. Bad times,

I bone, drunk dead more and more without bliss.

Drunk dead moan. Lovers groan. Gods mumble weird

words, cum-crusted. Das ass; rhymes upon crimes.

violaceous

15 Saturday Aug 2026

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Amethyst is thicc, phat like mulberries,

wet like mauve. Neighbor flavor; what I’ve missed

with these new memories. Bend of strange knees,

dimples, fat fists, lips you say that I’ve kissed.

Rewired. I forget names, tastes, even hues.

Had I been this age then, instead of nine,

then ‘wine dark’ would still be a reddish-blue.

Your plum to my peach. Your curls to my twine.

You said L.S.D. would set us all free.

You said, “tuck here, toy,” then cried for Jesus.

Love gone messy? So it seems. Like sweet ilk

and sweat. Lotus and loam. Cum foam and glee.

Said I filled your throat? Tickled your glottis

going down? Thicc like brine and buttermilk.

taste

20 Monday Oct 2025

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Now write about yourself. Not witches. Not

lust, but “i” – the gauntest part of myself.

Now write about your childhood – that distraught

grimoire, “vulval witch lore,” lost on the shelf.

Which lore? Exactly. “Witches gummed gristle”?

But of course! “Make a crone moan while sucking

her bone”? Bad rhyme. It must rhyme with “vulval.”

Offal? No. “Something-something … we’re kissing.”

La bruja me agarra,/ me lleva a su casa,/ me sienta en su regazo/ y me besa.

The witch grabs me,/ takes me to her house,/ sits me on her lap/ and kisses me.

Yes! You got it. The clap, I mean … the Witch

Clap. No! You said this would be in good taste.

¡Ay! dígame, dígame/ dígame usted/ ¿cuántas criaturitas/ se ha chupado usted?

Oh! Tell me, tell me,/ Tell me,/ how many babes have you drained the life from?

Cannibal humor slays me. It’s a niche

duffer; like porn for the boring and chaste.

Or this strange folk song you keep quoting from.

Ninguna, ninguna/ ninguna no sé,/ ando en pretenciones/ de chuparme a usted.

None, none,/ none, I don’t know/ but I’m planning to drain you next.

Drain who? You: kid. Me: booty witch like bomb.

Notes.

It’s a sonnet getting interrupted by a folk song. That’s the problem with short term memory loss, I keep forgetting what I wanted to write about. I’m thinking about my childhood and my broken home on the range and suddenly I find this Mexican folk song, “La Bruja,” which apparently was one of Frida Kahlo’s favorites and now I’m trying to work it in as if it’ll magically fit in 14-lines of poetry.

The new Agent Orange: dropping song fragments into crap verse from very far away just to watch it burn.