Tag Archives: sonnet

cravings

07 Thursday Feb 2019

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Some say it was Soyok Wuhti and some
say it wasn’t, but for a year the carved

doll of Ogre Woman, with knife and drum,
lived in my pocket. I was six, love starved,

though our bruja neighbor warned of curses:
children, even strange ones, shouldn’t be left

as toys for spirits deep in the mesas.
What did I know? I was six and bereft

for what I didn’t know. But after school
I’d take her out, play with her violent hair,

her black serpentine tongue, her jaw that clacked
at my kiss. Of course her cravings were cruel.

She taught me that lechery is like prayer.
I was six, love sick, wild for any pact.

NOTE:
Bruja is the Spanish term for witch, while in the Hopi pantheon of gods, Soyok Wuhti, is both female ogre and teacher who enforces good behavior among children. As with all gods and monsters she appears in three forms: as a spiritual being unseen by mortals, as a dancer in costume performing sacred rituals and as a kachina, a wooden doll carved from cottonwood root.

reboot

06 Wednesday Feb 2019

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Systems crash and reboot all the time, just
like mine. I’ve been grazed and groped by eldritch

horrors, plague gods, who bring decay and lust
to the same putrid climax. A love witch

once taught me cures for those sores, but I crashed
for a week, dreaming of crackle and glitch.

After a reboot I’m dazed and abashed;
bodies freshly derelict tend to twitch

and fray while in public. Cosmic heartache
appears in rust around the edges, while

the gods, too stoned to care, watch us corrode,
laughing. What good is backbone with backache?

Off-line soul leaves flesh. Off-line I’m jut vile
numbers. Some queer hateful cipher. Hell code.

burn

05 Tuesday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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I still swear to you by scourge and blowtorch
that at the next stroke you’ll bleat ugly sounds.

Ugly deeds call for the grim “K” of scorch,
quetch, crave. Flick of a supple cane astounds,

raising welts and devils. Call this art brut,
raw burn, a perfect howling pitch locked

inside you. I’ll free it. Others live mute —
waiting for that, “one day.” I know they’ve mocked

your dire itch, your distress. But they don’t cum
when I call you. Bend down. Lift up your dress.

Trust me: I might be cruel working stiff but
I get the job done. Like prayer. Like venom.

Like the song that tells us how to transgress
with the pain that drives both saint and poet.

lure

04 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Poppy milk: in ill sleep you stood there: curved,
blithesome, cocky. To see you naked, once

more, I almost woke. You were so reserved
alive, it took laying down lip, essence

of moon rock, just to get you off. My brief
grief stayed, lasted — even as I tended

your grave. No one shall tend to mine. The Thief
of Seoul shares my bed now; but sugar-mud

isn’t the same, even among gods. For ache,
omen close to bliss, I keep hunting. “Hunt?

You mean cunt, you mean cock,” you said. I mean:
fear some dreams. I mean: from lust’s lure heartache.

Your night fever tightens around me. Blunt
ghost, you’re all nightmare, my milk’s morphine.

gut-bone

03 Sunday Feb 2019

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Debauched, my pelvic bone recalls some things.
How she got off on my vestige tail stump.

Craving his 2-heart heart. Breaking bed-springs
in his 2-heart ass. Razing your plump rump

down to the ground, all savage child. “Break me,”
you said on our first date. I did. Twice. Sweat

on your breasts. Dried cum on your phat belly.
You crowed and cawed as I entered. Coquette

of the meat counter. Coquette of maimed flesh,
buff and dastardly. Passions are fickle, —

they change. My gut-bone knows this. My gut-bone
is down for — “Debauched?” you said. “That ain’t fresh.

It’s rad. It’s bitchin’.” Recall how your skull
bloomed as I turned your phat ass to pulpstone.

wah-wah

03 Sunday Feb 2019

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I first notice as you undress — the tint
of your skin, neon scratch, cross-hatch aglow

gone all smeary, clippings from cheap newsprint.
Your hair murmurs and purrs. Last radio

afronaut — My Scooby Snacks and reefers
cool next to your starchild heat, space-boot bounce,

wah-wah pedals, cosmic cords and tethers.
You lust for things I can’t even pronounce,

from worlds I can’t see. Your flesh flawless
unveiled. Jacked-up rocket. You bring long lost

sisterhood scents with silk spun from the sun,
thread hewed from novas. What I first notice

is your face pressed against mine; scars crisscrossed
as I sucked on your tongue, curved and cloven.

night piece

01 Friday Feb 2019

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Your eye and Lesbia’s gaze. Where my spirit
and flesh fused, jizz oozed down your face, your clothes,

scraped knees. All this night piece boy grease this strut
of one who sucks godheads. The tomcat knows.

Cats love ruin. Spray-paint’s “fuck grief/ give head”
scrawled with carrion’s love of beef behind

you in glitter pink. “Skull fuck me,” you said,
mouth full of soul. Rasp of tongue on lust, blind

and big like charnel. Scumsuck. Shum ticky.
Ravished gaze. Bloodshot: cum in your lashes

gives you pink eye. I measure this not in
virtue but itches. Choose my salt-honey.

Choose smut. Choose my love. It’s slow. It oozes
into your twilit clit, my godhead’s skin.

NOTE:
“Lesbia’s gaze” comes from a poem by Edith Wharton. “Shum ticky” is a song-title by the fabulous Laura Love.

shit’s tits

31 Thursday Jan 2019

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Down on Valencia Street, in the back
room of Good Vibrations, the sales person

showed us a snap-on, double-dong in black.
“I sell a cum-load of these a month.” “One,

please,” you said. I’ve crawled on bloody knuckles
through Love’s little land a way — far enough

to know that you’re my spirit guide, Virgil’s
map of hell. “Harder,” you said. “My muff’s tough,

shit’s tits.” Love, never let me grow so old
that I think I’m righteous, one who bewails

sin, who fears sex. With faith and lube the first
black half-foot slides into you. I’ve been trolled

by sick zealots before; their heaven pales
to hell, as if love could ever be cursed.

marrow

30 Wednesday Jan 2019

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If I do, what then? True, I’m a false saint
of sluice, of vacant stares, of these pain-drenched

bones that will heal your ills. Touch my pink taint
with your blue-ebony hue. Touch what quenched

you when I bent you double, flipped up your skirt
and ran my tongue down your cunt. Devotion

is for the upright. Why pray when you squirt
and flow just as hard on the floor? My fun,

my bad, my grace. Don’t trust me; my deceit
goes all cock-skunk in a cloister. Go pray,

be chaste. It’s just your soul at stake, princess,
pith and marrow. I’m damned like Lilith’s clit,

like your clit if you come to me and say,
“Save me,” if I nod: “So, it’s come to this.”

host

29 Tuesday Jan 2019

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When I return you’re still that gangsta girl
working on an engine, parts strewn in front

of a rust-tinged mobile home. That daft squirrel
tattoo still curls above your ass. Pregnant

priestess. Chastised witch. Cast-off nun. We all
have been punished for breaking inane rules.

We are wit and cosmic horror. We crawl
toward faith as the gods die. I have a fool’s

love of the damned. The priest called you, “¡puta
loca!” I loved your, “Wenches with Wrenches,”

t-shirt, your butch smile. What couldn’t hookah
smoke and cheap gin cure? “Namaste, bitches.”

When I return? Without home. Without host.
I can’t. I’m your memory. You’re my ghost.