Tag Archives: sonnet

ooze

28 Monday Jan 2019

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Tender? I make a poor first fruit. Green shoots
scarred to buggerclaw. You fret with kissing.

I with the bruise left when you knelt, peach fruit’s
spread. I gripped your hair in a knot, basting

down your throat. You tell of picnics, fat bees
droning, spring-time’s fete. I of back seats parked

in vile parking lots; two beasts of pain, grease,
cum, while a cop taps on the hood. I’m marked

to be broken. You’ll break me. Not ribald,
not curt, but tender. If redemption comes

in a kiss, in nothing more, then we’re doomed
since I ruined your faith, your bee-dazzled

glade. — You bit down on what felt like spasms
that burst inside: love that oozed, that mushroomed.

fester

27 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, irony, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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All these displays of drunkenness come on
me at odd moments. At twelve they were droll,

even charming. Now? I know that neurons
misfire in my head, though huffing xylol

didn’t help, up along neural pathways
in my brain so that I seem a sucker,

easy mark, artless fuck. All these displays,
from dazed to frenzy, with fears that fester

here, of damage that won’t heal. They all seethe
here. I rave and reel just like cast-off junk.

Manic. A shaman without her people
is just one more loon who hears the gods breathe.

I’ve no people. I don’t drink but I’m drunk
roaming holes in my brain, worlds in my skull.

green air

26 Saturday Jan 2019

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Muggy shadow. What stirs the insect hum
of a late spring day. What bedfellows. What

beguiles stout matrons, stacked dowagers, slum-
randy house moms, thrice-crossed widows. What smut

blurs the balmy air, the rag trade to love’s haute
couture. I make a sleazy ghost, but sleaze

can still please: pleather gash, suede stain, a blot
of dried cum. There’s jail bait, that raunchy breeze,

in the dark corner of your soul. The bugs
muzzle their love song as I pass. Green air,

fables of green air; I’m what you leave out
in your prayers, what you need the most, what tugs

you home to stir your faith. I’m like nightmare,
like what the gods call love, like what you doubt.

inferno

25 Friday Jan 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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I note how in rehab you sound drunken
with awe while going on about how sex

was fun back in Nineteen-seventy One.
Fun ain’t a word I use. “Savage.” “Complex.”

“Impaled.” Break me double until you feel
my heart beat under my ribs. Connected,

with cock, with fingers, with mouth, with that squeal
squirting, flesh tethered flesh. “Rage fuck.” “Blood

brutal.” “Holy like sin.” Still, you fear hell
so you got some quick faith, some religion —

that’s not my fate. Sex is the Inferno;
Lilith, the guide. Perhaps, in some motel,

somewhere, sex is fun. I don’t know. Your fun
has brought me only pain, ruin, sorrow.

perked

24 Thursday Jan 2019

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I taste of mud, pert meat, the moon’s eclipse;
being born still and cold until Lilith

breathed life into me, wrote the word, “Emeth,”
on a stone and placed it between my lips.

I still shimmer as I pass through heated air,
though my lisp anchors me here. One day soon

you’ll kiss me and taste the wasteland’s dark moon
while on your knees, while tonguing my curled hair.

Lockjaw and spittle. “Lilith’s Pet,” you said,
staring as your nipples perked. Like footprints

trampled in red mud, in blood, my kiss shall
leave its mark, tell you that I was born dead

in dearth and plague. I want to see you wince
taking me in, like sin’s gin, raw’s mescal.

][][

NOTE:
According to Jewish folklore, Judah Loew ben Bezalel (a 16th-century rabbi of Prague) created the automatonic Golem by shaping it from river mud and writing the word, “Emeth,” meaning truth, on its forehead.

high tea

23 Wednesday Jan 2019

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The Green Slime bucket read: gooey, drippy,
oozy, cold n’ clammy. It’s where you hid

all your Boogity Brown. Your mom forbid
you from seeing me, but after high tea,

after kisses, after school we’d sneak down
to the playground to loiter and giggle.

Adults, with their divorce and post-coital
despair, were odd things. I could hear you frown

over the phone after one more lecture
over what good girls don’t do. Cicadas

were just stirring in the bent magnolias.
You stirred, too; back in our skunk heat rapture.

Back when I was your strange, little squeeze toy
and you were my roaring girl, my tomboy.

written at 3:22 in the morning while flying through winter storm harper (somewhere over the midwest)

22 Tuesday Jan 2019

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Of course it’s magic: when the airplane leaves
the laws of gravity, that slight shifting

in my awareness. The sky opens, heaves
us up into it. Just then everything

flows, a tingling in my teeth and toes —-
vodka, cocaine, even the Mile High Club;

it all might happen. Like magic that shows
us how to escape. Millay’s candle stub

sputtered, burned out at both ends. My passion
seems a small thing up here, too. The sky rifts

around us. It’s not the will, it’s the means;
miles high in a box indifferent to sin,

to lewd moods, to all of desire’s gifts.
This realm of celibate gods, sexless fiends.

boisterous flesh

17 Thursday Jan 2019

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Jaded, moi? All this still shocks, awe still shrouds
my bones. I have traipsed while on acid trips,

stood at the edge of fens with squall-gorged clouds
rolling in and thought of you naked, hips

deep in mire. Landscapes should all have a nude
you in them. —Savagely muddy. —Vicious

with wild needs, wild need. What unabashed mood
prompts us to bare witness? Our boisterous

flesh loves the earth and sea. I love your flesh.
Greens of hills, browns of marsh, gray bog swirled;

I still adore this despite my lewd thoughts,
always lewd thoughts. Love, these storm-fresh

skies still bring joy, though I’m far from my world
of Crones and Amazons, Queens and Sexpots.

off the lost coast headlands

17 Thursday Jan 2019

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Strong winds, then squalls. Rain scooting over sea
while fog swallows me up, leaves me lagooned,

warped in wild-haired gray. The split-plank jetty
groans in the storm. I mean to be marooned

here, too. Waves, billow daughters, have promised
to have me one last time. They care nothing

for man-made gods, tedious laws. Their lust
is the sea’s — pure as fucking and drowning,

rough faith. You should be here. The sea has no
use for cum, not like you — streaks splashed hardcore

on your cheeks. What waves want is warmth, the spark
that moves love, moves my flesh like tide, lust’s flow.

I’ve been swallowed by you just once before —
now I’ll leave my heat mixed with rain-stained dark.

suckerish

13 Sunday Jan 2019

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You filled my mouth with copper, blood and brine.
Under your skirt, tongue in your moist split mound,

“t’avshya vosku hank’” — your velvet goldmine.
We’d been dancing, a waltz-grind. You had frowned

when the kissing stopped. Romance requires
restraint. Rise and fall of hips, amazing

pangs no nun ever warned about, desires
obscene. I didn’t notice how sopping

you had become until your thighs rested
on my neck. Gyumri is full of despised

daughters. I too am cast-off, suckerish
for the shamed. In with copper, brine and blood

I taste your mother-lode. Pleasure surprised
you. Your giggle was more than I could wish.

NOTE:
Gyumri is a city in northwestern Armenia where I lived for two years as a Peace Corps volunteer. Despite some progress in recent years women are still viewed as second-class citizens by many in that country. “T’avshya vosku hank’” (թավշյա ոսկու հանք) is the Armenian equivalent of “velvet goldmine,” Victorian slang for cunt.