Tag Archives: sonnet

fat palm

18 Monday Dec 2017

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Cum drips from your pretty little asshole,
rimming your cheeks. You shift your hips as I

slowly pull out. Your muscles form an O
where my cock has been; until, with a sigh,

your bud closes, trapping my cum inside.
Such orgasmic haze, when the soul, who fled

returns and we giggle, I let you guide
my hand back. You’re seeping cum. Fingers spread

you wide and you pour. My own sperm, millions
of them, pool in my cupped palm and you lick

my palm clean. I keep putting bits of me
in you. Gleefully. These are good omens.

That’s good. What’s better: there’s nothing cryptic
about ravaging your ass. Gleefully.

dumb bone

17 Sunday Dec 2017

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Hunger. Always hunger. Restless. Never
still. The weeping ghost on the other

side of the door. I am elsewhere. Not here
but in need. Bent. Bulging. Dragging this queer

longing about. Hungers need to be fed —
witch-tongue, witch-word, words will do. What you said

about madness, ache, need. What you said. Words.
Your words sate even the dead, craze blizzards,

make dumb bones cum. I heft your words in hand,
finger their whip-like grooves. The world was bland

and then I read you. Now I am frantic,
lust sick. The way the hungry are. Hard, slick

with need. The sound that comes to you, a ghost
on the wind. You can feel this frenzy, almost.

zed

16 Saturday Dec 2017

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Z. Like the Weegies say, “yoo’re feckin’ zed.”
Which is true. I am obnoxious, bratty.

All these chemicals. Havoc in my head.
Scrimshaw. Cuts. Cairn. Marker. What we bury

when we bury ourselves. This doesn’t work
well. You say that I’m better, like Delphi.

Visions that I don’t get. Let the gods smirk
when my name comes up. I shall have your thigh

around my hips, wrecking you. Even Pan
wept. For all my faults you let me bury

myself in you. No regrets. Just more praise.
Just. You are all. Just. We want a human

that we can call our own. And I, banshee,
death in the last name, wail: love born of haze.

night seed

15 Friday Dec 2017

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Empire. Incubus. Lust. The sky came through
and the window stood open. You were not

here, no. You were there; like how the crow flew.
Like the crow caught. Like how the sky was caught

at the foot of my bed. It squawked, rustled,
beat wings as I wrapped my arms around air.

Sky loves us all; but who loves its muscled
grace? When was the last time that you were bare

naked before it? Can you name its scars?
Can you name its need? Sky, love, pony-bird.

You’re still a lost empire. You’re still night seed.
My bed is wide. I swear by the jaguar’s

toothed song that I know why you have hungered.
Love, I know how to satisfy your need.

hothouse

13 Wednesday Dec 2017

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Spankings seem cruel. But when you bend to bare
yourself to me with your ink—one word stamped

in black, “RUIN,” above your derriere—
when you drape yourself on my knee, thighs clamped

tight with tension; then, yes, this will be cruel.
So rough. So sudden. That first splitting stroke.

You know that I find whining sobs shameful;
only kids caterwaul. Drench the floor, soak

your thighs, if you must, but keep count of each
welted slash left upon your upturned ass.

Correction’s hothouse. Discipline’s garden.
Pain blooms as divine comeuppance; this bleach-

in-the-eyes pain, add a-touch-of-teargas —
that’s why you’re here, you and your prayer: RUIN.

bene faction

08 Friday Dec 2017

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We are unnerved by pleasure; it frightens
us when it comes. It comes. I call. I’m out

side your door. I come with waif’s weed, urchin’s
greed. I hunger the way that the devout

hunger for a balm to their holy mess.
Call us a holy fuck. Blunts shared between

two: alms, bene-faction. To kiss. To bless.
To claim. I’ve driven far. I want obscene

things. I want to ruin you. Now re-frame;
I meet you at the door, children on their

way to school. We smile. We are familiars.
Familiar is good. It’s still the same blessed flame,

chaotic nerves, fire. I will take either:
as fuck-friends or as curious strangers.

ruin us

04 Monday Dec 2017

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“Once more, but with gore.” For two weeks after
I kept my shirt on, changed the bandages,

daubed the stains. “Abuse me,” we say. “Yes, sir,”
we say. I’m more than besmirched. My glasses,

knocked all ahoo, cracked. My scabs, when I stretched,
peeled. “Sour me,” is more than a dare. “Ruin

us,” gets used a lot. Love, what is far-fetched
that one day I’ll just burn? What bursts molten

cannot be put right as it flows, as it flames.
What you demand just now leaves me distraught.

You know better. But this ends with my squeals,
shouts, pleading to the gods. The healer claims,

“troubled water, troubled soul.” But it’s not
soul that your nails cut, just flesh and flesh heals.

theur elwis cum

01 Friday Dec 2017

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You sit, dripping on the gunwale, nostrils
flaring, your hemmed dress covering your knee

while I cut guff-rope from off your ankles.
“Ah’m chilled,” you chatter, “teur t’ bone, duppy.

Gi’ uz yaw rawny ‘eat.” What dead returns
when called? The boat bobbed on gray-green Haitian

waves. They had tried to snuff you; but salt burns
with ropes, entwined; fat moon with sickly sun,

enlaced; living with dead, conjoined. This, too,
is faith. I hug you. You cough up a lung,

laugh, stare: “duppy, ah knuw you’d cum.” You wince,
shifting back organs: “theur elwis cum.” True,

I do, for you. Your lips are cracked, your tongue
black, so I row us back to Port-au-Prince.

][][
Notes:
For the record I am not using any sort of Haitian accent in the poem, it is actually Yorkshire. A duppy is, traditionally, a malevolent spirit from the Caribbean (see: Bob Marley’s Duppy Conqueror, for popular use), though as with everything that people insist on making black and white I delight in the grays.

fat palm

27 Monday Nov 2017

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Night wind in the trees; though I never heard
that din back then. Just your mewling quim qualm

cries with each flushed thrust while your lips puckered
and dripped. To pull back. To mark with fat palm,

the smack, the sting. Onto days; felt your burn
on my fingertips, melted deep in my hair —

I walked for days glazed in a world of stern
scorn, ghast hush, torn crush. You’re all of despair.

I of need. How do you say? High maintenance?
High greed? Come back, love. Return like clockwork.

Or, soul, don’t. Gods do not love indulgence,
just the noise that you give when your hips jerk.

We are nights with wind and trees and ozone.
We are the low crackle that breaks the stone.

cockspur

27 Monday Nov 2017

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With my left hand automatic writing.
Three taps and the spirit begins, hungry

for my attention. We’re all hungering
with need. Bring me my water pipe, my tea,

chaos. What is a ghost but compulsion
personified? I am as compulsive

as it comes. You quote Shelley, I Byron.
Cockspur; we still quote men who don’t forgive,

forget or learn from their mistakes. Spirit,
mayhem, bring your mouth low. I have dead aunts,

mothers, sisters that only you recall.
Tap out my love to them. Be the poet

that I’ll never be; mumbling in trance,
just more wet clay with a lisp and a drawl.