Tag Archives: sonnet

butch cockscomb crawl

07 Friday Aug 2015

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Quick, drink up. It’s on me, despite all this.
— Try my red lips like a surgical scar

quickly opened — when you lean in to kiss
you’ll find that my teeth, immense and bizarre,

gleam. Try posing me in a slitted-skirt
with thighs crossed as two girls begin to brawl

over nothing at Juicy Lucy’s Yurt,
where it smells like yak milk, cum and Pinesol.

Mostly I don’t step in. It’s not science,
just cheap alcohol. Try a Butch Cockscomb

Crawl. But tonight’s different — for there are some
who find cold-blooded pleasure in violence.

After the fight I took the two girls home,
despite all this, we made it a threesome.

deathblowjob

29 Wednesday Jul 2015

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I tell you, sex with a nightmare is odd
but fun. No, it wasn’t a monster squirrel

fetish; she was, in fact, a disease god.
— L.S.Diva aka Acid Girl

aka Small Disease God — I don’t know
exactly the disease she embodied,

a small one, I suppose. The term, “deathblow
job” was hers. Obedient bodies’ need

to feed did not excite her. “You’re immune
system’s failure is what I want,” she’d grunt,

her long forked tongue crazily twined with mine,
fingers touching the lump in my breast. “Soon,

soon.” I don’t mind being loved for my mutant
cells, who can say of cancer, “fuck benign.”

sleet caked

27 Monday Jul 2015

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“An wha will mak me fidgin fain?
O wha will kiss me o’er again?”
– Robert Burns (1788)

“Feck thes!” Our breath, clouded. The car’s heater
struggled, even at high — In the back seat

next to the baby-chair, you stripped off your
mittens, pulled your jeans to your knees while sleet

caked the windshield. “Ah got tae gie ye back
tae skale in ‘en minutes, we’ll make it queck.”

Guiding my head down, my shoulders hunchbacked
while your snow-boots pressed into my stomach.

It took you eight; leaving me sick, your cum
in my eyebrows. Even after you cleaned

me up I was a mess all day long —
I’m older now. I’ve heard the joke: “Th’ Mum

an’ Th’ Neighbur Bairn.” The punchline: “Sex-fiends
ur made an’ education isnae wrang.”

sufficiency that intrigues

25 Saturday Jul 2015

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It’s the self-sufficiency that intrigues
me. All those small, little acts that add up

to more. A friend writes about her blitzkrieg
sex life: hers is a world where she worships

only her own rapture. A cry, a puff,
a groan, a lament, an echo, an ache.

And the orgasm? Raucous enough,
oddly musical, what I might mistake

as a miracle. That long buzz and burn.
I have never been like that. It’s a shock

to learn that my own flesh and libido
could be somehow different, that I could learn

how these small acts work, that I could unlock
such fire, that I could be an inferno.

honeyed

10 Friday Jul 2015

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I loved that smile-scar of her C-section;
and yes, that boast of hers — that she once bucked

some guy out of bed when she came, that none
could hold her hips still — was all true. I sucked,

hard. My fingers went deep, and then curved up.
She was far above me as I knelt down

in her mom’s trailer. She ran, like syrup,
honeyed. It was noon but her Sear’s nightgown

was wet where my mouth had been. Her tattoo
shivered. Her nails dug in. She screamed. This bruise

is from then. The TV was on. I pried
my hand free. Her baby, somehow, slept through

it in the next room. Suddenly the news
said that Ella Fitzgerald had just died.

booze blood words

16 Saturday May 2015

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Liquid devils; it’s not other people
that I’m morbidly sick over, it’s what

they do. No. I mean, when I say, “devil,”
I mean, “words in a text;” and “liquid”? Blood.

Booze. All that I put in me. This is me:
after the shift I’m left with ugly shoes,

aching lack and words. Without dowry,
all my touchables go untouched. This booze.

This blood. These words. I bite my lip. I think
I’m a bitter deity, since I don’t

even get the chance to tell you about
who died at work, that I’m wearing your pink

boy-briefs, or that nothing (booze, blood, words) won’t
let me unread what fills me now: pure doubt.

LITTLE ABOMINATIONS

11 Saturday Apr 2015

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Who died screaming, were pickled, placed in jars

with dull, defused light. Nameless, forgotten,

 

left in rows; cryptic as Venus or Mars.

Our sole purpose is to illustrate sin,

 

debauchery, and crimes against Nature.

Why come down here? Why bring your big flashlight

 

and sleuthing hat? What would an amateur

find here but horror? Love in defused light?

 

We are all someone’s lost child. Some mother’s

push and shove and sigh. Left here like a clue

 

to be deciphered by you; some smudge, dust,

something clever, which we are not … clever.

 

See? You’ll never understand us. Not you.

Not the one who turns away in disgust.

WHAT OTHERS SHUNNED

11 Saturday Apr 2015

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Sister, perverse mother, warrior aunt.

Excavating your elongated skull.

 

Proto-Neolithic. Bone-like bouffant.

Your queer bones. Were my ancestors hostile

 

when they first met you? Scared of the Other?

I come from a long line of primitive

 

hunters and gatherers. We turned trader,

farmer, and afraid. You could be massive,

 

berserk, lascivious if you wanted.

Now you’re gone, leaving only your ruined

 

skull, claws and myth. I live with mystery

all the time, but you confuse me. Your blood

 

is not mine, yet I love what others shunned,

be you fiend or saint, friend or enemy.

FOLIAGE BEARS US ILL WILL

11 Saturday Apr 2015

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With your mad colors, your multiple inks;

henna could only dream of the dark hues

 

that you inhabit. I’ve had my pinks,

my oaks and walnuts, my skimpy sky blues

 

and wash-out reds. But burly green? “Green, green,

how I love you.” Green is the underworld

 

of all colors. It’s Hades, the obscene

door to Hell, it’s the Devil’s swamp, all swirled

 

with the bayou, rekindled with venom.

Green is death, it reminds us that foliage

 

bears us ill will. Do not blame green for your

woe. Green doesn’t care. It’s mad as Bedlam.

 

Heady as wormwood. Cryptic as language.

Wise as rolling hills. Foolish as liqueur.

GLITCH IN THE FOG

11 Saturday Apr 2015

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[[“besos fantasmas,” kisses from your favorite ghost, darling]]

Kiss like an omen. Kiss like its doomsday.

Cold bled lips. “Besos de un fantasma,”

 

as my lover, a Cádiz ghost, would say.

Swell. Her ozone. When I lick her karma

 

she melts. Love has no rules, which is why

I’m so bad at it. There should be rites, witch

 

craft, blood oaths; anything to defy

expectations. I ruined her death, glitch

 

in the fog, by calling her only half

way home. I’m a lousy fish. I keep her

 

asleep in my small eye. Palpitations;

she wakes, crawls out with a kiss and a laugh.

 

I love it all bad: bad teeth, bad posture,

bad rites and bad Spanish teenage demons.