Tag Archives: sonnet

title

07 Wednesday May 2014

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Sea salt is nice, but pepper is better.
Take a pinch in your palm, and the fat grease

drippings from a howlet’s wing. Now pepper
the grease with sapling dew, three cloves, a piece

of thyme, and mandrake root (red-hemlock kind)
You’ll need the dust of a guilty man hung

at a crossroads (which is tricky to find
these days, but coffin dirt works too), newt’s tongue,

gall of goat, slip of yew. Now boil, strain, mix
with rye for flavor. It’s been recorded

that blind-worm’s sting adds to the aroma,
in a manner of speaking. Serves for six.

Great for parties. Try it cold, reheated,
with wine or water from a djinn’s hookah.

bucktail

20 Sunday Apr 2014

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The best monsters are the worms that bucktail;
their glint in curves, in an upswinging mess

brought by revelations. Lifting his veil,
he showed us blight, his death-head grin. Undress

before me only if you have breath, death’s wish.
Gods! Go down three paths — despite her mohawk,

wide hips, breasts, despite bravado, girlish
ass, her laugh — she was well endowed with cock

and great heavy balls. She was alien,
the one thing that you fear. I loved a queen

who placed her eggs in the chest of her host,
just to watch offspring burst forth – daughter, son,

holy ghost – my lovers are all obscene,
ethereal – daughter, son, holy ghost.

circled dynamo

20 Sunday Apr 2014

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“let the poets pipe of love/ in their childish ways” — Cole Porter

Mother of sin, your child calls. Writhing lust;
any seed — planted in your dear rectum,

esophagus or clinched palm — shall resist
the urge to grow. This is the soul’s kingdom,

Pandora, mother, Mistress of the Box.
I, too, have drifted, circled dynamos.

Self-centered, virile or impotent cocks,
frigid or hot cunts. He, who thinks he knows

of his gender, or all of the others,
is a fool. Yet fools are who you –listen–

to. Why? Tradition? What I inhabit
is vast. A derelict lost. A line blurs

into words beyond worlds. I, dying sun.
I, what you call sin. I, the divine slut.

not born and nothing

20 Sunday Apr 2014

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We were automatons, servants, sex slaves;
the sort your Nineties rock and roll regime

dreamed up — rhythms of thrust and pretty graves
and girls. “No one in space can hear you scream.”

But I did. Vital stab into organs
of elimination, procreation,

revolution. And this is what happens
when Cain’s children speak of revolution.

You men whose cocks impale our asses, cunts,
hearts, our minds, but never our soulless soul.

I was not born and nothing will forgive
violence in the name of faith. Our vengeance

comes when your faith dies out; you lose control,
and we who were not born remain and live.

dark pygmalion

19 Saturday Apr 2014

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If you were to rebuild me, fashion me
in your likeness, your image, spread me out

on the dissection table. With hasty
stitches suture in zippers, so without

pain you can have quick access to my heart.
I am a gray blossom, passion denied,

wearing other people’s pieces. Apart
from the shredded feral divine, I pride

myself that I have survived you. Perhaps
you’ll never feel guilt, just white static noise.

I might be a monstrosity, but you,
little god, you’re what happens when love snaps

and you get bored with me. You break your toys
so that you can fix them with nails and glue.

you say

13 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Not all housewives are hungry, but you are.
Not all home-schooling parents develop

crushes on their sons, but you did. Bizarre
as that seems, many dwell in and worship

at the house of incest. Lot’s daughters did.
The French have a whole genre devoted

to son-and-mother love. What we forbid
always becomes tempting. You are naked,

you say, going mad with need. It’s not right
that no one wants you, you say. But I do.

I don’t care who your lovers are, what dumb
dreams and fancies get you to sleep each night.

I’ve spent my whole life looking for one who
can be honest about what makes her cum.

cum slush and stubborn flesh

11 Friday Apr 2014

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From down here the sea’s surface is the sky,
waves are clouds, seaweed marks where you got bored

and left me. I hate you — but I know why
you did all this when I fell overboard —

just to watch me drown. I am still drowning,
just as memory falls, stone through depths, sea

green to blue to black, as we did. Kissing
until your cold flesh robbed me. You robbed me.

I gave so easily — a heart that beats,
cum slush and stubborn flesh. I licked your gills.

Your cock was otherworldly. Who cheats
death cheats life. I need neither. Drowning thrills

but not as much as what you took: love, joy,
slam-bang blowjobs. Flesh from a living boy.

xenomorph, darling

09 Wednesday Apr 2014

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Quench your thirst — I want to feel your heavy
cold breasts on my back when you mount me; scrape

your claws across my skull as you hold me
down with one hand, exposing the soft nape

of my neck to your teeth. My dull, mammal
blood — I’ve never let anyone do this

before. Love is so had to find. People
say that they’ll work for it, work for this bliss,

but how many really do? The perverse
shall soon inherit. Those who have tasted

strangeness are set free from all the world’s shame.
We few, we lucky few. Love has no curse.

Love is our birthright. Love, lap up my blood;
lick my lips, nothing else will taste the same.

cradlesong

07 Monday Apr 2014

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“telling lies/ well, that’s no surprise” — the Go-Gos

You want it like I do: burning monsters
surged in fevered swamps. Rising grabby grasp

into my valley red/ into Rapture’s
blood/ Fierce girl’s mouth/ I am every last gasp

you cum/ laughing/ perfected. What we do
is sin/ touch-and-go/ these ridiculous

elder things/ man-masks! how burdensome “you
are,” how hard it is to breathe/ Lustrous

daughters/ make me your sister’s swamp/ wild wrong
beating/ Anger’s bone that violent flame-brute/

heh, my Mama’s joy, her anguished left hand
birthing until she cried this cradlesong/

this calm/ We are a muddy substitute/
a false boy-god’s brat/ childhood of sand.

strangelove

03 Thursday Apr 2014

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“to the subtle air breathed/ by beings like us who walk this sphere,/ the change onward from ours to that of beings who walk other spheres.” — Walt Whitman

Stand here; where dry sand becomes cold and wet.
Crouched in your confirmation dress. Feel this.

From the wave’s deep grave, from the endless threat
chafing and chained in those breakers, the bliss

of the drowned, the wild curl, spasm, panting —
do you get it? Tell me, can you explain

the force at work here? What do the living
understand? Long after your first blood stain

soaks through your knickers, long after the change,
what will save you, greedy virgin? Romance?

Take a lover, still the sea will surprise
you, grab you, consume you, fill you with strange

love. As if your human lungs stood a chance,
as the waves touch you, as they lick your thighs.