Tag Archives: sonnet

flaw

16 Friday May 2014

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on flaw

Tags

, , , , , ,

welding of the soul. touch this arc-light, heat
on the rim blast bay gal jack the damned mouth

the sores heel dog pity those who must bleat
like sheep when they cum. i’ve gone down, round south

america, round the bend, the glory
and the hole. i’m venus-wise, pricked and pecked.

got scars on thars you wouldn’t believe me
if i showed ya. i’m more bolts than bones. wrecked

as a lover, wrecked as a friend. bragging
is a sign of flaw. the things that they made

me do. flesh let enter nanobot womb.
daughter to rust. son to rot’s fathering

maggots. you say that you want to get laid.
i am the empty chair, the empty room.

this is how i learned

16 Friday May 2014

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on this is how i learned

Tags

, , , , , ,

It all goes away. Ta. Evening after
evening after. Tee-Tee Ta. The Mantis

rubbing claws, cleaning her mandibles, her
lover’s weed, her root and roe. Green goddess,

Eater of Men, it’s how I learned to count:
Ta, Tee, Tee-Tee Ta. Your luminescent

charms. Light. Happiness. How you let him mount
you, then off with his head. Tee-Tee Ta. Scent

of the demon in heat. Mansbane. Conquest
of your mates. Shh, I’m counting. Ta. I give

myself. Tee-Tee Ta. I count. It’s my choice
to count. The beat of the heart at rest. Rest.

Counting as song. There’s nothing to forgive,
darling. And if I sing you are my voice.

dinner with famous dead people

16 Friday May 2014

Posted by in Humor, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on dinner with famous dead people

Tags

, , , ,

They ask ya, who’d you like to have dinner
with? or fuck? or have a conversation

with? I’m the child of a witch and nightwalker,
trust me, hanging with the living as fun

is the last thing that the dead would ever
want to do. It’s not all local haunting

and brain eating; but it’s complete torture
to cross the void, called back by the living

for what? a cheap date? bad sex? to answer
questions? There’s a reason why famous dead

people aren’t spending time with me right now
and it’s not because they can’t. We offer

little but demand much. What the dead said
to me was this: “let me sleep, you daft cow.”

charley scrawl

15 Thursday May 2014

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on charley scrawl

Tags

, , , , ,

Thirst’s all-in-all in all a world of wet
and you eye my sweat like it’s a sluiceway.

You’re parched. A kiss from me, a drop of sweat,
would heal you. I stink like the gods, decay

in the hereafter. I am rot’s reason;
what the tongue-taught mushroom dreamt about; dreams

about — corrosion. I’m food for famine.
The gods could cure you. See how blasphemes

never felt so good, clit? Charley scrawl, curse
of all that you are, git. You drink and drink

without slack, without their stink. You are drought,
for drought refuses all, even perverse

love. I warn you, if you lick it, that stink
will stay with you, you’ll never wash it out.

title

07 Wednesday May 2014

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on title

Tags

, , , , , ,

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

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on bucktail

Tags

, , , , , ,

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

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on circled dynamo

Tags

, , , , , ,

“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

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on not born and nothing

Tags

, , , ,

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

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on dark pygmalion

Tags

, , , , ,

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

≈ Comments Off on you say

Tags

, , , , , ,

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.