Tag Archives: sonnet

mayhem of the night [2]

30 Thursday Jan 2014

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If we forget this kindness in winter
that is fine for it still remains. Springtime

persists. The new moon bulbs rise, no longer
held down by the mayhem of the night. Slime,

pulp and blood of a different kind birth;
the realm where there is no mercy. Nothing

can be reborn at this depth. With no earth
or prayer; where do the souls of those drowning

alone at sea go? Who will call for them?
Who will remember? These seasons, solstice,

new moons fix nothing. Love, where do you lie?
I will find you, raise you from this mayhem,

little fish, stillborn — — It was no kindness
when the sea washed clean your death-clouded eyes.

a dirty thing

26 Sunday Jan 2014

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if the river calls me

if the river calls me

It was that rancid smell that made me drive
her off. Damn! What a foul stench! Of course she

fought and cried. Of course. How would she survive
on her own? Who would take in a dirty

thing like her? No one, I am sure. That smell
of hers just wouldn’t wash off. No. Call me

a beast, if you will. Say that there’s a hell
for bad parents who desert their needy

children. I’m sure there is but I don’t care.
What was I going to do with her? Me!

I am no believer in myths. A prayer
only works if someone hears it and we

are deaf. Abandoned down by the river;
she is human now, a fox no longer.

talented cocksuckers

22 Wednesday Jan 2014

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Tasting my sex. I want sweat to drip. Eyes
rolled back in your skull. Come large. Come erect.

Come rub it. Come touch it. Come eat it. Sighs
and drawls speak in crazy tongues. You have wrecked

me for anyone else. When I say, “don’t
bite me,” I know that you will. When I say,

“don’t waste even a drop,” I know you won’t.
Impaled mouth. Hollow cheeks. Until I spray

blessings down your throat, you keep your eyes shut.
There are many talented cocksuckers

in this world, but out of all I chose you
because you’re mad and bad and you don’t slut

shame. I come each time I hear that sinner’s
voice on the phone say, “Come and get it, boo.”

mutate

22 Wednesday Jan 2014

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In the night, I feel you strip my bed clothes
off me, flesh on flesh on my hair, just cut,

drifts down against your neck. You are there, nose
nuzzled, lips pressed against the pale riot-

root scar of my bleak chest. I feel your weight
on my body. It’s not all that I feel.

Softly, slowly both of us will mutate
into the other: the hungry, ideal

hunter, the shyest of bucks. In the night
I’m blood-mad, as if the orgasm’s prey

would now cure me. As if I were the brave
one and you slowly giving up the fight.

I promise, one day you will hear me say
“I love you” while standing over my grave.

splays you out

21 Tuesday Jan 2014

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Rule one: you can’t be single — singles get
the whole world handed to them — they have rules,

rules to break — I adore lovers with debt,
lovers who missed out. Let grief be what fuels

your lust. Let taboo be what ties you up
and splays you out. No hiding from your lust

just yet. Give me a wanna-be trollop,
a day-dreaming dirty grrl. She-who-must-

thrust-her-hips-while-her-children-are-sleeping.
Fluids and sweat gleam … what new debauching

will we dream up tonight? We both hunger
after something new, my married lover.

I have never been told that I’m a whore.
You’ve never begged for mercy and for more.

][][

notes:

“The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules. And tonight, you’re gonna break your one rule.” — Heath Ledger’s Joker

soared flashed gone

21 Tuesday Jan 2014

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Foliage dark mass fringed by your thighs we’re rude
north of Vegas two hour drunken blur

red rocks screening our bodies laying nude
upon rocks above the hot spring, under

the cliff’s shadow nature is nudity
grace-like you stand hands on hips gazing

upon my half-open calves and fleshy
gingersnaps we have been finger fucking

soared flashed gone all day tease taste swallow deep
throat gag control we came here to get high

above the valley floor you shudder seize
my skull press me deeper until you weep

when I go down. Looking up, you reply:
please please please please please please please please please please …

count each scar

16 Thursday Jan 2014

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Water-witches follow the sea’s rough path,
cross to the wave’s door, ride the brackish mare

tide-ways home. I loved a witch. In my bath
she would let me wash her back, braid her hair,

count each scar. I think of her on the shore,
calling the drowned to come home. Souls like fish

swallowed up. I can’t find the witch’s door,
just snow upon waves; moths that vanish

as she did. My sister, I must make friends
with the waves, as you did. You returned

to me riding their backs like a blue flame
until the drowned called for you. Who pretends

they can sing up storms? I can’t. Lost and burned
I’m a child in the fog, calling your name.

as if it were a given

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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halo blue light, moon through trees the dead lay
curled in the grass softly teasing the rain

light drops upon its naked skin the fey
delight the wood nymph pleasures each drop pain

each drop, a warming, bringing it nearer
to the mist, the clouds, the shadow glimmers

upon its back and legs, heat, a lover’s
heat, one even dead flesh can remember

whipping now, stinging its back, burning holes
in its ruined blue face as the dead dive

in and the living talk about rebirth
as if it were a given that’s the soul’s

vanity, hoping that it will survive
as its laid down in the dreams of the earth

deleting

07 Tuesday Jan 2014

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“if I could I’d burn all of Western literature to set it free …”

Here’s the thing, the problem I struggle with,
the whole kit and kaboodle, here’s how I’ll

go down: one day I’ll get bored, my neolith
art will no longer please. Every exile

knows that immortality is absurd.
It’s that last act: burning books, deleting

computer files, making sure that no word
remains — that is art. Would you keep writing

if you knew no one would read it? Zen tells
us to hit “erase” after each poem.

Enlightenment claims nothing shall remain
behind. Fuck zen. Give me chaos and hell’s

short-term memory. I want to become
nothing, let blank pages be my domain.

clit in a riot

05 Sunday Jan 2014

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Ja 05, 2014 (2)

 

 

 

 

 

“Squirm” is one of the most unerotic
words we have. It’s sweaty, but not sweat-fuck

sweat. It speaks of discipline, but not slick
ash cane strokes on up-turned ass, each lilac

kiss-bloom causing you to gasp. The only
thing I can think of that might make squirm sound

naughty involves callused fingers, puffy
lips, tracing the curve of your venus mound,

curling, parting, finding home. It involves
knuckles, first one, then, pushing, a fat second.

Children squirm when touched, as will you. Eyes shut,
with: yes … right … there … Oh … God. What will dissolve

in bliss if rubbed? What’ll leave you dazed, dampened,
gasping, thighs shaking, clit in a riot?