Tag Archives: sonnet

you’re blue

03 Tuesday Sep 2013

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Make it quaint like crack pipes, blow for cheap grace,
—resin residue, —dew in the eyes, —pink
eye, —this pleasure dripping over your face
in gobs. I drink and I drink glob I drink.
This high will do. Vodka then gin, thus we
begin. Do not make it ugly. Drivel
does not impress. Make it blade, a belly
cutting cute. Make it the only odd skull.
The last thing they’ll ever find of. You’re blue
by thy nature. Blue by thy blow. I can’t
care where you went to school, fool. What awards
you got and sold. Which old hippie you blew.
Scare me new. Blow my lid. Make me recant
poetry. I want not chaff knives but swords.

joy

02 Monday Sep 2013

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Thief. Grief. I’m a servant of the dog star,
the red vixen, the copper bitch. I’ve come
to bleed you dry. With an ax, a crowbar,
fingers, nails, I will reach inside. Your dumb
heart will slow, quiet now, a sulking bag
gone limp in my hand. Then I will replace
it with winter’s starved moon, that silver jag
in the sky that can never be full. Space
is full of holes. You have just one. Why grieve
over joy? Why grieve while singing this song?
The skylark knows this joy — so does the thrush
— that this world is best, we know, we believe,
without you in it. That agreed fact; long
joy of your absence. That smiled-upon hush.

skull crack

01 Sunday Sep 2013

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hidden vice—infidelity is dull
only cancer does not change even that
changes the need to feel guilty that skull
crack that let all these passions in. Hellcat.
Diamond dog. Nightmare. I have ridden you
all. So you fuck? you fuck that’s not divine
the more abrasive faith the more see-through
soul made-up by the mind, that is not mine,
nothing is mine. I leave empty. I leave
with a belly wound, dripping tripe. Grave dust
my guts, throne of faith. This play on release
madam will not do. The ghosts leave to grieve.
Grieving will not do. Just this. Just this. Just
this. You small thing. Pax now, O fool, soul, peace.

dirty snow

01 Sunday Sep 2013

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Then I would bear it clench myself and die
steeled with my pilgrimage’s pain the still eyes
in the dead face demon’s daughter beauty
born of love love indeed these carcass flies
and ash and funereal oak. Green bud, white
leaf, red snow. Tumble-down-dumble. The blade
lets slip my guts, cries havoc, as her night-
stained hands find a hold in my blood betrayed
O but why a big bush of elders. Dies
my why my why my why penetrating
deeper, dies my demons and false cherubs.
Dies this new faith, a three-person’d passion.
In the dirty snow you will find nothing
but meal worms fed on my blood and fat grubs.

her foal obscene

31 Saturday Aug 2013

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And know there is more that you can’t see, can’t
hear, can’t know — except in movements. Inside
you it wants to get out. Like song. Like chant.
Shaman knows. Steadily it grows. Denied
as birth it will rip you apart. This thing.
This word. This language. Wretched wind that swept
space clean. Breathe in. We die in blood. Bleeding
inside. I wept because you were. I wept
riding the nightmare and her foal, obscene,
there is always more. Sister, I know why
I stayed. That movement. Fear. Can you forgive
me? I cannot. I scream. I scream. I scream
because we are all born in blood, and die
in blood, but for you, sister, please just live.

catch fire girl

30 Friday Aug 2013

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Blind, we follow her slant flaming sparks, spray
metal to the hammer, pound out sculptured
what, we do not know. A girl that can weigh
potency, that fell in love with the word
anvil. One who speaks to the heart of coals.
Make my hands large and sinewy, a prayer.
Let me dream in blade and sculpture. The soul’s
work is rare. How many can find rapture
over mallet sizes? Turn steel to doubt,
fizzle it, turn it soft again? Her swing
of sledge. Her smithy grindstone. The crack-smack
of each blow, blurring, sending us far out
as she beats and beats and beats, then, sweating,
the catch fire girl at the forge tows us back.

a drop on the tongue, just one

29 Thursday Aug 2013

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Do not trust still water. It has no salt.
The first time I drank another’s life blood,
one lone dribble from behind the ear, fault
of fuck bites, that brackish taste, that queer flood,
filled me, alien and perverse, I knew
that no rush of river, no stagnate pond,
nothing that was simple like day-blind dew,
rain or fresh water could take me beyond.
Not the way orgasms lead us to ride
the gods or how a blood drop holds life’s curse.
It’s all about making the sweat begin.
I wish to know the wild thing that you hide,
the thing that makes you alien and perverse,
the thing hidden in the salt on your skin.

faith the scar

29 Thursday Aug 2013

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Sexless – godless — raptus — itself a drift
without dim mortal faith the scar-marred home
of sand wind look into the sea the rift
between walking naked into froth-foam
of tide naked before a vast junkyard
of words that do not please. To worship sea
is to worship alien a graveyard
for the others to worship mystery
all that words cannot name a god shark finned
I will not die. On land dry I will swim
out drown drown drown into bliss into bliss
into bliss into that which drives the wind
because it has come to this it has come
to this O faith it has come to this.

cut here

28 Wednesday Aug 2013

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Tonight I’ll drink and think. Tonight I’ll pluck
from the air one last clamorous kiss. Ghost
lovers shall come and cum. As in: we’ll fuck.
As in: I’ll boast of my dumb brute brawn. Boast
of my blade, but not this blood. Rouge’s belly.
Twin-twined guts. Cut here. Though each layer flails
the skin nothing to breathe in what body,
what shape, what pains to give you my entrails
I got guts beating days off through the blur
of stone and dark bud. All that I still trust
I still love. I’m weary of ugliness,
but not drinking, not thinking. And after?
Will we still fuck when I’m dead? When our lust
is the only thing standing between us?

ghost winds

28 Wednesday Aug 2013

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Hearing nothing, understanding nothing,
I have wandered out among the long, dry
ghost winds. The sky has stolen everything.
My eyes are full of dust. Why does the sky
blind me and wish me ill? On my two hands
tattooed stars shine, but they are useless guides.
Blind. Blind. Blind. Maybe up in the highlands
I’ll find rest, make a dress out of goat hides
and sleep among the sad daphi-daphi-
dillies. Then I’ll forget to be afraid
and eat raw honey right out of the comb.
Maybe. But look what’s been stolen from me;
my sight, my soul, my name and why I prayed,
even this mirage that I called my home.