Tag Archives: sonnet

husk thorn

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Secret garden, wild grassland and brambles;
I’ve strayed between the highlands of your wilds,
seeking your sweet fruit in bittersweet curls.
Virgin woods? whatever, nothing defiles
you more than a dry spell when husk thorns reign.
The sun burns through your bush, dries your puddles,
and your poor untasted fruit prays for rain.
I’ve been among poppies, tasted thistles,
slept with foxtail. Like the horny goat, weeds
are no problem. Your curls part at my kiss.
Your red chaparral flushes green. Big flood
coming. You are, too. My tongue tweaks and kneads
your clit. First you dew my face, then you mist,
gush and geyser, drenching like sticky blood.

pearl tongue

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Call it what you will, this soul called pleasure.
Button, nub, bald girl in a boat, pearl tongue,
jelly bean, pea pod, sweet spot, pink sugar
plum, moose knuckle, the box with the low-slung
jewel. The clit: here be hoodoo. Among
some this is where all magic gets cracking.
Fairy fire from your kiss as your tongue clung
to her girl flesh, as your tongue tongued. Tonguing.
Grinding. Clits like red cherries and fresh fruit.
Clits like queer books. A clit like a music
box, a song. A clit like sorrow’s bloodroot
for the unknown gods. A clit like lipstick
smear. Bush fire. Call it her goddess. Call it
your bliss. Call it soul-joy. Call it your clit.

bless me with all

03 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tell me about your sea. Bless me with all

that makes the tide flow sweet out of your hips.

I know what the seawall knows, what the wall

wants but can’t have. If a single stone slips

out of place the sea will gush in, drowning

this dry mouth of land. And, unlike the wall,

I am not afraid to drown, swallowing

all you can offer. I’ll swallow it all,

gag it down, wanting one more little death.

Let me hear the whale song humming deeply

inside your chest, sleep in the kelp forest

between your thighs. Divers must hold their breath

going down, but I’ll let your undersea

kingdom flood me. I’ll let my seawall burst.

witch-mark

18 Thursday Jul 2013

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Bluntless succubus. A joyless rolled spliff
between two blue lips. The devil’s nipple,
misfit clit, nuzzles my chin with a whiff
of a witch-mark; which marks where I’ve been, dulls
pillow talk, slows all us down. Going down
on you bigmouth I get my full mouth throttled
to the ground. Shagged but not fagged; a putdown
that can only make sense in past-tense. Fraggled,
as in rock and squirt and splashdown. Your skirt
around your hips, your lips blue and agog
as you gag me. Did I mention that there’s
something in my throat? The pervert’s effort
is worth it. The sky is dull without smog.
Lust is nothing more than nightmares and prayers.

sounds so rude

02 Tuesday Jul 2013

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.
After your third moon’s dry menstruation,
after your third divorce and third tonic
without the gin. After the gin. Pardon
this dull child in love with you, your chronic,
lickity-clit poetry. The lyric
of the older woman and her green bud.
I can’t fly, but I can lick like a buck
at a salt-lick. Fill you, with acid-blood
alcohol and joy. Pardon your dull child
who makes you cry and cum. The gods, leading
me to you, knew your needs. We are all crude.
Shameless. All these teachers and students. Wild
fucks and praise for learning new words; making
what you call “motherly love” sound so rude.
.

 

 

blood ties

27 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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fa1

y un azoro de mujer/ llora a su cedro de Líbano
— and a ruin of a woman/ cries for her cedar of Lebanon
[from Gabriela Mistral, La Fugitiva]

Sister somewhere it’s my mother’s birthday
soon so I must go and find her. You said
why? warned that nostalgia is a cliche.
How can I answer why? Sister, instead,
please let me wash your feet before I go.
Let me clothe you in something more than dust.
We all say that we will return, I know,
and then we never do. You’re my bravest
friend, so if I can find that shining path
back to you then I will find you. You claim
all blood ties complicate things, like men’s laws,
and should be smashed. Perhaps. But, a bloodbath
will not help us be together. Don’t blame
blood. You asked me: Why? I tell you: Because.

poet’s note: I’ll be gone for a couple of days celebrating my mother’s birthday. Wish me luck, I’m looking for the path now.

fa11

faa1

ffa1

iris murdoch the one alone

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Is there any other way out of this
skull? I’ve drugged it, drilled holes in it, shot it
full of electricity. Nothing. There’s bliss
in pain, yes. But not release. I mean, shit,
Murdoch’s fog still creeps in. I am blurring
in front of the mirror. I’m freaking out.
Maybe ghosts are just us dead forgetting
who we are? Without memory I doubt
I am going to be saved, find a path
out of this woods. Lover, do not leave me.
I am afraid. Perhaps I have always
been this afraid, I do not know. My wrath,
my laugh, my fears, my love I am sorry
no, no, no do not sink into this haze.

machine-born rage and bedtime stories

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Homer’s heroines were virgins, witches
and fools. I need more than that from my myths.
Give me witches who can raise slain corpses,
virgins who command armies, girl blacksmiths
who forge the sort of swords that burn worlds down.
There are fools enough to make any queen
of the wood fairies swoon. I want to drown
the world in menstrual blood and fire, machine-
born rage and bedtime stories. Homer’s ass
hangs out here. We all take turns kicking it.
Poor mule. Poor Titania. These myths blur.
The world is a tinder box; with teargas,
sulfur and wrath. Would you try to light it?
Let us go and try to replace Homer.

the thing you call without a name

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Because we’re fragile. Because we spill truth
the way blue glass spills light. Because someone
loved us enough to be rude and uncouth,
crude and bestial, in ways that heaven
refuses to be. We’re the harbingers
of our fate. We’re cracks in the stonewall smile.
The blood-copper smell of sticky fingers
under your nose. Heh. Because the exile
wants to be something else. Because we all
want to be something else. Our mysteries
are just like that, kid. We’re unknowable.
We’re the cracked enigma. The thing you call
without a name. Except me. I’m a tease.
I’m what you want that’s rude and bestial.

last cricket song

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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The dead aren’t poetic. They don’t murmur
about being leaves in a storm, the last
cricket song on the last night of summer.
Leave that bullshit to the living, who cast
one scared eyeball on the shadow and claim
it is in their image. What a deep lack
of faith. As if faith was some sort of game
you could name. It’s either raw and bareback
or not at all. You can’t pull out, just pray
that this time the crude dead will not claim you
as their own. They will, sooner or later,
but not tonight. Tonight you should obey
no one, no laws, like the dead. The one true
law that you’ll learn later, but not sooner.