Sunday, July 22, 2012


Blowjob for a Birthday


The month of deflowering is over—
The fruit’s in, all of it simply rotten

The debutant balls are tumescent—
The dead mummies back in storage

The deadheads are back home again—
Couch potatoes in front of the TV

I’ll go into hiding in a flowerpot—
My heart is a stopped wilting geranium

The dogs are nosing in my entrails—
They’re peeing on the hydrangea bushes

The cabbage heads are wormy—
Nailed to the moldering rafters

The inmates are back in their cells—
Their veiny skin white as pork fat

O the beauty of abuse—
The orange pumpkins without eyes

The birds have pecked them all out—
Along with Tippi Hedren’s up in the attic

Dark House

There’s this house on haunted hill—
I made it myself up in my dizzy brain

I like to hide myself in a quiet corner—
Picking my nose & digging for ear-wax

It has so many cellars & crypts—
Such eelish delvings go on down there

It’s like Vincent Price after the plague—
The Last Man on Earth there in dead Rome

I must simply find a map outta here—
All these marrowy tunnels, mole-peopled

Creeps living in wells down there—
All of Miss Dante’s assholes live down there

It makes my nostrils quiver & go queer—
There’s a cuddly boy who loves me down there


Once I was an ordinary lesbian—
Me and my lover drove with diesel dykes

When we thundered into town—
The str8ts hid away in their closets

Time unwinds itself with Sapphic grace—
The great umbilicus swallows us all

I’m sleep-drunk after draining dry—
The moon’s vat of vulva vibes

The Beast

The minotaur boy—
Such a lovely lanky young dish

The sun sits in his armpit—
Nothing ever gets moldy with him

Lady Gaga lives under his dunce cap—
It’s hard to get rid of him

The sky’s always falling on him—
Pig puddles and sty-faced kid

Hogwallow’s kept boy—
Mollusks and mud-sump happy

The Duchess of Nothing—
His Hairtusk’s bride

Skin-Flute News

He’s so cool going down—
Shifty-eyed down on my lily root

Our bower of old umbrellas—
Withering under his pitiless fingers

He squeezes the sky of his—
Black and blue dominion

There’s little or no shelter—
When his cruel wolf-mouth snarls

He strangles my fugitive lips—
Into a soft caul of forgetfulness

Silk worms weave my tomb—
Nodding nymphs like statues

I’m a puppet now loosed from—
The strings of the puppet-master

He wears a mask of horny antlers—
When he comes into bed with me

I’m tongueless underwater—
Beneath the reeds with crocodiles

Witch Burning

Can there be queer love after Auschwitz—
For those that survived the ovens?

Even after the war the queens were—
Rounded up for being ex-cocksuckers

The marketplace is always busy—
The str8ts piling up the dry sticks

They’re only to ready to burn us—
Make us climb into a bed of fire

It’s easy to flame the faggots—
Smoke always outta the chimneys

They’re turning the burners up—
Always inventing new sorts of plagues

Gimme a break, the queens say—
Knowing their days are numbered, dearie

I’m lost, I’m lost, my ankles brighten—
Then my thighs alit, there goes the disco!

St. Peter’s

This is the place where old queens—
And new queens are mended

They lie flat in the graveyard—
Beneath the flat blue anvil sky

They’ve flown outta the cuckoo’s nest—
They’ve entered the crypt of indifference

The headstones are peaceable—
The mouth-holes finally closed now

It’s a stone quarry of silence—
People of North Tawton drive by

Lichens kiss the time away—
Jewel-masters drill for gold

Worms chisel and pry away—
Farming the lovely pig’s sty

This is, after all, kaput—
Ear wigs worry getting inside

Face lifts don’t count anymore—
Night and day are the same

A workman walks by carrying—
A corpse once a pink torso

The churchyard full of extras—
This is the home of spare parts

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