Sunday, February 18, 2018


There’s porn in your raw curves, the mere renderings of loose teeth,
all double entendres 
pooling at the crease of your cunt. Mother,
it’s not getting any tighter these days, the gut is 
leaflets of papyri & suffer---&
  you’re a wild gal
with your suggestively raunchy glance.

How many of you are you nakedly? How many of you
from the gutters emerge like a silk-
drenched pearl
from a beggar’s mouth? He’s seafaring, gone
every six months, but still 
manages to stare back
at you with fishy eyes. Loose slickers & a bit of scurvy on the lips.
You’re a little bit of a rash if you know it. Good for you, or bad
depending on the weather. 
Nothing can reshape your mouth
to do better than a noose—all up in it, tight-lipped.

Dew is a mercy of the morning! Scarlet wet with blazing intentions.
 A buxom bold. A hold of 
ecstatic tongues—you come scourged
& sweet on the gums. I fashion you into my skin like a salve 
as you divulge
the deepest secrets, claim the locusts swallowed
your lover’s bones as you fished 
your rippled face out of a river.
You say you were l’inconnue de la Seine in your past life.
jawbone the shape of a cliff, as you waited for Him
to harness your endless body.

Sunday, March 5, 2017


Call it “flesh vessel”, oil forming
rings around the stomach
of her papoose, a rind of thick skin
heaven knows it holds together so
what  mouth knows to be soft
fruit, a tang, fur-lined olive
a fistful
of holly in a sea of moths
─the exact moment light bends
into phosphor & slow decay

I think She, or Radiant Hummingbird
her intense sun, prays to thickets
of pulse trapped in the blood
of Mayan gods—she stretches
her breasts to meet the tongue
earth shaking between the knees

Call it “honey temper”, simmering
in her saliva, ointment or salve for
mosquitoes—all utterances slick
with hum her vulvae spreading
to receive flowers

Sunday, November 20, 2016


Don't bring to me water when I am parched/ nor milk to my lips

to make these lips more desirable/ what stirs the vocabulary

dust leaves behind?/ or venous geography of our air sacs/ or

the topography of my primal skins/ give to  me a trembling flame/

or death as personification of a vigilante/ O' bird/ you've gone

and done it now/ these lips pull back/ laugh bird-struck

Sunday, September 4, 2016


excerpt from A Skin Chance in the Gash Matter

This poem can be viewed here:

Dusie Advent16 Day 11


I want this poem to be cut-up and stitched into something taxidermists would be proud of.

Do not vanish into an organ, little bunny. Long for no survivors.
     This thought relies on taut skin and a necrotic flush of fur.
 We wrote in our journals eat me, or at least parts of me.

She sold me even before I was out of her womb. My ear was already half-bitten. Milk teeth sore with weak. I lost them on a bed of stones. Do you remember shards of gems the color of opal? Gumming at centipedes and millipedes, my heart forlorn with wilted petals.
I want this poem to know exactly what its innards look like.

I want the openness of skeletons. See this? A curve of precise scalpels, steel-plucked iris.

  My bunny-vision in ultraviolet. A frightened white eye. A pupil of stun. Stunned, little bunny, stun.
I want to turn my tongue inside out, taste backwards.