Don’t be fooled, they carry
nothing of the Orient’s allure.
These voracious beetles,
if they had the appetite,
might easily bring down
the loftiest sequoia.
Depraved sexual deviants,
they deflower helpless roses
in broad daylight; and, like
Medieval artisans of yore
turn hardy zinnias into
empty-ribbed cathedral windows.
Their shells are hard like
scarabs, but charmless,
slicked with an iridescence
cheap and tacky like carnival glass.
Eager to reproduce their kind,
they feed and copulate
at the same time.
Sex has never lost its need
with any creature on this planet,
least of all these pesky beetles,
so a potent sex attractant does
the job. And even in the heat
of destructive flames, they go
at it mindlessly one last time.
ALLOW me to hold your hand and send the stars
into nocturnal eyes
A night's breeze seems to whisper how I love you.
Give me reason so I have none
like frogs springing forth
from a spring-mouth-kiss
A finger pressing upon a flesh-button
against an artificial heart
makes synthetic skin purple with pain
A black cat named Chai speaks
saying, "this broken leg was my wet nurse
and scarabs have flown across millennium of sand
When there are no corners but only curves
When the only sun is a medical light bulb
the man inside white coat destroys a future
and the world has left green, my breasts once
were queens now have no function other than to amuse
So, sweet dreams. I have sweet dreams of what could
have been imagining a mask of silence while laboring.
Come sweet baby, within these dreams I'll have you.
My weak anemic body, mindless octopus
would swallow an excited cock to see you born.
I will release this last egg regardless of my irregular
l bleeding so don't deny me sweet cherub.
:: 05.28.2024 ::
WHERE POEMS COME FROM
When you write you ‘give’ yourself away
And people then sometimes say -
From where does your inspiration arise?
From the world around you surprise, surprise!
Even the roots of an imagined scene
Grow from where you’ve really been.
If you are a sea-lubber :
You write stories of fish and blubber.
In deserts: sand, camels and scarabs,
Or even groups of Arabs.
You have a small herd of dogs or hens?
You write about those with your pens.
But some are pretenders
Not really ‘givers’ but lenders.
Poems by writers masked
Answer questions nobody asked.
Honesty please, or stay your pen,
And never pick it up again.
Ragged jeans are rich-guy style: that’s what it means;
But poor folk don’t choose: they just wear ragged jeans.
A curio shoppe on the edge of Khartoum
on the edge of the world
on the cusp of our doom
smouldering incense
bade us come in
a cornucopia
whispered my friend
an aura of daydreams
dappled the air
a cyclone of chaos
strewn everywhere
antiquated cast a ways
cadence from a bygone day
a cossack in a dark burnoose
offered potions
swirled in juice
pomegranate grated fine
adrift in elderberry wine
the phantom laughed
a banshee sound
a scarab scuttled
'cross the ground
a bouyant vapor floated past
ambergris,a glowing glass
carousel of fantasy
castanets inside of me
I don't know how you found the door
wicker splintered
something more
then the wharf,
cerulean sea,
the coral moon
and we were free
in the boat I breathed a sigh
until I caught the
scarabs eye.