Showing posts with label love poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love poem. Show all posts

Thursday, June 26, 2014

How Do I Know When Love is Really Over?

This one's easy.

It's when you stand
before a district justice

Your fight is now
with justice

not love.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Poem for the RuPaul Compassion Avatar


I only ever wanted to be
my elf.
I only wanted to learn
how to love
my elf.
It was hard.
Once, I even wanted
to kill
my elf.
Imagine that!
First, love your elf,
then it
will radiate out--
elfin waves.
All across the universe,
elves are standing by,
waiting to be loved
and love back.
Imagine that!
Elf love
is nothing to be ashamed of.
If you don't love your elf,
you gonna love
somebody else's

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Post-Apocalyptic Love Poem

Circling the corner
is mostly all I do.

The pigeons go
through the crazy snow

and swinging traffic lights,

My cat wakes me,
pretending it's dawn

and it's still night's
dark asshole.

You wake me, stupid cat,
when my lover

is just a donut hole
in the night somewhere,

and I say even the Mayans
who built those lousy motels

with the cheap calendars
on the walls

can go to Hell.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

gross love poem

I've moused
over your image
so many times

my mouse is filled

with my dead skin

Monday, January 2, 2012

The Voyager Probe's Alter Ego is Unstoppable

What's left to add to our story?
Expensive endpapers?

I see lilac sfumato, ocean sky
trying after crying
to appease vacationing bodies devastated

In dreams I socialize
with you, that variorum edition

I can play sated, a poem or housefly
But why lie (I have every reason)

The earth tilts our season like a great milky whale
This is a huge stuttering love

The so-called English language
starts and stops in starlings

That I must turn away from you

I grow dizzy with my love
and must write a diphenhydramine poem

To give me feet

Sentences of rain
turn into prepositional phrases
of snow

dis mah dysfunctional window

Because January is a fucktard
A Sweet Tart
a fuckface

Life is mostly a boring miracle

there is satisfaction only in the retelling
of our tale, the turning of a whale
in space is more truthful

I am that whale
I am that fucktard season

A mirror never touches back

Despite what has been painted

Despite what Michio Kaku thinks

The gorgeous endpapers
are much hotter than the poems

Whom they are corralling

Saturday, December 31, 2011

Much Belated

Like balancing books on sheer black underwear
and if I must pretend wreckage is sculpture
I can and I have held a koi pond before you
others were mysterious Chinese strips of light
often funny elaborate as making fun of Wong Kar Wai
why must we go the distance who waits?

Why should only criminals get the commanding views
and how are your eyebrows still so aloft
after I replaced all your midwives with gargoyles
you still loved me, which made me laugh
malevolently but beside the point and the therapist
whose name was Linger is gone and now more useful

Many things are more useful gone like a beginning also
nourishment or music, the grave do you hear me count
come walk with me by rust-mottled things in heavy wind
you will appear a smoke-vested sail as you were young
and you jangled even then more an isotope of youth

never convincingly not there

Not quite anything can satisfy a true beachcomber
still you thrum my ribs vacant as a De Chirico kilter
there is still an abandon and vocabulary of you in me
a hibernating rayograph develops far past kindness
you still exist for me far past explanation past asymmetry

where love finally relents and transforms the body

to luminous grammar everyone can hold

Forever Young

Harbored joints of something glow green.
Something is behind us, something
is still arriving. A decade thrills
to Japanese instruments and young hidalgos
posing on pillows
in an IKEA commercial.

Here is the all-new artisan cheese.
The Goreyphiles startle.
I am riding you again and you
are throwing a boomerang
which will take me out
in a few days.

Please massage my witch-heels.
They hurt from chasing you
again, into the furnace of Vitamin C
and young dudes often fugitives.

Young dudes like seagulls
fly in and out our foyer,
my boudoir, our foyer.

The seagulls chant
their ancient song
by the French fry shack.

You acquire a blue sheen,
O haunted Jell-O.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

For Love

For Love, its covenant and its amplitude.

For Love, its snail involutions and furtive nacre.

For Love, its abstract Valkyries and its concrete bunker.

For Love, its hardwon death and Decembrist lines.

For Love, its hardon flights and eyrie purchase.

For Love, its counted syllables and discounted wars.

For Love, its folly falconry and vengeful husbandry.

For Love, its tentative fucks and imperial retreat.

For Love, its palatial dreams and earthly hovels.

For Love, its hungry vacuum and hallowed suck.

For Love, its hopeless mirror and monkey grimace.

For Love, its Darwinian stutter and Napoleonic sleep.

Monday, September 12, 2011

The Hurried and Finite Dilation

Yet we get in our fleecy.
And love their skittish
unicorn's hearse.
Love is a halfwit scream
or truly stopping an otherwise fine evening.

I'll admit I am an eater of its tatterations.

You mostly aardvark and booth
with arrogant clover and fire.
Zyster their arabesques
and Akashic disappointment,
the dictionary's snerk
at that cannibalized thing.

Love, Asea...

Nobody can get up on their creepy arrears.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

"I Just Wanted You to Know"

Last night I dreamt about you.
You saw through me with your little carrot lantern.
I drove a little car like Stuart Little.
I think I parked in the bushes next to your Dream House
And you said without looking, "I can still seeeeee you.."
From inside your garret room where you snorkeled.

You told me you were too air water fire earth for me.
You snorkeled men a great deal, often with impunity.
I was lonely in my Stuart Little car like James Dean.
Why wouldn't you sext me? (I have used the word "dreamt.")
You were too proud with your little carrot lamp.
I wanted to smash it. Like Cupid and Psyche.

I grew notorious like algae in the sea of books.
Notorious, but not like you with your little carrot lamp.
I was just happy my feet didn't turn to horn
As you predicted when you lifted my bush that time.
You are too proud in your minotaur shoes.
You need someone to bring you down. And I just might be the creep.

Monday, October 11, 2010

from Twelve Poems for No Man


it's so gay     that i'm fully reloaded
that you are a lying ferry
about to drown another hundred love immigrants
that an owl's eyes do not actually move in their sockets
that you make an agreeable balcony but you still suck
that the palace is in the middle of the garden
and the garden's in the middle of the resemblance
and the resemblance is in the middle of the adult bookstore
and the adult bookstore's in the middle of self-betrayal
and self-betrayal's in the middle of La Belle's vajayjay
and La Belle's vajayjay is in the middle of your hotness
and your hotness is in the middle of enough already
and enough already is in the middle of the Buddha from Pier One
and Buddha from Pier One is in the middle of a terrible strip mall
a strip mall where even the tattoos have given up
that strip mall is my heart and gall
my heart and gall a terrible cocktail
it's green and resembles antifreeze
and if a cat drinks even a drop of antifreeze it will die
a horrible death / antifreeze is sweet
here take a sip of this i made it with my gall bladder
when it comes to men I love a tsunami
but this is not a poem for or about any man
it is about the tsunami I am dating now
and its dreadful impersonation of straight
and the bat is extremely sensitive to touch
and a pig always sleeps on its right side
and the bones of a pigeon weigh less than its feathers
and the male mosquito is a strict vegetarian
and a horrible death is sweet
if there is someone there to cover up
and throw a life's unintelligible joys
into a toybox anthropomorphic and kind

Monday, September 27, 2010

Love's Terror

It's raining today
and how is your palace,
I meant your pooch?
The vulgar license
we seem to give each other.
Fucking is funny.
The worst part of love
is when you become
a game show contestant.
You have to guess the price.
It's fucking horrible.
Do you go high or low?
And all your strategy
pitted against some idiot
dressed up as a slice of pie.

Head of a Young Man

Fairly fucking constantly
is one way for love
to begin. Pushing a bed
against a wall
with no legs,
also a good start.
But it's early
in your life, isn't it?
Why don't you ever get
a fortune cookie
that says something real:
"Credible and incredible
try to strangle each other
like two plants
on your home planet."
Or "Don't squint at me
with those fucktard Unicorn eyes,
Handsome Crisper."

Thursday, August 26, 2010

You Have Blogereth All Over Mine Borrowsome Sward

You have bloggerethed and bloggeresced over my grave for the last time. My gravennness bides its time and my sympathies with corbies will not vanish. Despite your evil attempts to make this soeth. I know you and your furbelow kind. I know you induce labor in mendicant marsupials for kicks...sometimes when you think nobody's watching. You pretend to be a Lamaze instructor too. You have fooled the Koreans and the Norwegians into believing you are Keanu Matrix's reflexologist. And I know all about that bullshit Miracle of the Whispering Sporkscrew. I can't believe you actually charge people to see that and had that inserted into the Michelin guide. That ridiculous cave lighting. That mummifed poodle and that homeless guy you hired to play "The Human Excrescence." I can't help it that your kindergarten graduating class voted you "Most Likely to Circus Geek Exes in a Spermicane." I now caveman a job. Surprised? No I'm not lying. If you must know, I direct parachute traffic in dreams. I work in one of the busiest dream cloverleafs. The one over by the new Minatorium. Jealous much? Oh why don't you go eat some more maneth chowderth. If you came and surprised me while I was working I might not call the Arborists on you. I said might. This poem isn't about you at all. It's about the handsome lawnmower of the French Revolution. Who I'm sleeping and centrifuging with now. I just destroyed you with that last sentence, didn't I? Well not even Little Debbie sells her apple bandersnootch for a dollar anymore. How long did you think I would wait for your krumpetty zero calorie frumptiousness? Florever?

Sunday, July 25, 2010

The Sort of Movie in Which People Come Running out of Closets with Hatchets

I shall grieve your body concerning
the great, great, great disarray here.
Love for the bamboo thicket
where you whack off
is uppermost on my mind today.
Fighting back in a dream
gives me a sort of buzz.
The Hubble's colorful lies
have gone far enough, really.
Let your latest decision of tonight
magically become "tonight."
Oh, our movie is ancient and takes place
in the art classroom after dark.
Two male poets go to war
using wet papier-mache
and the everpopular "catapult of the body."

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

China Clearly Wants Attention

China clearly wants attention.
Seeing all those UFOs on YouTube
And I think I understand the need...
Seeing how you're not Japan
Who gave us cool things like Godzilla and bukakke.
Hush now little China,
lay down your head and let us stroke it.
You had a horrible fever dream.
You clearly want to be Spirited Away
(oh that's Japanese too--sorry)
by these UFOS, these sky lovers.
This is like China placing an ad
on Craigslist one drunken night
and surprised by all the attention.
China, desperation will get you everywhere,
sure, everyone knows that,
but do you really want to go everywhere?
Think carefully before you respond.
China, Oprah isn't gonna invite you.
Okay, maybe she will, but she will condescend.
China, I think we understand each other.
I have a lover for whom I am China,
distant and crazy and scouting the skies.


Of course I believe in The Messiah I see her every day
Her lightning of psychosis in my garden or someone's book of poetry
She scares me I think
There's a messiah university around here isn't that like totally funny?
You can go to school and be a messiah
I like the messhugenah ones best
If you slept on my pillow would it smell messianic?
I mean once you've gone
Would there still be a whiff of messiah to please and torment me?

Once you're gone, I'd stare at empty playgrounds and sigh
Like all the commercials for regret you meet on the street

I'd love to have a messianic pillow
A pillow you'd come and made all messianic
I'd buy that room spray at the Dollar Tree
I'd find the one that smells most like messiah
But I'd be kidding myself terribly
Just like babies do, although that's really okay

You have taken my self-possession and crumpled it up
Crumpled it up as Zeus does with Post-Its from lesser gods
He takes the Post-It and crumples it up
Then tosses it across the floor of Mt. Olympus
Some ridiculous petition like a parking violation
Love begins as a shower of gold & ends as a parking violation
This is the horrible truth geese know
I'm parked outside your poem right now
I even have the creepy breathing thing going on
Please give me the technical name for this
So I can salvage some dignity out of this
Like a twenty dollar bill I miraculously laundered once

Monday, July 19, 2010


Tonight, you stormed out the front door and left it unlocked. Out of spite or oblivion. Any killer could have walked right in. Now I suppose you'll blame me a lover showed up and presumed to enter where he's gone before. I didn't let him in. You did. Angels are just God's dogs. I keep saying but you won't believe. I may buy a rhinestone Angel Dish. Designer flash at TJ Maxx in the halfprice bin. Soon. My favorite answer is Soon. Out of spite or oblivion. Since you have decided we're now going to do things that hyperdramatic way they do in The Bible. In geared-up Sodom. Since you've decided you're gonna roll like God, ghetto rage all pimped out with Cherubim.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

I think I tried to adopt you in the PETSMART
of my poem. My PETSMART gargoyles were all draining
heavy rains from the flattop PETSMART wears
to remind itself of the buzzcuts and buzzcocks of youth.
But I also want to show how the skull is rising.

I collect these glorious ceramic mice like a pharaoh. Jealous much?
We all want you flecked with feeling, your overdue clouds,
a lightning bug flying through nature's background check
and acing it, not getting flustered at all, the goodwill of birdseed
in a miniature house swinging from a tree.

I found a man behind the washing machine today.
He was talking about Caravaggio desperately
and running one hand through his rather long hair.
"You'll do," I said, and hummed the Buzzcocks
as I steered him by the elbow to the nearest Poodlebox.
Anything that is going to be salvaged should be put
on the front porch of the dream. Pronto. Stat.
The luggage of a chimera is an exquisite thing.


I say names with an undue emphasis, as if they required postage.