Darkness

featured in the poetry forum November 1, 2021  :: 0 comments

Born in blessed darkness,
Born in a bloody field,
Born without eyes,
Born without a shield. . .
You can take all my clothes,
you can read that last
note,
misinterpret every word,
but you know-
my children are half me
and if you hate me,
then you hate them.
We are all one blood.
There’s no way out
in this world.
Born to wretched providence,
Born to reckless happenstance,
Born with no limbs,
Born with no lips-
it does not matter when
because it will
all happen again
until this birth aborts . . .

editors note:

A legacy of longevity arrested and unborn. – mh clay

Poppers

featured in the poetry forum January 13, 2021  :: 0 comments

We never had
the rules
of monogamy.
We never
had anybody’s
rules.
I guess that
made us special,
living outside
the boundaries
of what everybody
expects.
But I guess it’s
a gut check
when you start
thinking you’re
the exception.
One minute,
you’re doing
poppers
before you cum
to relax
the next minute
you’re in an
empty apartment
huffing that
nail polish shit
by yourself.
Just remember,
the best stories
are always true.
I don’t know
why there
was you-
but thank you
for changing me.

editors note:

Gain the foresight to have hindsight. Thanks for the change. – mh clay

Star Flesh

featured in the poetry forum June 12, 2019  :: 0 comments

What makes me cum
isn’t the cock-strong engineer
fueling my demise,
it’s the rope and the razor
in the evening’s reprise.
So careful to cut
only the far inner thigh.
No rope burns should mar
your neck foolish Gash!
Then the men in white
coats will cum and splash.
The strongest pleasure a
masterbateur can know-
earth-scarred coin for
star-splattered journey,
crossing the gates of Xanadu,
tearing a bit of godflesh
to salt the Maenad’s cup.
Tell me I’m crazy again.
Tell me I’m stardust and
the gods are fools like us.

editors note:

We cannot help but tiptoe to the brink, to gaze With morbid fascination at our own destruction. – mh clay

I want to open myself

featured in the poetry forum February 3, 2018  :: 0 comments

I want to open myself
like a flag unfurling
in the hot wind of
the night,
like a wave of froth
undulating before
the soft sandy shore,
like a flower full of nectar
inviting the buzzing honeybee,
like a tiger leaping
across a waterfall.
I want to open myself
so wide I split
and become infinite
I want to open myself
so you can see my
naked soul shaking
with delight.
I want to open myself
without reservation
or cover and bare myself
to your flesh.
I want to open myself
because I’m tired of
only going there by half.
So tonight is the night
I will throw away
my armor
and pierce myself
with a knife-
the knife of resistance.
And here I will lie
open to you
and only you
at last.

editors note:

Ever close, never closed; open at last. – mh clay

Expect

featured in the poetry forum December 3, 2016  :: 0 comments

I once knew a poet
capable of torture,
beautiful,
full of the fire
of himself.
I broke my heart
upon him.
Now it hurts less
because I don’t expect
him to be noble.
I don’t expect anything.
I just watch and wait
as he plays himself out.
He’s still beautiful.

editors note:

No expectations; yet, hope for the poet in us all. (Read another of Trier’s missives; the ultimate selfie – check it out on her page.) – mh clay

Entrapped

December 2, 2016  :: 0 comments

I want to go out
and buy a mirror
so I can show
you myself in
purple and black.
But a light rain
has come in,
casting a gray veil
over the volcanoes
in the distance-
so I’m entrapped
in my poetry
for the moment,
with jasmine burning
at my altar of
Ganesh, the lucky
God who removes
all obstacles.
The sun delights
the rain that
falls so softly and
scoffs at my plans,
coaxing the scent
out of desert plants.
And here I am
with only the
burning desire
for a picture in hand.

editors note:

A desert flower, crying to be seen. – mh clay

The Tree at St Martin’s

featured in the poetry forum April 9, 2016  :: 0 comments

I’m in the trenches,
on the streets.
I’m smelling shit
and smelling feet-
but the eyes that look
out at me are the
most beautiful
I’ve ever seen.
They are crazed and bright –
looking past the sores
on her face –
looking past the hood
of her dirty coat.
God, I think there
is shit caked on her back!
I think I am going to gag.
But she is a human being.
Maybe born on a
bright spring day
into clean sheets.
No, I’m not going to gag.
I’m not going to leave.
I’m going to stay here
and say how are you today
I will help feed her like
I came here to do.
Not look at her funny.
Not pass a single judgement.
Because who the fuck am I?
I’m a derelict poet.
Am I better because
I’m educated?
So recently sober?
Because I smell good today?
No I’m not better in anyway.
God brought me to this
exact same place.
A humble grateful place
where like
a tree I will grow from
this shit, dirt, and rot-
where I will use my
energy and strength to
send down roots and reach
out branches and so will
my compassion
for every human being grow-
The dirtiest
The smallest
The loneliest
The most desperate
until I reach the sun.

editors note:

Every person is a mirror; every mirror tells the truth. Take a long, hard look; she dares us. – mh clay

Good Years

featured in the poetry forum April 10, 2015  :: 0 comments

Pennies are brown and dirty.
They stink of bus stops.
They will never add up to
a million dollars no matter
how many you collect in jars.
It’s bad luck to throw a penny
away so I always bend down
when I sweep one up.
I’ve heard it costs more than
one cent to make a penny now
and that they are not even
real copper (but I haven’t been
to Snopes to check this out).
If you name a girl Penny,
I’m not sure what you expect from her.
Sometimes at work, I take a
filthy corroded one, where you
can’t even recognize Abraham Lincoln
and drop it in a jar of 10% nitric acid for
an hour- than it pretties up
like the day it was minted and all
the grime of the decades dissolves
away, all the pockets exchanged, dirty hands,
and register drawer dust- it’s gone now
and I see a date-
1957- was it a good year?
Pennies are like us.

editors note:

At current rates of inflation, a penny for these thoughts costs a fortune. – mh

Travis County Jail
(or public intoxication on 6th Street)

September 17, 2014  :: 0 comments

Little girl, you’re
gonna feel the cuffs
bind you to the pipes.
Little mama, you’re
gonna breathe the
dark beneath the hood.
Sweet woman, you’re
gonna taste your
soft gurgled screams.
Because you are uncooperative,
disobedient, recalcitrant,
but we’ll wait you out.
In some other countries,
We’d rape your spirit out.
On some islands,
we’d burn you.
In some deserts,
we’d stone you.
You’re a lucky little girl,
so just shut up for now.
Stop trying to escape.
Accept the power
that binds you.
Comply or we will keep
you with the rats.
Comply or we will devise
a thousand petty tortures
to remind you of that knee
in your chest, the snap of
the trap, how you tried to
break your own wrist
to get away.
Love, honor, and obey
your jailor.
Just marry it- the law, the state,
the way it is. There’s no point
in fighting our authority.
We protect you from yourself.

Cat Fight

featured in the poetry forum September 17, 2014  :: 0 comments

Look at this dirt on my shirt,
the hot pink tank top
I wore when I got
dragged across Commerce St.
screaming your name.
I tried to climb the transformers
to get on the studio roof.
I’ll never write another
poem to you.
I love all my bruises,
busted ribs, my
sprained shoulder.
I’m still a dancer.
Your friends are scum,
except one- the one
who painted the devil
on the wall, but he
wasn’t there to say
calm down, it’s okay-
only people who laughed
at my pain and recorded
the show on their phones.
I thought I was a lover
not a fighter,
but now I know I’m a little cat
who’ll break her arm
to be free- a little cat who
loves and fights at the moment-
a little cat who loves her enemy.
The fur went flying that night.
The cops said you weren’t
worth it. Now it’s just dirt
on my shirt-
dirt on my shirt that won’t
wash away.
This is your last poem today.

editors note:

A shirt, dirt poem; wasted on the not-worth-it. She can’t help it and the cops don’t care. – mh