Saint Valentine’s Day Sonnet Sequence; five sonnets for Saint Valentine’s Day
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
Are You So Sure?
“You are not repeat” ~ W. S. Graham, Aimed at Nobody, p. 29
Forget about your spiritual return
As rat, snake, worse, as Donald tRUMP in some
Form other than a man. The Hindu churn
Is trumped up nonsense. Do not feel too glum,
Though. Nietzsche’s logic says that you, You, YOU
Will circle round again, again, again
Unendingly, eternally. Adieu
And then just nothingness, no hate, no pain
Forever–that is not an option, guy,
Since what has been will come again, around,
Around, around . . . You cannot go awry.
You, YOU will spin around again, rebound.
The way you are must live again, exact
And perfect, never mind how you may act.
Bedtime as Rhyme
This means that Rabbie Burns will fuck the girls
And women always, ever, every time
He comes around. His thrusting Rhymester hurls
His semen in them, mixing slime with slime,
The plucky guy, the lucky girls–if there
Is such a thing as luck. Let’s think this through.
If all of this is Must, if pubic hair
And pubic hair are destined in a slew
Of repetitions, then the later fucks
Are unaviodable. There is no luck
Involved. He shoves it in, he bucks and bucks
Unendingly. Again they get his muck.
The rhythm and the rhyming will repeat.
The sex is sloppy. Only fate is neat.
The Scottish Lover’s Valentine-headed Pike
Your mouth, wherever it comes from, is mine
Because we met in Scotland, realm of love,
And lifted kilts. Down there a valentine
Of fleshy pink designed to push and shove
For love’s delivery is waiting hard
Yet soft, exactly as the holes it haunts
Are gagging for the entry of the shard
Of straining flesh desires. It shoves and flaunts
Its selfish love unselfishly because
The slots it finds are hungry for its meat
And sauce. They swallow both as if with claws
Because they want to clutch it all, complete.
Saint Valentine, a foreigner in awe,
Resents the power of thrusts, their beauty, braw.
Rocks Spewing Down a Scottish Tilt
What? Are you frightened? I am just a man.
You know my kind. You know us very well
And what we want. You know our kilted clan.
You love the way our flesh begins to swell.
You love the way our flesh goes harsh and hard
With need. That’s why you love and hate us both
At once. You know that we will disregard
Your need beyond a certain point. Thick growth
Becomes a godless oath once we become
As merciless as men when meant to seize.
Our movements soon become a Rugby scrum
For scoring. Cum comes out like stones of screes.
That’s what we want. That’s what you want. Now spread
Yourself to suck in shoves of heart-shaped head.
Saint Valentine, not Faint Valentine
Don’t quiver out of fear. You know what comes
At times like these. You’ve done such things before
And though you have not seen its veins, it thrums
The way those others have. It needs to pour
Its urgency inside you. That you know
And that you’re aching for. It shares the ache.
We both want it to grow and grow, that slow
Way that it does. The spitting snake
Brings worship in between your legs or lips,
A worship shared because of needy awe,
So fright is not a part of this. Your hips
Rise up and, suddenly, there is no flaw.
Your parts engulf my pulsing, pushing part.
It aims its thrusts and spurtings toward your heart.