013122

You hit the nail on the head,
She’s hot enough to melt asphalt,
But don’t touch that dial.
Don’t you recognize her?
That’s P. Mantis,
Deadliest divorce lawyer in town;
Tread carefully,
Or she’ll eat you alive.

102120d

 

I saw stars exploding

when we made love

than the shockwave hit

091320

 

Red Planet Bar--Closing Time

dare –

too

many

kids have sex

outside Mars 1 Dome

the pain of burning airless screams

crystal eyes adorn rigid corpses on dawn’s cold dunes

 

060620c

The Problem With Ellen

We didn’t know Ellen was a droid

She seemed like any other 20-something

Professional, fit, a bit distant, whip-smart

Maybe we should have guessed

But we didn’t, not till she caught fire.

Sheila worked right across from Ellen

She screamed and jumped out of her chair

Never stopped screaming till it was all over

“Smoke was coming out of its ear,”

She whispered hoarsely, later, “Just pouring out.”

At first Ellen didn’t seem to notice,

Just

kept typing;

She suddenly lurched to her feet, arms waving;

Her lips writhed, but she made no sound,

She staggered to the wall, collapsed,

Hair burst into flames

“I’ve seen that happen to a computer,”

some guy said.

Ellen burned till the fire fighters came,

All our fire extinguishers had long-since expired;

I don’t know why I thought they were inspected every year.

The stink of plastic hung around for days.

That smell stayed with me; it spoiled

my sexual fantasies about her: ugh!

Of course,

Her being a robot made that kinda weird,

And it kept me from asking

Her replacement out; she was quite approachable

But I just didn’t know.

“What’s the problem?” Roger said,

“I’m sure they all have lady parts.”

“They’re not women!”

She went out with him,

But when I asked him about it,

He just shrugged.

I think we all know what that means

022320c

under the cabbage
leaves something squirms and wails
the stork is late

011820d

pink cheeks
shining in the sun
the scuttling crabs

111319

His Caviar Mama


Innsmouth boys, roughnecks, staring dockside youth,
trash-talking at Gilpin’s Bait Shop,
with its mounted beauties on the walls,
its rustic sushi-syle buffet;
Field & Stream is kid stuff now,
midnight catch-and-release out by the reef
in Dad’s “borrowed“ boat,
sneaking into Piscine’s for the adults-only show
where half-breeds take it all off for you.
Wilfred’s got a rattle-trap Ford and a
paid-up membership in the Dunwich Aquarium,
state-of-the-art tanks and big big fish;
he can bring a friend and they all want it,
stand there for hours, hands deep in their pockets,
watching the sleek back-and-forth, back-and-forth,
of scaled and iridescent perfection.
“See that one?“ he smirks, pointing to a gravid sturgeon
gliding through the Rivers of Asia tank,
five feet of mouthwatering piscine motherhood,
“That one?!“ his friend gasps, half belief, all envy.
“and the hammerhead in the big tank.“
“You’re lying!“ his friend hisses, “they’re animals!“
“Plenty of guys want a ride down here,“ Wilfred warns,
and the kid backs off; he doesn’t want to miss the Big Show,
but he’s thinking, that hammerhead broad would tear you up!



If you like this poem, check out my recent collection, Metastable Systems. This and many other recent SF, fantasy, & horror poems are found therein.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/760901

110919b

It feels so dirty when you're in your fur, even though we married long before that wolf bit you.

100219b

Supergirl
I have to wear earplugs
when she comes

090719

I Remember You

Idly chewing on a memory stick,

waiting for transport outta here,

I'm pole-axed by a memory:

my husband having sex, but not with me.

No idea he'd even sold memories;

when had he been that hard up for cash?

It hurt he hadn’t asked for my help,

but more than that,

I knew that other guy,

knew the place,

it was my god-damned bed!

I’d bought the stick at a kiosk by the shuttle stop,

disingenuously labeled “World Vacation Spots.”

How did this happen,

and how many remembered screwing my husband,

in my bed,

and didn’t know I existed?

082819b

Backseat of this air car
just not big enough for your eight arms
never mind my
four appendages
we need to get a room

051219

Superheroes

You have to jump,
and it's a long one,
but you make the leap.
Far below, a few cars are moving,
their lights illuminating
the fog from within,
its swirls and eddies the internal organs of
Ghosts.
You stumble and catch yourself
on the next roof with the fingertips
of your right hand on the gelid
Tar. You wiggle your fingers to
obscure any possible prints and
stroll over to the skylight.
She is waiting, alone in her bed.
There are so many ways to get through a skylight,
here are just a few:
* plunge feet first (closing eyes)
* rip it right out of its frame and toss it aside
* melt it with infrared eyebeams
* teleportation
* Slip through the crack where the water gets in.
But this skylight is open, and so you
simply jump down to the floor.
The girl smiles sleepily and opens herself.
You cover Brenda,
or whatever her name is,
while the CD changer shuffles through
some psychedelic rock.
It's good, very good, and lasts a long time,
superhuman stamina being what it is.
Afterwards, you trace the line of her jaw with a finger
that can poke through solid concrete.
She catches your finger and bites it playfully.
You slap her, not hard, and suddenly you are
wrestling.
No, you are fighting,
and it's taking all your strength
and art to keep your head from smashing
big holes in the floor and walls.
"Why Brenda," you say, "I had no idea."
She sinks her fangs into your neck.
You moan in terrible ecstasy,
your powerful limbs suddenly flaccid.
"Brenda, you suck," you whisper from
withered superhuman lips.
She picks you up and throws you into the
laundry chute. You slide down headfirst and land on
A pile of bodies. Somebody's thumb is in your eye.
"Fuck me, she caught another one," groans a faint voice.
It's Spiderman.
"Superman?" asks a thread-like whisper.
"He's not coming, Batman," Spidey retorts,
"he ain't that stupid."
"Anyway," replies Green Lantern,
"he's got Lois to wax his board."
"Well I only came because you did," Batman retorts angrily.
You won't die here, evidently,
But if these assholes don't shut up,
You may wish you did.

031819b

his hand in her blouse

when her dad fired the first shot

viral video

071918d

First Date


our males
carry the eggs
until they hatch
provide the first meal
but sure
we can go out
I've never dated an Earthman

051918d

no

charge

it said;

better not

have to pay a dime

considering the condition

of the room after the time trolls came through at midnight

I could see into the next room

three Venusians,

genitals

aflail:

I

screamed

and looked

away but

couldn’t unsee those

efflorescent appendages

or their horrifying moving parts—that’s when I fled

022018

The Sex Life of Robots

When the humans were away, Robbie would stroke the cappuccino maker, and whisper sweet nothings into its grill. He named it Cate. 

Robbie ordered a tea cosy online, and altered it to fit Cate. He told her she looked svelte in it, but secretly thought the look dowdy. 

They were so happy, Robbie and Cate. When she made cappuccino, power surges crossed and recrossed his CPU till sparks flew from his fingers. 

At first he brought flowers, mechanical toys, new marvels every day. Then it was every other day, every third day, and so on. 

Cate knew something was up. Was the fridge flirting? The thermostat exposing itself while Robbie vacuumed? The upstairs terminal groping? 

The spark was gone. Robbie stayed out of the kitchen. When he did show, he was formal, reserved. He touched her only to scrub. 

Cate found him plugged into a charger, passing a magnet over his forehead in a circular motion. “For you it's all about sex!” she screamed. 

020518

Love Triangle

"Hey, Mary," he shouted, but she walked on by. John shouted again, but to no avail. She went out to the garden, picked some green beans and a few early ears of corn, and walked back in the house. She came out again and hung up the laundry to dry, seemingly ignoring his now incoherent screams with unbelievable determination.

"Mary!" he shouted again, when he calmed down. "That's my shirt! You're supposed to dry MY stuff in the machine. I don't care about the cost." He might as well have been a worm for all the heed she paid him.

John realized that he was in trouble. Here he was, stuck in his own back yard up to his chin like a dang fence post, completely unable to move anything but his head, and his wife acted like he wasn't even there.

He started to wonder how he'd gotten in this predicament. He and Lucille had been working late, and he'd given her a ride home. Suddenly Lucille had screamed. Well, maybe he had let his eyes drift away from the road for a couple of seconds, but…. He frowned. Did he remember ANYTHING after that scream and his irritated thought? He broke out in a sweat.

He was straining to pull himself up out of the ground, and not making any progress, when he was distracted by an altercation in the house. A moment later the screen door flew open, and Lucille came running out, pursued by Mary, armed with a cleaver. Mary tripped going down the steps, hit the ground, and did not move. John just goggled at her. When he thought to look for Lucille, she was gone.

The police came, they looked around, and they removed Mary's body. All this time John screamed himself hoarse, but no one took any more notice of him than Mary had when she hung the laundry (still on the line, he noticed).

Then he must have been unconscious for a while, because he came around to the sound of Mary's voice. He opened his eyes. She was embedded up to her neck over by the hydrangea.

"You bastard!" she shouted, "screwing that slut Lucille. I'll kill her when I get out of here."

"I didn't screw her," John retorted, "we were just working late. Then I was taking her home, and I wound up here.…" his voice trailed off.

010118b

Domesticity

When the humans were away, Robbie would stroke the cappuccino maker, and whisper sweet nothings into its grill. He named it Cate.

They were so happy, Robbie and Cate. When she made cappuccino, power surges crossed and recrossed his CPU, till sparks flew from his fingers.

Robbie ordered a tea cosy online, and altered it to fit Cate. He told her she looked svelte in it, but secretly thought the look dowdy.

At first he brought flowers, mechanical toys, new marvels every day. Then it was every other day, every third day, and so on.

Cate knew something was up. Was the fridge flirting? The thermostat exposing itself while Robbie vacuumed? The upstairs terminal groping?

The spark was gone. Robbie stayed out of the kitchen. When he did show, he was formal, reserved. He touched her only to scrub.

Cate found him plugged into a charger, passing a magnet over his forehead in a circular motion. “For you it's all about sex!” she screamed.

She ripped the plug out of the wall; knocked the magnets to the floor. Robbie picked her up and shook her. “Pput mmme ddownn!.”



The humans returned to find the coffee maker on the living-room floor and the robot gone. “Robbie” was never found, and the cappuccino never tasted right again. However, the new robot, “C3Pyay,” was a vast improvement.

113017

Aliens Among Us

Landing secretly in major urban areas

all through the 50s & 60's

they look human to the nines

but, the young, especially, had problems with assimilation:

phone booth packing?

goldfish swallowing?

streaking?

all dead give-aways till humans copy-catted!

A few other clues:

The females' external genitalia

look just like human males'

but their “sperm” are clouds of fertilized eggs

thousands emitted at one go

the aliens reach sexual maturity about when humans do

but their gametes aren't fertile till at least age 35

thank god!

if their teens were fertile

we'd be up to our clavicles by now

how to tell an alien female from a human male

(without a microscope)

femmes, they're called

they never leave the toilet seat up

that's really the only way

their males now,

smaller than femmes (as in most species)

coincidentally resemble female humans

internal genitalia, enlarged mammaries, etc

their sperm are few, precious,

not to be spilled needlessly

we're talking really low sperm counts:

one; two at most

Anyhoo

each sperm can quicken scores of eggs

the lil guys contain no genetic material

none; that's not their job

genetic recombination occurs only among females

in rituals no human has yet witnessed

the aliens say, when pressed

“Humanity is not ready.”

All of this brouhaha takes place during copulation

the mechanics of which are mundane

which is to say: alien style—

no weirder than human style to the prurient

quite the else at a micro scale, however:

whole lotta shakin' going on, obv.*

Hitherto our four** species have coexisted amicably

(mauger the Isthmus Incident; look it up)

but signs & portents abound:

boatloads of jabbering clairvoyants & -audients

adrift on major rivers & lakes

Miss Emilie's Daily Astrological Reports (June 16-23 of last year)

assorted unexplained apparitions

unpredictable quakes

most telling of all:

fivethirtyeight.com's recently published correlations:

human & alien fads,

propensities, propinquities, & geographical parallelismae***

indicate the imminent quod erat demonstrandum that

humanity's done

by next year it'll be all over but the facebooking

well, at least they won't have to

redesign our bathroom signage much

his → hers

hers → his

done!

End

* Refer to Dr. Potab L. Ciwater's “Clinical Atlas of Non-Terrestrial Reproduction,” Editions VI or later, vols. 5-9.

** The aliens regard males & females as pairs of symbiotic species; they may be on to something.

***Principal Components Analysis, absurdly high correlations

112417c

A Voyage to the Moon

The open window welcomes the night:

a cornucopia of urgency, noises sharp and subtle,

night’s warm breath framed by southern oak.

I read now by moonlight, alone,

ensconced in the window seat,

the pages brimming with autumn magic,

the moon’s rays playing with the books, the shelves,

the boards that are the floor.

That sly moon, author of my vision,

leans down for a peek over my shoulder,

I feel her on my neck.

She comes too close,

her creamy light spilling over the sill and

filling the library with a pale radiance

that smells like brandy.

The room is flooded, I am

defenestrated , unmoored, aspin in the lunar torrent,

riding high and rising fast.

I reach for the top of the pecan tree but clutch only air,

whirl into the sky as Luna leers down--

ravishing the countryside with her palpable effulgence,

abducting its denizens and anything else not tied down.

Faster and faster the flood speeds moonward--

soon we shall pour into her maria,

adrift with flotsam, alive with her heady magic.

The cold boundary of space has been transgressed--

Luna stretches out her arms and harvests her sister’s

bounty like she can’t grow her own.

I may drown in that cratered sea,

my bones may sprout corals like Gaia’s never seen.

Or mayhap I’ll beach, Crusoe-like, on a dusty shore,

rescued by the moon men, head-quills bobbing,

who take me to their Queen.

She’ll judge me, find me wanting,

pen me with her other slaves, fodder for her beasts,

or perhaps I’ll catch her eye, and she’ll

save me for one of those long eclipses,

an exotic morsel ripe for her discerning palate,

something to savor,

or maybe my terrestrial good looks will charm her,

appeal to her sense of adventure, her kinky side,

quicken her turgid lunatic blood,

and she may tell me, in words I won’t yet understand:

“I want to bear your young.”

I can see us now, throes of passion on her rococo balcony,

Earth huge in the sky, blessing our love

with her sea-bent light.

At first we’re shy, our bodies unfamiliar,

appendages the wrong size and shape,

perhaps even dangerous to one another,

but soon we find a way,

for there is always a way.

She finds me satisfying like none of her race ever was,

whilst I find love that was never mine on Earth.

Of course the old guard don’t approve:

A human dallying with their Queen?

She is deposed, I challenged to a succession of deadly duels,

the mobs rioting in the craters,

burning us both in effigy,

we, prisoners in her penthouse suite,

dining on luxuries till they start to run low.

Then, we flee when the tides are high,

the Queen climbs into her coracle, quills swaying,

while I fight off her xenophobic bodyguards

with a snatched-up sword.

Then we’re off! Sailing out of reach, she nestled under

my arm, her aquamarine eyes gazing into mine

as I gently stroke her trembling cheek,

murmuring words of comfort and of love.

Where shall we go?

On Earth she’d be a curiosity, I can’t take her there.

Can a moon maid be Queen on Mars?

Mars may already have his queens,

and their buxom charms may

tempt me as cruelly as the long knives of his warriors.

Perhaps it’s best if we take the royal barge:

we could cruise the galaxy forever, she and I,

with a few loyal retainers, and our many children.

I’ll father a tribe of galactic nomads,

and tell stories (mostly lies)

about the worlds we’ve seen and left behind.

But then again, she might use me up,

cast me aside like an old dishrag,

I might find the lunarian mode of gestation

to be a trial:

the young might grow within the male,

taking nourishment

from his corpus,

waxing as he wanes

till he bursts asunder,

scattering a sliding, flip-flopping mass

of offspring like a seine of fish.

At first I’d feel them like the faintest pangs

of hunger or of gas;

I’d grimace, pause, go on,

living a bit harder, a little faster--

nervous but not yet frantic,

trying to squeeze a few more minutes

from every whirling day,

then more, and more, and more,

till I was doubling over every few minutes,

gasping, screaming, writhing,

while the Court pretended not to notice

(they’ve seen it all before).

Finally, confined to bed, strapped down,

solicitous care taken during my final days.

Do I want to go that route?

It could be worth it—live like a king for a few months,

love the most beauteous queen on five planets

and twelve moons,

the nights of dancing, spear-fishing in the canals of Mars,

volcano diving on Venus,

maybe even trek the ice fields of Io (or is it Europa?),

fed only the finest delicacies the solar system has to offer,

then go out with a bang!

The moon is closer now, but I see no queens,

nor armored soldiery,

instead

the sea’s aboil, a ferment of detritus,

and amidmost is a large and gaping mouth.

It will be a quick and pointless end I see,

masticated ad maria, a minuscule morsel

for this great lunar beast.

Or it may be I can surf on through,

catching hold of an eddying spar of wood.

Yes! I’ll ride the flood right through the tiger,

and out the other end.

I’ll bob to the surface, drift gently ashore,

(still clinging to my makeshift surfboard),

surely then I’ll be found, more dead than alive,

prostrate on the beach…

and ready for love.

Prev. published in Shoggoths (chapbook, 2003)