Three Curtal Sonnets about Books

The theme for last night’s Esoterotica show was scifi/fantasy fandom. I decided to write three Curtal Sonnets (which you can read about at this lil’ link right here) inspired by three genre books I’ve been constantly recommending to people as of late. Liberties were taken with plot and character to make them fit the form and the nature of the show, so they aren’t spoilers or anything really.

They Who Wait Love You
after the novel The Croning

We’ve all got secrets, don’t we, loverboy?
Our eggshell-thin masks barely keeping tight
an inner void that yawns, that sighs, that grins.

It may engulf you with some clever ploy,
or you might fit inside and sleep the night
straight through. I won’t know until it begins,
’cause it’s not often folks like you come ’round.

I’ll show you, if you think you’d stand the sight…
(A seam splits from my hairline to my chin,
the frailties of humanity not found
within.)

All His Stories Were Apologies
after the novel Mongrels

Let’s run at night, follow the railroad ties,
because the moon pulls us like ocean waves.
We go for miles, out where men won’t tread.

Some vacant freight container’s where we lie,
and rut like what-we-are, no face to save
when mongrels curl up in a makeshift bed.
Leave toothmarks, all the better to remind.

We sleep with limbs entangled in our cave
of rusty metal, feral hungers fed.
The sun awakens me as man, to find
you’ve fled.

Teeth of Ice Biting Flowers
after the novel Winterglass

Pull tight the coat against your muscled frame
to fight this evening’s chilblains as you wait
to be received by the General, your host.

Her stern demeanor scarcely masks her aim,
her lingering gaze, her appetite to sate.
She knows the splintered core beneath your boasts,
the stillness inside while you bring the storm

You’ll surely fuck her as you contemplate
swift ruin washing ‘cross her nation’s coasts.
Vengeance and lust entwine, your blood as warm
as ghosts.

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How to Talk Less Ashes Tomorrow

The theme for this week’s Esoterotica was “You Inspire Me.” Two of my own biggest inspirations are punk rock and weird formal stuff, so this resulted in me creating blackout poetry using the lyrics from Propagandhi’s first three albums. All songs are in order, I just deleted a few completely black lines to make it easier to screenshot.
And if twisting political punk songs into erotica is up your alley, this isn’t the first time I’ve done it.

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Ode on a Grecian Yearn

After a slight Esoterotica hiatus I’m back on my bullshit with another Multiple-Choice Misadventure! And I haven’t learned anything about historical accuracy since the last one.

You are Daphne. Not the one from Scooby Doo — I mean the Greek nymph. You’re currently on tinder. Not the app — I mean that you just had to turn into a goddamn tree to stop that horndog Apollo from dragging you into an evening of epic poetry and chill. He seemed nice enough when you were talking to him on Tinder (and I do mean the app that time,) but in person… he’s a major creeper. Not creepy enough that he would try to fuck a tree, your plan totally worked there, but he was definitely too skeezy for you to want to touch as a human.

Which leaves you at an impasse. A woman’s still got needs.

Once you’re sure the coast is clear, you turn back into a human and since you are being written by a man you immediately admire your breasts in the reflection of a nearby lake for about five minutes.

You still don’t have any plans for this evening, so you take out your phone and find that you have three new messages from eager suitors.

The first message appears to be yet another dick pic from Zeus, only he’s a swan in this one. Eeewwwwww.

The second message is from a man named Pentheus. There are pictures of him next to his chariot, lounging on the balcony of his palace, giving a speech at so–waitwait, palace? Scroll back. Yeah, that’s his own frickin’ palace.

Whoever sent the third message has profile pictures of themselves posing with the corpse of a giant boar they’ve killed, and… one of them wrestling a lion? Ohmigod is that really HERCULES macking on you?!

To respond to Pentheus and have him buy you whatever the Greek equivalent of Cosmopolitans were, turn to page 2.

To respond to Hercules because you want to give the Hydra a run for its money as far as head goes, turn to page 3.

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Nocturnal Admissions: Swine & Roses

Entry number five or six in my series of shorts about a third-shift psychologist. Special guest-reference to the work of Andy Reynolds, fellow New Orleans SF writer — check his stuff out here.

 

Nocturnal Admissions: Swine & Roses

Ever since I helped that smooth guy from Cafe Envie get over his affair with a sexually-frustrated ghost, my practice has begun taking on the occasional supernatural client. A number of them, unsurprisingly, have trouble integrating into modern society.

Andy is probably the one who gave Circe got my number. Dream girl? I can’t date clients. Pixie? It was more of a Chelsea cut. But manic? That’s exactly what her appointment that night was about!

“So,” she began, “after some bro-y sailor spread gossip about me being a battleaxe just because I wouldn’t line his crew up and blow ’em all in a row like a trained seal, I had to skip town for a couple thousand years. New Orleans seemed like a fun place with the vampires and all.”

“That’s just for tourism,” I said.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

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