1.
I have no problem
choosing films of morbid love
from our Netflix queue.
Trouble Every Day
on the recommendation
of The House Next Door.
Movie of few words,
buzzing with a quiet dread,
demands haiku squared.
Bride of Culture Snob
squirmed and squeezed her eyes shut tight.
Then she wrote the next:
“Passionate biting —
it might have been erotic
but for the wheezing.”
2.
Always jerking off,
that oily Vincent Gallo,
frantic semen spurts.
A newlywed man,
he fears sex with his fresh bride.
Will a puppy do?
Another woman,
locked in her bedroom, horny.
Doc, I want to die.
Its form is an ache,
accompanied by distress.
One is not sanguine.
A cure they search for,
or merely a connection?
Vampires without fangs.
Trucker, maid, punk-ass:
All want string-less intercourse.
Willing copulants.
It comes with a cost.
“Fucker! That’s not what I meant
when I said, ‘Eat me.’”
3.
Blood lust and hunger
from director Claire Denis,
a disease perhaps.
Metaphor for AIDS?
At least a decade tardy.
Addiction? Too tired.
Viral thirst for flesh.
Vague, abstruse, gnawing, itchy.
Cronenberg jealous.
A gruesome balance
to the sexy cannibal,
Silence of the Lambs.
To all you skin hounds:
Rent it for nipples and pubes.
But beware: gore porn.
seven haiku between five,
footnote excepted.
They didn’t fit in to the context of what I was doing, but Bride of Culture Snob also wrote the following haiku:
Addiction to blood
Satisfaction is painful
Sex hardly figures.
Trouble every day
That’s quite an understatement
Time for the backhoe.