choke cherries


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Deluge of wasps swarm. Their storm sound is huge.
When I feel hot, I flip a lid. It stops.

Complicit in your own misuse I rouge
your twinge, cum-cake your ache. I have the top’s

need for chaos in love. Though wasps flock
when touched I derange, let love bludgeon

me to confess: like witches and warlocks
my art comes from dark flame. In a garden

always in decay, where bile-born insects
swarm, go find choke-cherries. In the temper

and the tantrum find what gets you off bent,
flips your Id, fills you with buzz. All infects

are good, all wounds holy. Our vast sound. Slur
as I acquiesce. Slur as you consent.



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When I said I’d go all Old Testament
on your round asses I didn’t mean Lot

and his drunk daughters and lack of consent
I meant the time when the Nephilim begot

(archangels rutting like beasts) with daughters
of Eve, sons of Adam. Fallen angels

of lore were always gore-crazed cock-suckers.
I’ve leaped balls-deep. I’ve pounded your entrails.

Back and forth between you weeping siblings
with acts that bedazzled even odd gods.

Did I say: cry? I meant: vulgar, hard-boiled
O-lipped fucking frenzy. These scars where wings

once stood, I lost them proudly loving all
that can be corrupted, tempted, despoiled.


Note: In folklore the Nephilim were fallen angels that took “daughters of men” as lovers before the Deluge, according to Genesis 6:1-4.



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First comes the anger, then disappointment
unbridled. Adults with their needs. “Promise

me I’ll never be that,” I begged. Tyrant
in bed, all spit and grit. One more callous

lover in a world of blood, indifference —
You said, “this time no lube,” and pressed in hard.

You said, “don’t tighten up.” What’s the science
deep at work here? No one wants to be scarred

but your dark art always wins. I break quick
since pain is straightforward, behooved to none.

It just is. I’m, though, messy. What I craved
paupered me down. Greed leaves me in a sick

panic so that I’ll return — in ruin,
in fear, in need, like that, once more depraved.



, , , , , , ,

Puberty was rough though I am rougher
still. You mumble, “gotta pee,” half way through

being fucked senseless. Strapped in place, collar,
blindfold, clit clamp. The wind in the bamboo

moans low. You’re low, too. You’re stretched. You take it.
Why are parents blind to children’s despair?

This urge, overflowing. First: “Will it fit
inside me?”
Then: “Sooo deep!” Lastly: “Right there!”

and, “More!” Homework, after-school clubs, cram class:
all that can wait. You sit on the toilet,

dazed from bliss. It’s the one moment today
when you’re not heartsick. It takes sick love, crass

and raw, to touch you, make you mine, moppet.
Roll you chronic, thick. Fuck you like doomsday.



, , , , , ,

Manic madness is not divine madness.
It is exhaustion. It’s the short circuit

that keeps me up at night. This sleeplessness
leaves me clumsy in a world that loathes smut,

sublime and honest. “A woman denied/
and the hills are alive with celibate

wives,” so sings the song. You grind down, astride
my chest. Even through your frayed jeans you wet.

“What’s it like?” you ask. Lunacy. Your woke
pubic bone. “Never?” “No, but I want to.”

I want, too. Prove the slut-shamers wrong. Stroke
you through your jeans. Finger-fuck this taboo.

I love heat, genesis lust, all that comes
with needs, eagerness. I love all that cums.



, , , , , , , ,

Your mum loves anal, too, you know. Request
for your breast as you undressed met with morose

pause, flushed flesh. Your whole soul I’ve loosened, pressed
your yaw to my maw, lubed in acts of gross

indecency. She stands outside your door
watching, you know. Once she walked in on me.

“You are hopeless. It can’t be helped.” Hardcore
spermatic fizz, jazz jizz, dribbled as she

swayed. Tonight is the hour to baste your mum’s
flower, that gape that devours girls and boys

up whole. Adorned with sex flecks, cum crumbs,
call her, tell her that tonight you’ll share toys.

Tonight we’ll get off on rage, blue foxfire.
Tonight we’ll all put the ire in desire.



, , , , ,

Felt your throat close around my flesh, potent
and deep. You rolled her, drunk her dry. To flare

up in you, drive your mouth against her cunt
with each thrust. I grabbed a hank of your hair.

You grabbed her thighs. She grabbed her breasts and cried,
“There! Fuck yes! There!” I could taste her on you,

cupping and sucking your face. We baptized
the bed in splattered red and blew. Virtue

lies in bluntness. “My tongue. Your clit. Your cock.
My ass.
” Is cool kink endless when slung low?

What’s changed? I still love words more than others.
You’re still forfeit in a Detroit cell block.

She’s still dead. All of this was long ago.
Intolerable. Dead-eye. Lost as lovers.



, , , , ,

You loved your jokes — “You feeling Mary? Yes,
she begged us not to stop.” “Grace cums. How? Hard.”

— like you loved blunts, cunts, a cumslut’s caress.
Strange girls and their moo juice was your reward.

Mothers’ udders dribbled drops. You wisecracked
that spoiled clits were mere child’s play to seduce

once you put your tongue to sloppy use. “Stacked
you stressed. “Vicious licious.” Your juice,

with a snap, boils over. It’s in the laugh.
Suppose one day this ends? Without a bang

but a whisper? You will still have my lisp,
my snort, my rough chuckle. My better half.

All I wasn’t. With blunts and cunts. Girl gang
banger. Gone in laugh. Not with twang but wisp.

rant and rave


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Behave like a slave, like someone who needs
to be ruined, stretched then roughly controlled.

Behave depraved. Crave that you’ll get nosebleeds
when you think of me, of how I withhold

pleasure, like a dark ant-show that infests
your dreams, like my mom’s dead sister, putting

the aunt in haunt. Cock-block. My name suggests
mild bliss, but I’m plague, scourge to your longing,

taut ghost of nights to come. They have reviled
me, called me ruffian in rhapsodies …

and yet. Deep down they want to be defiled,
shockingly used, too … made Aphrodite’s

shockwave. Princess, we both know that a slave
knows how to rant, knows where rave falls in crave.

between us


, , , , , ,

In death haiku old soldier must ponder
frost and moonlit stubbled field to find life

fleeting. There are other types of slaughter,
though. In the bar’s bathroom you’re all ale-wife

groaning glee as your husband fucks your throat
harder, my cock pressed against your tightest

cleft. It’s pain and need all at once. You float
on bliss as your ass is forced wide. One thrust

I’m balls-deep, too. In rhythm. Spit-roasted
between us two. Perhaps one day I’ll think

back on this the way the poet appraised
frost fields but without woe. Yes, we squirted.

We came. I praise not death but godly kink.
I praise all that leaves us cum-rough and glazed.