voracity

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Dank, like sick. Huge, like “rouge jass.” The eldritch
horror sat on my chest and purred. Mouth, cunt,

budunkadunk; we all have ways in. Witch
without craft, shaman without gods; ancient

grudges have left me without familiar
or friend until, tossed in nightmare, I let

it in. Lich flesh. Lyke-Wake dirge. Corpse purr.
I’m all grease and juice and mutton bone. Wet

treat for ghastliness keen on all that smut.
Toothed lips. — Heinous anus. — Voracity

from hell. — Even if I’m only loved in
nightmare that’s enough, phatty bubble butt.

It’s still love hunched on my chest, teaching me
its queer language that has no word for sin.

cranked

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“Twenty minutes,” you gasp, dropping the phone.
“Beastly perversions,” as your dad calls this,

take time. This is just, “d’baw-chuh-ree,” thrown
in high gear. All that drenched, languid, “sk-hiss,”

rhythm we love gets cranked. Fury cums, it bursts,
leaving us sodden, like prayer. We all pray

in our way. I pray in you so these thirsts
and greeds might slow. No. Climax is doomsday

postponed. Once again that damned car pulls up
and I pull out. Once again we scamper

to get dressed. “¡Sodomite!” your dad christened
me. True, I swing both ways but I worship

with you. Love takes time. In prayer, however,
we cum like feral gods, fuck like legend.

fangled

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“Neat,” I tweak. Rolling your nipple between
fingers and thumb. You bleat out weak-squeak noise

during recess. — In the girl’s bathroom. — In
the 3rd stall. Shorts pulled down; your thick tomboy’s

thighs clamped around what passes as my wrist,
spreading out inside you. For two whole weeks

you’d come for me, emerging with a mist
of dead boy’s cum and a newfangled freak’s

need for more finger fucking. — I’m your ghost
of a wallflower every time I, “eights,”

you. A thousand years of bliss stir in you.
None of your classmates have felt this, can boast

dead boys love them. Just you, when grief mutates
to need in the bathroom. Call this rescue.

bawl

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Don’t come to moan by my sick bed, lover.
I don’t want rust’s slow kiss of corrosion.

I want catastrophic systems failure. —
if you must bawl and groan let your tears run

into my pubes as you splutter my cock
urgently down your throat, like it’s the last

time we’ll get to do this, this beastly shock
of bliss, touch of nirvana spread out vast

in us. Cum quick or slow we know all this
must end. Take me now before my flesh cracks;

before I lose all my lustful intent —
no more melting as one from a rude kiss —

no more lull before hip-pounding climax—
no more glow of surrender once we’re spent.

drizzle

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Less blindman’s bluff, more soixante-neuf, climax
ached as I sucked the crotch of your blood-splotched

panties, pomegranate drizzle. Soundtracks:
quaff, sip, sup. Soon half a century debauched

will be nothing; like storms sired in your gut,
your stirred cunt, when we parted your sarong.

I’ve lapped up secrets the color of smut:
anathema’s dawn, cthulhu’s spawn, the long-

lipped yawn of menstrual flow. The zodiac
has grown grotesque. Soothsaying holds no bliss.

Soon. Soon I’ll be fifty … in March (hint-hint),
on a Tuesday, your clit-smack the soundtrack

of my day, your lips leaving a blood-kiss
tasting just like copper and peppermint.

scritch

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Coïtus interruptus. Spanish oak moss
and cicadas. Chronic heat. Unease deep

in singed Sierra hills. True. That chaos
sex I brought wasn’t fun. Gnawing deep creep

of dusk, faces at the window, the, “scritch,”
of nails unseen on your skin. At long last

you kicked me out. I could sleep with, “the witch,”
you said. Your mom, pure, “bruja,” loved all vast

pleasures elder gods brought. I was neither.
A child of dry heat. Mesquite. Chaotic

sex soon lured you back to lurk, still sullen,
as the witch got lip-lapped. “Voy a venir!”

you could hear your mom shout. Your fingers slick.
Even the creeping dread stopped to listen.

Note:
Bruja means witch and “Voy a venir!” translates into “I’m cumming!” in Spanish.

jaeniesh

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Possess, as I possessed that demon, bits
of flesh needing love. In letters I sound

like an arse, I know, writing about clits,
cocks and cunts, and (what did McKay say?) drowned

Harlem girls on drowned Harlem streets. More, please.
Jaeniesh called me infernal. I still grin.

What does a demon know about Hades
but that it’s home? I met her and moved in.

She screamed storms and then flooded with my cock
in her arse. “My mind bursts each time I cum.”

You did not want that but she did. “Please, more,”
Jaeniesh hissed. Other called this smut and schlock,

but they’ve never been possessed with Harlem
of souls, with bliss, with libertine rancor.

Note:
Claude McKay (1889-1948) was one of the key figures in the Harlem Renaissance of the 1930s. He wrote, “Adventure-seasoned and storm-buffeted,/ I shun all signs of anchorage, because/ The zest of life exceeds the bound of laws.”

vulgar

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Magic lies in sodomy, you’ll find out
after babysitting. Brute! you laugh in

the back seat. Windows fog. I pause, about
to push in. This is rough vulgar Latin.

It’s what the ancients praised. It’s what your dad
declared sin. Like Sappho, we’re misquoted

and bi as fuck. I’ve sucked your sublime, mad
for your feral flow. You’ve deep-throated

my tusk, slathered up this load-bearing shaft.
After prom we were all claws and cogs. Brute!

you called me; your cum, my root. Now I pause.
Magic is dark, savage. Last time you laughed

at my witchcraft. Now? Deep, you say. Your root,
your tusk, I want to love this. Give me cause.

skint and randy

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I knock on the door but you don’t answer.
No one answers. I cup my hands to peer

through dark glass at two bodies in pleasure,
the couch creaking with your gasped Och. I hear

your, ¡Och aye! at each stroke. These are savvy
sounds, bold smells; take-out curry, bhang and cum;

back when we were students; skint and randy.
I knock again, but your, ¡Och aye, me bum!

fills my mind. This is your flat. That unsure,
Midwest twang is mine, crying as I came.

Did I always cry during sex? How odd
and queer. We’re shadows dancing on the door

I press my ear to. Look what I became —
a sad wee ghost that once called you my god.

unmasked

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“Fairy tales and sex shouldn’t hurt,” you say.
“Except when I want them to.” True. Except

when I read to you tales from that ballet
of the Snow Queen and the Nutcracker kept

with her in bed. Tales that turn your requests
toward the need for my flesh. “Press it into

me,” hands pushing your bra over your breasts
and your low-down moan, “split my ass in two,”

as I redden your face … my cock engorged
in your throat. “Love me, kiss me, choke me, fuck

me,” you hiss. Unmasked the best fairy tales
reflect what scares us, like fever dreams forged

in what we refuse. Embrace love’s havoc.
Embrace all that rips away our veils.