, , , , , , , ,

You said that you’d be prepared if I told
you to wear it all day. Now, with sarong

hiked up to your hips and your panties rolled
down I gaze at your cheeks and those ping-pong

sized plugs in-between. There were four of them
that you greased and slid in, ’til just the cord

peeked out. Of course my sister will condemn
this too; but it’s your uncle’s urge that cured

you of boredom. Your hijab prim. Slowly
I pull the cord. Slowly pearl beads emerge.

We gasp. We groan. We go sloppy with grease.
Inch by inch my cock fills you completely

until even your mom wants some. This urge
is just that. I have no sister, no niece.



, , , , , , , ,

They say virtue is its own reward. No.
Champagne tastes on beer budgets is a sin.

After all, if Brigitte Bardot can throw
orgies in her submarine fuck-pad then

so should I. I just need a submarine,
lots of love slaves and a sugar daddy

billionaire willing to make my obscene
dream real. Is that asking too much? Maybe

you think that I’m lowbrow since I value
both lust and the free market. Lust is hard

work, one worth these wages. If undersea
splurges are a special kind of virtue,

then maelstrom sex must be its own reward.
Let’s try it. We’ll cum with gale-force fury.



, , , , , , , ,

Sad sex magic with hell-cam and dildo.
“Meet me half way,” you say; which, on a map,

would be the North Atlantic. The Faroe
Islands, say? Yo, sex on a sno-flo. Icecap

smut and perpetual twilight. Lately,
though, I feel off. Few hold my interest. You

do, with your goat legs and horns, ungodly
lusts, love of old school hip hop. True, I knew

why we would never meet. I didn’t miss
that hell is a dating app on our phones.

Spambots hook up more often than us. Still,
even an icebound island can be bliss

with you on it knocking boots, shaking stones,
wanting more than a sex-cam’s divine thrill.



, , , , , , , ,

Sister, tease me with a, “mot hyt be,” please.
Brother, now you, “amen.” I’ll take you both.

Plump, ripe fruit. Plowed fields. Prelude to orgies,
to feasts, to harvest. A hint of the oath

that I took to befoul Chosen Ones, lead
the Star Children to sin; which, for you two,

will be in my bedroom stoned while we read
Byron’s Manfred, snog and giggle. This, too,

is an After School special. These misfit
pleasures. This wolfish love of ewes and rams.

Come. I’ll guide you through cum-fueled odysseys.
There’s a far shore where you’ll learn to submit.

I’ll fill you with myth: Eve’s Bratz bra, Adam’s
Y-fronts, Lilith’s Hello Kitty panties.


I’ve never understood why Neopagans began using the Freemason’s, “So mote it be,” to end their prayers with, but they do. “Mot hyt be,” is the original spelling, taken from the Regius Manuscript. Snog is British slang for sloppy kissing. According to Sigmund Freud, out of all the underwear in the world, the diaper-rash whitey-tighty Y-fronts symbolize discomfort and awkwardness in the male psyche. Of course Adam wore them.



, , , , , ,

Go to the sink. Eating a pink melon
always makes a mess. All that’s ripe and sweet.

All that drips juicy. You’re such a glutton
for sweet goop. Slide the knife into this meat.

Pop a chunk in your mouth. Taste me melting.
I come toothsome, complex. Like saccharin,

after the first lick you know that something
infernal rests on your tongue. Honeyed sin

in the syrup. I make knife blades messy
when you want more than sweet broth to dribble

down your chin. I’ll leave you somewhere between
sugar high and glucose blackout. Gooey

blade stuck in the Devil’s sweetmeat middle.
Here’s one more excuse to lick that knife clean.



, , , , , , ,

Chaos. I can feel the howl of your blood
calling me home. You’re slung low in my guts

the way gods cradle a newly minted
mortal. Kiss me and know just how riots

smolder, vexed by their own fire. Chaos feels
nothing like that, being form and formless,

like blood, like cum. Spread your lips wide, ordeals
of the soul require a gaped grin. Transgress

with blood-honey dripping legs. Carnivore
your needs. Betray your paths. You know I will

follow you anywhere. Your rosebud, gaped
O wrapped around a stone tower. Sink core

deep. That’s my Chaos to you; deformed thrill,
gnarled and scintillating, passion misshaped.



, , , , , , , ,

Why do it alone? Eyes wide in the dark
at your curled shape sharing this bed. Hell spawn,

they claimed, with hints of goat legs, Lilith’s mark,
sick dreads. You’re Rastafari’s Babylon

in ways I can’t. What do succubae dream
of when they dream? I’m uncouth, so perhaps

how my love bites woo’d you? How the obscene
salt in my skin called you mine? What mishaps

drove us together? We dream of claiming;
my scent spilled inside you, every brutal

kiss, each time we say mine. Try and seduce
a sex demon. It’s not an easy thing …

even with dreads. You were unlovable,
you claimed. I was just a sex-starved recluse.



, , , , , , , ,

This time nude in the sheets isn’t a turn
on. To wake after a long illness. To

rise with no more ache in the lungs, no burn
in the breath, no pain in the bones. The flu

made its home in here, much how I suspect
gods would when they take over; possession

being nine-tenths of the law. Prayers to protect
all fall mute, hushed, until windows open,

bed sheets stripped, hot water washes the plague
stink from us. I still love to coax and tease.

Yes. Bliss is our birthright … even when it
does no good. This sick sweat. This rotten egg

fetor. My prayers were simple: just a please
end this. Make me well or make me spirit.

at all


, , , , , ,

I want it to be quick, green like windfall.
But it won’t. It’ll be bitter as daisies,

slow as barley. News comes late, if at all.
Then you’ll recall raiding you mom’s panties

drawer for the thong she never let you wear.
Laughing as you sniffed it. “Eww, that’s her pussy’s

smell. Mine smells better.” Back when underwear
and school skirts were a drag and my sissy’s

flesh and my cock’s joy were a queer boy math
that you didn’t get. Back when Lilith’s owls

still called you. Spellbound I fled through the fox,
through the barley. You changed. Daisy’s sabbath.

Recall? Once it was real, all vowels, growls;
that taste, like myth, like the tang of my cock.



, , , , , , , , , ,

Eldritch horror, mon amour. You lewd beast.
Ten inch tentacles. Phat cunt bravado.

You ooze more than swagger. In films a priest
gets called in, no sex-hating freak (although

he’s all that, too), for an exorcism.
I think of this watching the line of light

beneath my bedroom door. My heart’s rhythm
skips each time your shadow crosses it. Right

now there’s nothing more arousing. Horror
is my great love drug. I’d invite you in,

if I could, but I don’t. You’re indifferent
to my needs. In films the priest has power

over sin. In my world the priest is sin.
I’m in bed, dreaming of your eldritch cunt.


The term, “eldritch horror,” comes from H.P. Lovecraft, who wrote about the complete irrelevance of mankind in the face of cosmic gods. The ocean is the closest thing I’ll ever get to that divine indifference; the great power that moves all life on this planet, from where we originated and completely apathetic to mankind’s prayers or needs. Man-made gods are just that; always curiously obsessed with humans, they have laws and pass judgment, they are angry or merciful, they save souls, things that only humans care about. We are a species that make up just 0.01% of life on Earth. Why would the divine exclude that other 99.99%? They don’t since they exist not to coddle human egos but to hold the universe together. Animals know this. As Walt Whitman pointed out, “They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,/ They do not make me sick discussing their duty to god,/ Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,/ … not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.” That’s my rock and faith.