, , , , , , , , ,

Bit of scruff? My cheeks, your pubes; when we come
together can’t tell where one ends, where one

begins. You can tell where my tongue ends. Hum
of my lips on your lips. Your low, “damn, son,”

as I carry more than a tune. Turning,
lifting, touching, fingers sliding in fat

back there. Toes curling. Go with it, stirring
trouble between your legs. Calling me brat

each time your hips jerk. Call me sir each time
you cry, “amen!” like applause. Night before

I come over I don’t shave. Feel that scratch.
DJ’s sick turntable tricks work sublime

on your clit. Time enough for an encore;
a tune that I call tongue-fucking your snatch.



, , , , , , , , ,

“God’s cock!” you nickered, bound, blindfolded. Once
you were sure about sin. ––Lust’s rage. ––Sublime’s

power. ––Once you saw your god’s indifference
as love. Each plague must be signs of End Times.

Sin must be punished. Now you quake: the sting
of whip, scent of hot wax. Now you’re unsure.

You’ve been wrong before; can’t see me scowling
when you called me angel-headed hipster.

“4 face’d, 6 wing’d & full of eyes within”?
Only Eldritch horror looks like white dudes

with wings, not Seraph. All the angelic
orders are forged in malice, old-school sin.

Speak of what we know. I offer my nudes
and trust, cum and soul. I say: take your prick.

ha in hell


, , , , , , , ,

Some scars glare. Split chin? Prat fall on acid.
Trippin’. Others I don’t show. Those half-healed

holes in my chest where nipples once rested?
I still keep my shirt on. Nothing revealed

but scabs peeled. I’m crafting a puckered grin
across my tum-tum, this beggar’s belly,

as if I’m trying to spill my guts. Skin
parts just like a zipper’s tug easily.

Again: skin you’ll never see. What is flesh
but a host of nerves that scream? A bit crude

but I’ve learned to live with it; I’ve cut my fat
and carved each nerve ending out. Nerves end; fresh

slices soothe. Not like you’ll soon see me nude
and ask: ha in hell did yee survive that?



, , , , , , , ,

Some like it perverse. Rose petaled bed, warm
music and black silk wrapped around your eyes

cannot mask an abattoir nor the storm
of pain, crisis and hope between your thighs.

Slaughterhouse rules. Faith’s mystery exposed.
Faith mixed with carnage. Let other saviors

curse your soul’s carnal side; souls starve when closed.
–– Will yours? What will save you? –– I’ve got altars

ready for prayer with foreplay, with sweet words.
Ready to blow; strike you down like stockyard

bolts or old-school gods. You’ve got a drunkard’s
need to be saved that leaves me braggart hard.

Bet your soul I won’t? This, too, is rescue;
when you drip cum, my cock buried in you.



, , , , , , ,

Sometimes it’s simple; the way your nipples
grow hard at the thought of soul-damning sex

with my cock in your throat. Face flushed, nostrils
flared; still you choke. Other times it’s complex.

When I cum on your face gods run amok,
turn odd, lecherous as any bar fly ––

Faith is as messy as this facial-fuck
that left you blinking in bloodshot, pinkeye

surprise. There’s other metaphors but they
don’t please; like in your patriarchal

faith: “the Sons of Heaven begat Daughters
of Man.”
If all acts lead to the source pray

with me. There is awe when we both tremble
and cum; like fools, like divine messengers.



, , , , , ,

Your breasts, pressed; a valley where cum gathers
like ghosts. Through your bra, your scrubs, your nipples

hardened as you bent over me, fingers
at work. Your dad warned you of white devils.

Your mom said that I wanted just one thing.
If so we’re taking our time. I’m ghostly

pale when pressed against you; all my scarring
in stark relief, my veins glowing faintly.

What do taboos do but hold back chaos?
I love chaos. I love how you bent down

while I sat in the dentist’s chair, nodding
for more. Fingertips soaked. Crudest of sauce

coating each. Dappled ash pressed to wild brown.
I’m your daemon. The best kind of haunting.



, , , , , , , , ,

Your mom said good girls don’t go there. Bummer.
Last year you and four other girls dropped out

pregnant. Now you do, often; your daughter
snoozing in her crib, your hips crotched, girl scout

skirt pulled to your lips. Charmed, I’m sure; you smiled
at my tongue’s path from your C-section scar

down through phat flesh. You got, “daddy defiled
inked above your ass. Bedroom-boudoir

with your bizarre mix-tapes. Cigar-sized spliffs.
Death was the breath that you sucked from my lungs

as I dived face first through you. Flesh slapped. Skin
bitten. Fingered and fucked. I miss those whiffs.

Scent of lunacy. Reckless as cum. Tongue’s
crow. We say gang-bang. Your mom says love-in.



, , , , , ,

I say, I am proud to be worth beating.
Love gets irksome. Today I’ll get broken.

I say, my limbs are good strung, like stretching,
but with more gore. I say, what hurts is fun;

that quick stroke, devil gone breathless, one hand
gripping. I want bruises across my hip,

dig? With your wrist, sharp red. Let it expand
with each stroke. I say, I pray to the whip

and all metal that cleaves, carves and slices.
I want it between these ribs, push in slick,

then down. I want to hear these bones of mine
shiver, splinter, crack. Grin like a corpse’s.

What pain curses it blesses. Horrific
leads to holy; my demon to your divine.



, , , , , , , ,

Twilight heat. Watching glowworms with no one
to share. I stand naked in the bathroom

and stare at my odd flesh. Scars mark ruin.
In bed I shuffle cards. Lewd heat. Lewd gloom.

I draw King of Wands while the night rooster
crows three times. Valraven reborn in fire.

Consort of the Triple Goddess; lover
without stain. Whose Cock-of-the-flock’s desire

do you think of when manhood rears its head?
None says mine, which is fine; rarely do I,

either. I’m the most unchaste celibate
I’ve known. I prayed that one of the lewd dead

would love me, but no. My toe-curling high
delights none, like summer heat without smut.


In Danish folklore, Valraven (“raven of the slain”) would eat the hearts of warriors slain in battle. As a metaphor for masculinity, it is a peaceless soul, restless, only able to calm its terrible hunger through the flesh of another. The King of Wands is a fire symbol, hard to control, attractive and dangerous.



, , , , , , , ,

First you scoffed at this. Ecstasy was dread
and hate. I know hate. I’m healing from rape.

I know what men hate. “Yoo’re nae godhead,
you’d said. You’d just wanted to escape

white dudes’ egos. –– But healing comes with no
strings if you let go. You shake: neck to thighs.

Curing comes when you cum. “Make me flesh flow,”
you gasped, my teeth nipping your nape. Your eyes

glazed each time you pulled me in. I’ve traveled
queer realms to find this cure, though I’m still not

sure my soul’s peace is my birthright. I call
Dionysus father, though he’s troubled

by his bent son. Let me share what he taught,
love, so Ecstasy won’t be our downfall.