, , , , , , , ,

Look up, you purred while Joan growled, so messed up

I want you here; I looked up, a mustache


of your knurled cunt curls glued to the scallop-

scarred wreck of my lip. How’d ya get that gash?


you asked after our first kiss. To explain

that would require belief in uncanny


anatomy, infernal teeth, arcane

lips that bite back. Sex with queer and freaky


friends has its own dangers. I shrugged as I

unzipped my jeans. That’s the least of my scars.


I’ve seen worse, you said after a stiff pause.

Really? Shotgun pellets shredded my thigh.


So messed up. You came. Bass go boom. Guitar’s

howl. My mouth pressed against your toothless jaw.



The song in question is Joan Jett’s cover of The Stooge’s Wanna Be Your Dog (1969).



, , , , , , ,

“¡Ay! ¡Dámelo duro, papi!” your kid

sister said as she sank down, swallowing


me whole. All that your crank father forbid

we’ve done. “¡Papito!” you sang out, hanging


out near Daddy Frank’s. “Wanna babysit?”

With bong hits in the sauna. With frost’s hoar,


winter’s ire. With my mouth glued to your clit

as your sister’s toes curled. I’m thirty-four,


renting a cabin near Mount Pisgah. Gales

on the island last for days. Your father’s


rage paled before the haze of our chronic

cuddles and cum. He fears, “sinful females.”


Fear? This is our faith, our church, our scriptures.

¡Ay! this is what the saints would call epic.



The poem takes places on Beaver Island, located in northern Lake Michigan. Daddy Frank’s is an ice cream shop in St. James (the island’s only town). When the Mormon migrated to Utah way back when a break-away sect, led by a man named Jesse Strang, settled instead on Beaver. Strang declared himself king and island a kingdom separate from America. This did not end well and in 1856 he was assassinated. Very little of the Mormon community remains except for a couple of biblical names found on the map; for example, Mount Pisgah, the highest point on the island, is a 150 foot tall sand dune. In Spanish, “¡Ay! ¡Dámelo duro!” translates into, “O! Give it to me hard!” Papito and papi are different ways of saying Daddy.



, , , , , , ,

At last: dawn. Crows in the trees wake. The trees

wake. The virus inside me stirs. Somewhere


lovers feel breath on their necks. Smell of sleaze

and gods. Rough taste from the roughest affair


is a blessing, too. Somewhere but not here.

Here? The chemistry inside me hates me.


My mouth fills with a taste: I’ll call it fear

of hints, of the things to come. Irony:


to long for longing. The one truth I know

I can’t have. Only this virus will claim


me. All the rest tsk over my health then

move on. Dawn won’t last even as the crow


caws her love. I despair then fill with shame

at my regret; the one thing I called sin.



, , , , , , , ,

Damn. Lost in a forest with Pan.” That’s what

my big splashy mouth on your misfit clit,


nihilist cunt, felt like, you grunt: “Glut of smut.”

For hours I devoured; leaving you unfit


to drive. Your car slowed on the mountain road

while your son slept in the backseat. “Pregnant


and in middle school?” Even your scowl glowed.

Homeless a month later.” With your silent


O and shayla undone you act as if

no one in Lebanon had ever been


finger fuck’d before. The divine appear

at odd times; parked on the side of a cliff


near Mount Sannine it spoke through you. No sin

or remorse; just faith found in your cum smear.



Shayla is a long, rectangular scarf popular with women in the Gulf region. It’s wrapped around the head and pinned in place at the shoulders. Mount Sannine is the highest peak in Lebanon.



, , , , , , , , ,

Darkest night drawn to flesh, to forbidden
curves. You’re why I returned after your mom

banished me. Venus bitter sweet. “Christian
women don’t do that,”
she said. Napalm

burns less than those words. “She won’t but I will.”
It’s why we’re both tensed, two bodies impaled

as one. Kisses that end in gasps. The thrill
of tough tongue lashes as you came, you wailed,

“For all that’s holy, harder!” Tongue to salve pain,
to salve darker things. My gnawing between

your hips. “Horny little demon,” she called
you. Ay, there’s the rub. “I’m your Fuckdoll Jane.”

You are while your mom works. We dream obscene.
My cock all glimmer. Your cunt cum-drenched bald.



, , , , , , , , , ,

We ran through the snow; from the video
store to your dorm room, with The Hunger in

our hands. You called it a vampire porno.
My friend, “Baby Phat,” you said, called it sin

divine. She lay between us on your bed
as the film played. By the time Sarandon

had gorged on Deneuve’s blood, her rounded red
nails were in your panties and her tampon

dangled from my teeth. You’d said you didn’t
like girls. “Not like that.” Apparently “that”

didn’t include girl-cum as you sucked deep
on her lips. You’ll wake tomorrow, your cunt

needing more, and find me hard, Baby Phat
wet; we two craving you, even in sleep.
The Hunger is a 1982 erotic horror movie, directed by Tony Scott and staring Catherine Deneuve, David Bowie and Susan Sarandon. Among other things it features Peter Murphy in a cage while Bauhaus’ “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” plays on the soundtrack.



, , , , , , , , ,

Being dead you spoke Latin, as all dead
people do. You talked of, “ligurio,”

eating your full by licking up. You said
that your, “landica,” needed a kiss. “Go

south, child,” teacher taught. Your clit mewled, snuffled
the scents on my hand. Being friends it crawled

from its shell to kiss me. I love jeweled
queens that glint cum with joy. Back then you sprawled

with your south mouth gaped. Back when Bowie, Prince
and you were still alive. Now you speak words I fear

are hard to translate; still, your dead girl’s cunt
still tastes divine. You know I love you since

we share your darkness, my light. I’m still here;
my tongue in your cunt. Chaos gone urgent.
According to J.N. Adams (The Latin Sexual Vocabulary, 1982), the ancient Latin verb, “ligurio,” meant, “to eat something by licking it up,” and was used when referring to cunnilingus and oral sex. “Landica,” was the term used to describe the clitoris; however, it was considered such an obscene word that even Cicero was embarrassed to use it and simply mentioned that there was a word but refused to mention what it was.



, , , , , , , ,

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.