conversations with imaginary sisters, deep throat, erotic poem, fuck fiend, Poetry, randy varmint, sonnet, witch's brew
Slick from a randy varmint, your nipples
swell in your strappy tee as I watch you
take the pills that we found on the motel’s
bathroom floor. You taste just like witch’s brew,
rancor, a chloroform soaked handkerchief.
Ill pills freeze time then turn our lust heinous.
You are the color of storm and I grief.
On your back, your head lolls off the mattress
as I grind in. Your throat bulges, jaws twinge
as my balls smother your nose. You gag-retch,
spitting cum, bile and ache down your forehead.
Fuck fiend, you called me, words that made you cringe,
once … like love, or every time that I stretch
you wide; an act that you both long for and dread.