19 Wednesday Dec 2018
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Denk immer an die alte Weisheit, solange man noch vögeln kann, lebt man!/ Always remember the old saying, as long as you can fuck, you live!
Catherine Tailleferre as Fräulein Nimmersatt in Die Beichte der Josefine Mutzenbacher (1979)
19 Wednesday Dec 2018
A spring is freed within a cave, a pearl
polished. Two mouths both open. Your morass,
thicket of curls, leaves cum-smears as you curl
over, spasm, then curl again. Cut class,
I said. Afternoon’s after-shocks teach us
all we need to learn. Your dad calls, urgent
that you return. “It’s my turn,” you say. “Mess
you up twice, boy. Make you dumb with brilliant
vice. Make you fall in love with sin, again.
Make you wanna please.” With heat like sauna
you guide me in. Fingers atop your pearl.
Fingers between us; an oak tree root in
your mussed-up morass. “Cunt’s floodgate gonna
bust,” you warn and your toes begin to curl.
19 Wednesday Dec 2018
Tags
aslant, erotic poetry, finger fucking, more sleaze please, Poetry, problem with grownups, screaming orgasm, sonnet
After dinner your mom pours the coffee
while the grownups gossip. You take me up
to your room. We sit on your bed, your knee
pressed up against mine while distant grownup
voices come from down the stairs. “They’ll hear us
if you do that,” you warn. “I know I’m … loud.”
More than just loud: each time you’re a circus
of sound. You cum with the noise of a crowd
brawling. Hormones tow us. Our bodies
aslant. Sex spray. Lovesick sparks through your clit.
Once your mom caught us; called this sin. Parents
are odd ducks. It’s all sin to them. Your cunt’s
muscles flex. They know we’re both freaks, misfits.
They know if I move you’ll shout: “More sleaze, please!”
18 Tuesday Dec 2018
Plea to the sea. Lure of cure in rapture:
you took a photograph with your brassiere
unhooked, sitting in front of a mirror
to watch me, inch by slow inch, disappear
into your split-slicked need. We sat with spread
hips. Your hair covered my face. Lips steady.
Camera snapped the moment the dark seabed
boiled slag up in you, filling the cowrie
of your cunt with the hope that I might fuck
away your wound if I could. There is pain
only sea sprites can cure, like the violence
in your pix: like how love-tide flows amok
in us. We keep fucking, trying. Again,
always again. Just once, O gods, just once.
16 Sunday Dec 2018
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got choked/ got woked
4-word poem
16 Sunday Dec 2018
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This is my version of perversion/ This is my verse in perverse.
16 Sunday Dec 2018
Tags
bachelor girl, old maid, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spinster, strap-on sister, tad, tremors in your knickers
Pain’s reign. Warm in my hand. We’re a relic
of those vanished beasts: sucked into tar pits,
etched into sandstone cliffs. We’re the brainsick
passions of gods. We listen to The Slits,
Cunt Clones, Hole. We say there’ll be hell to pay,
bastards going down. Promise or threat? Vague
reference to oral sex. Call me ashtray.
All those cigarettes scars: nebula, plague,
splatter acid. Odd shapes: relics tad queer.
Hard-core sex sentience. Wisdom through pain.
All my heroes have been old maids, spinsters,
bachelor girls packing. Those without fear
and old-school with their passion. Our freak’s reign:
thrill in my hand, tremors in your knickers.
15 Saturday Dec 2018
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We cannot see the universe. We are in the darkness of a trench, a deep cut, dark water heavier than earth, presences lit by our own blood, little biolumes, heroic and pathetic Promethei too afraid or weak to steal fire but able still to love. Gods are among us and they care nothing and are nothing like us. This is how we are brave: we worship them anyway.
China Miéville, Kraken
15 Saturday Dec 2018
Tags
erotic poetry, fear not fellatio will be coming next, female presenting nipples, freedom, funk, get woke, punk, sonnet, this flesh is both a cage and freedom
The air is getting thick and you won’t come
here. Ah, you cum but not here. You female
presenting nipples you. One day that dumb
joke will be a headscratcher. With fox-tail
anal beads, with zest and tongue baths, the thatch
of my snatch shaved to rubble. Your people
are not my people. They still farm. They still scratch
the earth and make it bloom. Mine are brutal
the way that I’m brutal. The way I’ve sunk
my hands in your hair, guided myself down
your throat, heard you moan and then felt you choke
on air thick as sin. No more hardcore punk
funk, you said. Freedom, I said, is to drown
in cum is the first step in getting woke.
14 Friday Dec 2018
Glutton, your mom warns. Good girls do not dare
to breathe or move or listen when the moon
calls out. Each night you kneel and beg in prayer,
luna-lune, for toe-curling fucks: typhoon
in strength, cosmic in scope, untold power
in your clit. You kneel by your dark window,
foreplay, leaning into the witching hour.
Foreplay as in what moons discard: their glow
fit to be worn by unicorn-tamers.
Don’t call this smut, call it faith: that someone
somewhere craves you as much as the moon craves
you. Faith that one day soon all your lovers
will come home. If that makes you a glutton,
so be it. It’s your faith that keeps you brave.
memories of my ghost sista 