09 Thursday Nov 2017
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peculiar and beautiful … curious
(via babylon-crashing)
09 Thursday Nov 2017
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What, with my tongue in your tail?
09 Thursday Nov 2017
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coitus more ferarum
»
(via babylon-crashing)
09 Thursday Nov 2017
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she said/ he said: cum in my bum …
09 Thursday Nov 2017
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Sou o preferido filho de Dionísio, deus da porra e vinho. Por causa de você, minha corpo é duro e molhado. Fique nu no meu quarto. Eu quero um escuro beijo. Sou o fruto da deusa do amor, Afrodita. Engula me, encontrar a tua fome, saciar a tua sede. Entre os dois sexos, sou o corpo de nossos divinos gula.
I’m the favorite son of Dionysus, god of wine and fucking. Because of you, my body is hard and wet. Stand naked in my room. I want a dark kiss. I am the fruit of the goddess of love, Aphrodite. Swallow me, find your hunger, quench your thirst. Between the sexes, I am the body of our divine gluttony.
09 Thursday Nov 2017
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you think it’s easy?
since your words wait for me to
spit, swallow or scream
09 Thursday Nov 2017
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from between your thighs
lovely milk-mustache
07 Tuesday Nov 2017
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Ford stared at him, aghast. Trillian had turned white.
‘Somebody did that to you?’ whispered Ford.
‘Yeah.’
‘But have you any idea who? Or why?’
‘Why? I can only guess. But I do know who the bastard was.’
‘You know? How do you know?’
‘Because they left their initials burnt into the cauterized synapses. They left them there for me to see.’
Ford stared at him in horror and felt his skin begin to crawl.
‘Initials? Burnt into your brain?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, what were they, for God’s sake?’
Zaphod looked at him in silence again for a moment. Then he looked away.
‘Z.B.,’ he said.
07 Tuesday Nov 2017
Tags
anxiety, depression, guilt slit, phantasmic slit, poem, Poetry, sacrifice, sonnet
Guilt slit. Anxiety is one more queer
cesarean incision that will bear
me no child and will never heal. All fear
rests right here (between hip and hip) right there
(between south-kiss and fuzzed groin) Which chakra
do I need to drive a knife through to keep
myself from feeling this way? Since vodka
only blurs the pain and hash makes me sleep
without dreaming let me run fingernails
across my phantasmic slit; that which you
can’t see, what I always feel. Let me cut
this out of me; from hip to hip, a snail’s
trail that not even the gods can undo.
A slice, sacrifice, guilt rests in the gut.
03 Friday Nov 2017
Tags
erotic poetry, masturbation, orgasm, petite morte, ravenous, ravenous depravity, sonnet, The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels of Cunnilingus, The Book of Misfits, why can't masturbation be a solution
The Book of Misfits mentions you. So does
The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels
of Cunnilingus. Love, you have itches
never scratched. You’re shy and call them scruples
when it comes to exploring the carnal
parts of knowledge. But here you are, your soul
incandescent, finger at work, knuckle
buried. Let the, “petite mort,” makes us whole;
it’s a little death then resurrection.
Only the most ravenous are welcome
in these books and you, love, are copious,
dripping, some would claim, with needs that no one
has met. Do not say that it’s strange to cum
for me, just embrace this divine strangeness.
memories of my ghost sista 