Category Archives: Poetry

propers

16 Thursday Jul 2020

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Salvation? That honor brought nothing but
the blues, the way the gods use to sing them.

The gods are vast and weep, call us, “poppet,”
and, “doll,” and croon. Certain folk still condemn

the blues as Moloch’s music. Certain folk
are fools. Salvation? Before I learned my

proper propers. Before the neighbors spoke
of me with a sneer. Before first goodbye,

my friends were all, they say, pretend until
hormones left me scarred and askew. Then none

of the holy wanted me. When gods dump
you you learn certain folk preach divine will

the way the devil preaches salvation ––
with the lie that the gods want our worship.

phlebotinum

15 Wednesday Jul 2020

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My words are lascivious prayers, priestess,
and my temple lies in fiber optics,

cyberspace. Sexting is the new Venus,
our ars poetica. Other matrix

only repeats standard universal ––
baby, aam gonnae make ye buck an’ bleed.

None of that pleases. Through wire and crystal
I weave spells just for you. What do you read?

Words, words, words. Our prayer. I know that you feel
magic at work. We cum with strange forces,

phlebotinum and nasty sub-routines.
Sexting reveals what others must conceal.

Temples wide as the world web. Priestesses
unprogrammed. All these sacred smut machines.

Notes:
Like unobtainium, in science fiction, phlebotinum is whatever made-up technology the lazy author has invented to keep the plot going. It’s magical pixie dust in outer space.

next

15 Wednesday Jul 2020

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You smudge your phone with cum-sticky fingers
as this fuck poem ends. The nuns that taught

how good girls don’t cum will know. The others
will know that these nasty words made you hot;

so hot that you came in the girl’s bathroom
during class. You’ve never wanted nasty

poems like you do now. Words that consume
you … bloom inside you. Sexting poetry

itches between your legs. All for you. Swear
that you’ll never masturbate in math class

again, that you’ll be good until the next
poem I send you and the next nightmare

that you’ve longed for: fuck poems that trespass
through your resolve. Nastiest of sex text.

flux

12 Sunday Jul 2020

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Blind with steam and water blocking what I
can see I follow my nose –– it always

knows –– the way to your cunt. You are the sky
over me. While I lap the shower sprays

my face. While I swallow you down the sponge
between your legs soaks me in. I’m good in

you. I wring your juices each time I plunge
inside. Each time my tongue tickles the skin

of your clit. Hydration comes when you cum.
Justdoit –– you grab my head like a wish.

Hellgasm –– Water Vapor Fire –– You flux
while your spine tilts back. I don’t drown. I’ve swum

your seas as a goddess-thang. Sacred fish
that thirsts for you; that swims in you; that sucks.

6-2-9

09 Thursday Jul 2020

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The night is round and black, like your throat just
as you gag me down whole. You squirm, settle

your rump on my face. Slow grind as I thrust
my tongue deeper. Hell is straight boy coital,

but as I pull out concerned you gasp: “More!”
For years we put the one in lonely; now,

somehow, we’re two … even if you once swore
how all my kind made you spew. Cum is how

we cure hate. 6-2-9. We’ve got this licked
while I suck the good parts of your soul out.

I prayed for a lover and then you came.
Now we cum. They say that nothing’s perfect,

but this? So damn good. That’s what I’m about
with you: to heal from lives of scorn and shame.

enthralls

09 Thursday Jul 2020

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After class you lingered, interested if
I’d help with your homework on pro-sex

feminism? –– back home? –– over a spliff
and witch wine? Liberation is complex.

You peeled out of your dress. We fucked; ragdolls
smeared with cum. Sexual freedom is rare ––

but we have choices –– and lust that enthralls;
lust that saves radical change from nightmare.

Affair without nightmare. Broken fuck toys
healing. “No, here,” you say, guiding my cock

to your ass’ gaped O –– “Make it vulgar.”
Vulgar pleases. We make fuck-slushy noise.

We laugh. Others will call this porn and schlock.
This bliss is what others want to censure.

stranglings

08 Wednesday Jul 2020

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Once there was three. “I don’t want to hear that,”
you said. Now there’s two. Lucy’s “Karen’s dead,”

gave me pause. For a year we shared a flat
and I slept betwixt them in our big bed …

except when Karen stayed out at the pub
or the club. Lucy from Leeds. Karen from

Kingston. A year full of big beat and dub
and, “Tottenham sheet.” Sex was the maelstrom

that Poe warned us of. Lust that, “unnerves strings.”
Love drug’s thrall. But you didn’t want to fuck

stranglings. You weren’t bi. You just left. You said
I think about kink too much … and fuckings …

and cum. True. Sex is chaos. Love amok.
Holy fuck with three now two, with one dead.

oodles

07 Tuesday Jul 2020

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I’m the deep that scares you. The dark that might
take note of you as you’re peering down. Down?

Drown. What monsters lurk deeper than sunlight?
Neptune’s grisly progeny; though they’d drown

in your world, too. Are your fears as crushing
as my love? At twenty feet? Your lungs burn.

Thirty feet? Panic drags you back. Yearning
isn’t enough. You say that you’ll return

but swim with eyes shut to the sea’s grace.
I have taken note, risen from the deep

for you, for all who come to me. Your fear
is like others who’ve yearned for my embrace.

There have been oodles who’ve taken this leap.
I can swallow you too. Show me sincere.

chompers

06 Monday Jul 2020

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3 a.m. Damp heat. Crumpled cotton sheet.
Other broken grins wallow through my night.

Other teeth. Other sighs. None here to bleat
out their bliss at each mouthful. None toyed quite

like how you toy. Once more you failed to find
me in my dreams. Or maybe I failed you.

It’s the same. We’re apart. The heat, combined
with pain, keeps me awake. My scar tissue

seems to draw others. You know others touch
me, run fingers over your work to guess

as to the source of this fine mess. Of course
they’re not close. I use to smoke Mystic Dutch

to soothe where your chompers had been; fine mess,
indeed. Now I’m sober, sleepless, morose.

stirred

04 Saturday Jul 2020

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These thick fingers push into your layers.
Your skirt lifted. Buttons undone. My tongue

swerves as my thumb finds your clit. Deluge stirs
inside you. Floodwaters. For years you clung

to the notion that you were poison. Trysts
turned sour. Friends left. Love was what others had.

“Just ghost shadow,” you thought, “a poltergeist’s
sneer.” Now you’re alive and I the nomad

baptized at your fountain. I’ve traveled through
dangers untold and hardships unnumbered

to find you. You bubble. “Have you bathed yet?”
“No.” “Good. Lemme clean you up proper.” You

grind your cunt and ass until waters stirred.
I can taste your soul through your cum and sweat.