Category Archives: sonnet

viscid

17 Wednesday Jun 2020

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Lame, tame and meek were all that those drudges
that you called Doms could dream up. “Make rules/

Break rules/ Get Spanked,” is what everybody does.
Psychoplasm miscreants need more. “Fools,

you still have teeth,” I jeered, once the acid
kicked in. You were trippin’ balls. All cunning

stunts need are hints at the bloody, viscid
ecstasy that I’ll take at correcting

your flaws. I place pliers, bone saw, hammer
in front of you. Yokes and ropes are common.

You could stand up. You could say no. Instead
you squirm, disturbed. This torture is hunger

for pain withheld, for doors few can open,
for trust that this is love, too; love and dread.

pout

16 Tuesday Jun 2020

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I’ve seen your dad drunk. Somehow he’s younger
but looks much older than me. “He guesses,”

you shrug when I pick you up. A daughter
mad for pain. You say you won’t but bruises

and welts under your dress make different claims.
You have men that you call sugar daddies

and you have me who has no time for games,
just pain. We park near the swamp. Willow trees

make the best switches. You’ll come home and pout
tonight with muddy knees, with my cum caked

to your cheeks, with seven new stripes hidden
under your dress. You’ll find your dad passed out.

That’s broke. You’re not like him when your soul ached
to be drunk with pain, to be loved, broken.

yowl

14 Sunday Jun 2020

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The din you make would wake even Bedlam
when I unbuckle the belt that you yowl

for; when retrained by rope and fat dumb
fear makes you growl to be ill-used. I’m foul

each time I play this role to the hilt, though
it’s not blades I bury in you. You glare

at me, call me daft things, scowl then bellow
for pain. I like that. You whimper: “Don’t scare

me.” “Why?” “Promise me you’ll do it. Don’t ditch
me.” In reply you watch me loop the belt,

snap-slap it against my palm. “Just testing,”
I tease. The first smack will make your clit twitch.

By stroke five you’ll burn alive and then melt.
By nine you’ll be raunchy glee and howling.

][][

Notes: Bedlam was originally an English lunatic asylum, though now it just means loud chaos, uproar and confusion. Playing something, “up to the hilt,” means being extreme, a violent image, when a sword is buried completely in someone or something the only thing visible is its hilt.

flick

12 Friday Jun 2020

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Feel this as I fix clothespins to the skin
around each nipple. A halo of small

wooden teeth pinching. I’ve left hickeys, twin
love bites, before. I’m greedy. I’d suck all

of your breast into my mouth if I could.
Instead I -flick- each tip until they rise

above the clothespins -flick- this pain is good
-flick- the kind we beg for to make our thighs

shake. I can feel, between your thighs, your lips
part as I place a clothespin on the hood

of your clit and then twist. You could say no
if you wanted; stop this pain in the tips

of your breasts, in your drunken clit. You could.
Instead you burn: like anarchy but slow.

do you

12 Friday Jun 2020

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Meekness, you sigh, is kinda all that we
got here. That’s okay; there’s many other

ways to get you off. Before you left me
to go to school I ran a long leather

cord down between the cheeks of your ass then
up to spread the lips of your cunt wide. Wear

this all day, I say. Again and again
this dull world passes you by, unaware

that you’re trying hard not to cum. Each time
you sit the cord rubs your clit. No one knows

your head spins when you stand. All leather
can be torture. All pain can be sublime

when you want it. Do you? Under your clothes
you grow wet as swampland for an answer.

cleft

11 Thursday Jun 2020

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There should be a word for when a cleavage
is laid bare, unbosomed. Moments ago

you bent forward to unbind the bandage
that kept your flesh in place. I’ve rubbed aloe

oil into those ridges those bindings left:
ridged bruise that ooze. What good is this magic

if it can’t salve you each time you pin, cleft
and strap down? Voluptuous magic. Thick

magic. Curvaceous. In the bath, after
work, you tell me about your day. One day

you’ll be a queen crone and then we can heal
from the need to conceal. We learn other

words when we do. We’ll be boss. We’ll slay
when we unwrap, unmask, unconceal.

gash

10 Wednesday Jun 2020

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They say alcohol makes us beasts. Indeed,
I was drunk each time I snatched you up, mauled

you with clack-claws, with tongue, with unhurried
greed. I thought temperance would cool my ribald

tastes; that my need for a good feed would wilt
with no thirst to drive it. Foolish. I’ve been

foolish. Tell me you still want me to split
you wide, pierce you through like St. Sebastian

with my cock: dozens of bloody deep strokes.
Drunk on that word: gash. Drunk on that other

spirit. Tell me your bone’s marrow is mine
for the sucking. No hangover will coax

out these moans when you cum. Drunk sober
when your cum tastes better than any wine.

debauch

10 Wednesday Jun 2020

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Prayer, I say. Porn, you counter, reaching out
to rub my cock against your cheek. Disgust,

you gasp, down on all fours. I’m your devout
priest, my cock pressed tight against your tightest

hole. So slow, being filled with such spirit,
inch by inch. You arch your back and struggle

to breathe as I press deeper, as I split
you wide. Your dad said only a devil

would want all these wet shocks and aftershocks,
would want to moan, mew and writhe as I stir

inside you … like the porn you hate to watch
when we watch it together. Your dad mocks

what he doesn’t know. For me this is prayer;
your high priest when we praise and we debauch.

naked

08 Monday Jun 2020

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You caught your son at it. Your daughter told
me how she does it all the time. The first

time I tried it I was shocked to behold
how I must look to others. “I’m the worst,

grotesque naked. No one wants to see this.”
But you did. That also shocked me. “xHARDxCOREx

Camwhore,” you teased, half a world away. Bliss
didn’t feel like I’d hoped it would as more

and more cum splattered on my thigh. “Maybe
one day,” you replied when I asked you why

you weren’t nude too. That’s fair. As safe sex goes
it’s dope, but for you, I see, not guilt-free.

Without bliss all this is absurd; like my
O-mouth, my shaking hips, my curling toes.

roughhouse

07 Sunday Jun 2020

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When I lurched from the old-timey, baroque-
ass stove, when flame claimed my lashes and brows,

when a third of my scalp went up in smoke.
Odd how our flesh reacts. You say roughhouse

is fun. Hot wax feels scrumdiddlyumptious,
you say, lighting the candle. Suddenly

my scalp’s scars come alive with pink, wet puss
as the skin peels back, as I sit for three

days with open wounds until the Peace Corps
doctor can drive to my post. I forgot

that pain. My flesh, though, still loves to remind
me, in odd ways, at odd times, that I’m more

scab than baroque, that I’m slow at being taught,
that these scars are of the runnyrot kind.

][][

Note:
Scrumdiddlyumptious (wonderful) and runnyrot (horrible and painful) are gobblefunk words made up by Roald Dahl for his book, The BFG (1982)