frustrating news

05 Sunday Jan 2014

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Jan 05, 2014 (1)

My grandfather passed away on December 26 and this coming Tuesday, January 07, is going to be his funeral. Sadly, due to the “polar vortex” blizzard that is dumping at least 2 feet of snow on Michigan right now, all flights to California in the entire Midwest have been cancelled. There is no way I can get to the funeral on time. This is terrible, but the only silver lining to this story is that at least my mom caught one of the last flights to LA right before the snow started. It would have devastated her not to be at her father’s side this Tuesday.

clit in a riot

05 Sunday Jan 2014

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Ja 05, 2014 (2)

 

 

 

 

 

“Squirm” is one of the most unerotic
words we have. It’s sweaty, but not sweat-fuck

sweat. It speaks of discipline, but not slick
ash cane strokes on up-turned ass, each lilac

kiss-bloom causing you to gasp. The only
thing I can think of that might make squirm sound

naughty involves callused fingers, puffy
lips, tracing the curve of your venus mound,

curling, parting, finding home. It involves
knuckles, first one, then, pushing, a fat second.

Children squirm when touched, as will you. Eyes shut,
with: yes … right … there … Oh … God. What will dissolve

in bliss if rubbed? What’ll leave you dazed, dampened,
gasping, thighs shaking, clit in a riot?

shameless

05 Sunday Jan 2014

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Pretty thing, ask any beta-bottom
boy, when you are ordered to be shameless,

there is excitement in being taken,
there is safety in being powerless,

there is a thrill in being tested.
Pleasure isn’t always painful, but it

should be. Loyalty comes in cum and blood
and a soft voice telling you to submit,

on the other end of the phone, to show
proof of your transgressions. Some say to love

is to suffer, but only if it’s done
right. Yes, pretty thing, go find one who knows

you inside and out, who towers above
you and will teach you how pain can be fun.

mercy’s bane

03 Friday Jan 2014

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Like that, I’ll take your pain upon myself,
so that you no longer hurt—an exchange,

release, this little act that you, yourself,
can’t do. That isn’t love, but it’ll do. Strange

possession—hot breath on my neck, strong hands
in my hair, cuffs biting my skin, my neck

pulled taught. You call this control? Pain demands
strength that you don’t possess. All your needs: flick

the whip, bend to your will, be mercy’s bane.
Mercy’s bane? Show me a Dom who laughing

at did not fluster—they’re far too fragile
without power. I love the games of vain

people, they’re so easy to break; proving
that they have yet to learn the word cruel.

what at last

02 Thursday Jan 2014

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What you call manic depression has been
with me for so long sharp jags and deep highs

and that feeling that all that I do — sin
you called it: pink lips, yellow moons, blue thighs

and green clovers — leaves me buried, my head
in my hands. Those blackest of nights. Red hell

leaves me curled up so. You would think this dread
would go away if I just didn’t tell

you, if I filled these lines with want, need, lust.
Whatever you think erotica needs

to be. Whatever. Touch my shoulder. Call
my name. Rouse me from this decay, this dust,

this touch of nightmare. I’m what the worms seed,
the sky’s end, what at last broke the rag doll.

most adults are dull degenerates

02 Thursday Jan 2014

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It’s that time of year, the long winter squalls
set in. From my front porch I cannot see

Russia, but the Arctic Light, like you, crawls
towards me. I love that you’re so motley,

forlorn, devil’s brat in cast-off choirboy
skin. Let me take you behind the temple

and draw down the sky, your little schoolboy
shorts, all the joy my right hand can bring. Dull

degenerates, most adults are, reading
the worst in every word I write. Let them

purposely misunderstand this, malice
fills their hearts. But for you, little sex thing,

little toy, I’ll make you cum in mayhem,
like heaven’s aurora borealis.

][][

nothing stands between us here/ and I won’t be denied
—Sarah McLachlan, possession

the secret of the cow’s sorrow

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

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Dec 31, 2013 (10)

Dec 31, 2013 (11)

Dec 31, 2013 (12)

I had never seen a cow crying big
wet tears before but the wood fairies caught

each one and a bat and a small hedge-pig
came out to comfort her. Then the tide brought

in a girl the color of kelp, a star
set in her brow, on the back of a beast.

I took the tears, walked out on a sandbar
to greet her. “Take me with you, to the east

and make me your lover, I’ll brush your hair
and sing all the songs that I know.” But she

said no, for what does a mortal child know
about the Sea Queen? “Love, do not despair,”

she said. “When you drown I’ll find your body
and then you too will know the cow’s sorrow.”