, , , , , , ,

“But how?” you hiss. How? Your split-flower swells
purple with my tongue in it. How you curve,

grip the sheets, come undone. How hunger spells
leave me famished. I could lap at each nerve

in your clit, leave you both fazed and flayed, slow
ravage –– no? Yes. I’d still devour your heart.

Still lick you away until your ego
dissolves, your mind goes blank and the gods start

buzzing in you. The point of this poem
isn’t that I can, but that I will. Juice

and sauce and sprinkle. “I’m a slutty brat,”
you hiss. Yes, we know. The only venom

in my tongue is what I say to seduce
you. My cum chum, pussy willow, cunt cat.



, , , , , , , ,

“I said, I’m scared of moving on. I said,
I don’t wanna. I said, I don’t want you

to leave me. I said, I don’t want the dread
of you being happy with someone new,

or how you look at another person
the way that I look at you. I said, I

want it be you forever. No one
else but you. I said, I think I’d die

if you were happy. I wanna. I want
to be your one and only. I wanna–”

I stop the voice mail, a frown on my face.
I hit delete. Some mistakes live to haunt

us, some to drag us to hell. I’m your karma,
I see, a hell made without hope or grace.

bonne chance


, , , , , , ,

Call me loose change, your coming attraction.
I’ve gone from Harlot Chic to Tart Deco

over the years, working the Freak Show Fun
Tent as a wild ride. My Story of O

pop-up kid’s book came with rope and harness.
In school my pelvis served as a playground.

My come hither grin drove the furious
search for new penicillin. College-bound

with my Erector set, my lips won Best
Blow Dryer of the Year. My tongue got banned

as a controlled substance. I still think pox
as a badge of honor. Don’t get depressed;

just wave, bonne chance, your panties in one hand,
as I walk this odd world where sex still shocks.


Story of O is an erotic novel (1954) by French author Anne Desclos under the pen name Pauline Réage. It deals with love, dominance/ submission and erotic torture. In French, bonne chance, simply translates as good luck.



, , , ,

Slight pain as I reach to pluck one curled hair
from the edge of your panties, its tip drips

with wet– “Sweat,” you say, flip flustered. “I swear,
that’s sweat.” “I see.”
Stroking your lotus-lips

through the cotton. It was my thick knuckles
that you noticed. Hard butcher hands cupping

your ass. Calluses leave scars like freckles;
but when I slip them inside your wellspring

downpours. It’s why these fat nails are cut short.
Why I ask first. Three fingers in your cunt,

my thumb, curved, in your ass. “You fill me up.”
“That’s just my right hand.”
Soon you can’t support

your legs –– soaking us both like a hydrant.
With glee. With something like sweat and syrup.



, , , , , ,

Promise of rain never came. Heat soaked up
in the pavement. In the trees. In my skull,

all pinned and needled together. Adult
subject matter means just one thing. Gristle

and shanks, you write about cum and moisture
and things you think I want to hear –– the ride

high and holy, my face comely in painsure,
feeling me harden even more inside

you. But that’s not me. When I say I ache
–– that’s just literal. When I say I’m more

scars than skin –– if you’d seen me naked you’d
agree. And this trapped heat? It’s the earthquake

that leaves you in rubble. Last god of gore.
No rain but eruption. Grotesque when nude.



, , , , , , , ,

Hardcore and sublime. We found your limits.
Now comes the pushing over. As you stretched

your jaws wide, cried, “I must be fucking nuts
to let you do this.”
As you gagged and retched.

As I pulled my cock from your throat. Others
have asked me if everything that you claim

is true. Who? That hurts. I’m a bad older
brother or uncle or whatever game

we play today. There’s bliss in subversion,
pleasure in chaos. What is true? You cry

only because you want to cry. “Want more?”
Pounding, filling your throat. Drunk on passion

and pain. Spunk drunk with bruises in your thigh.
We’re both sick and fucking like it’s our cure.



, , , , , , ,

I stop tongue-fucking your cunt as you roll
over, gasp in pain, pressing your stomach

and breasts to frozen metal. Your asshole
gapes wide as my cock pushes in. “The fuck–?”

you gulp, amazed we’re in a war machine.
Wintertime in Muskegon is the worst,

but it does have an ancient submarine
no one visits. I adore love in cursed

places haunted with pain, where fear lingers
mixed with hints of petrol fumes, blood and brine.

In this frozen coffin the only heat
comes in floods: cock and cunt, kissing fingers.

Calling you love, calling you, “I, me, mine.”
Calling our thrills, “epique,” our deaths, “petite.”


I’ve written about this museum before, but in the lake-side city of Muskegon (about an hour from where I live) is the WW2-era submarine, USS Silversides. Since winters in Michigan are brutal and it’s difficult to heat an all-metal ship, visiting on those long dark frozen days of the year tend to be a touch frosty.



, , , , , , , ,

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.



, , , , , ,

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.



, , , , , ,

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
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.