full throated

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“What magic will you find to stir/ The limp and languid listener?”
— from On the Future of Poetry by Henry Austin Dobson

 
You squat all full-throated, with your closed eyes,
you whose got no gag reflex, you who knows
how to gag it all down, one who swallows
it all down. My cum stain glows. A surprise
across your face, down your chin. A cock sucker
is born, not made. It’s in your genes, your veins.
Your fat chapped lips are dabbled with the stains
of long practice. Who sang: “put it in your
mouth/ I said your muthafuckin’ mouth”? Limp
listener, my ass! Dig this face-fucking
sonnet in a world of wanna-be pimp
white boy free verse. We love a lil’ sucking
going on. Future of poetry? Right here, shit.
Tell me: do you swallow or do you spit?

sticky palms dry

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lines quoted from Song of
Myself, XI
by Walt Whitman

Laughter. Bluestones lost in heathered walls.
Twenty-eight men without womanly life.
All so lonesome. They did not see her, but
she saw them and loved them. Ghosts in bathhouse.
Ghosts in steam. They do not think whom they souse
with their spray. Goo-goo eye. Weird bone corset.
She loves boys. Stitchin’ her own thread. A knife
like cock — something to sew, mend — fat with balls.
 
Braids ‘n knots she brings. For boy bodies. Ghosts
sweeping mist. All their black and milky stripes.
She flirts bloody. Hothouse gore. Which one boasts
he’s the biggest? longest? the one who wipes
sticky palms dry. She’ll take all the young men
again and again and — O yes — again.

still-life with joan and night oaks

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Pity fuck. Charity stare. Joan d’Arc
shrugged in her fazy way. Freckled face burn,
all pog but with searing eyes. Twixies’ dark
rain on a sharp waist bladed by iron
hip bones floating up over buoyant jokes.
Her eyes flitted open tongues twined, coin-groins
rubbed to a teen beat while beyond night oaks
and a waxing moon kite, rose silver coins,
sunken eyes, metal-black slashed honeybees.
“Joan will hug and kiss and spin you.” “Joan will
finger and fuck and cum on you.”  Yes, she’s
one more strap-on savior that’s hard to kill.
“Of course I want it rough. Give me hardcore
fucking. Come,”
said the ghost, “play with my gore.”