anys syn

27 Saturday Jun 2020

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Fauns are always spirits of seduction,
my Aunt explained. Lucy was only eight,

just like you. She had read me Anaïs Nin,
explained what pansexual meant. They’d mate

with all manner of beasts. Of course Lucy
knew this, why else would she follow him home

just for tea? Henry and June, Gay Paree
and the way in which my Aunt’s lips would roam

made me flustered. Anys Syn’s old school jive
would love to chime in –– You stop me: what? What!?

Eight? Fuck that. You’ve got no Aunt. You just brag
in verse that you’re cursed with a high sex drive.

Asshole! I stare at you. You’d asked for smut.
I shrug, light the hash pipe and take a drag.

][][

Notes: Anaïs Nin was a Cuban-French American writer who wrote numerous diaries and erotica. Henry and June detailed her affairs with the author Henry Miller and his wife, June. Lucy and the faun, Mr. Tumnus, are characters from, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, by CS Lewis.

yarn

26 Friday Jun 2020

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Here’s a yarn; Best Friends Fuck Squad. We love sin
thick as nectar. You let lose screams as steam

hangs the air. This is how fables begin.
To kiss me is to perish in wet dream.

Detour through my body leaves you in shock,
in shox, inshoxication. You fLUSTer,

beg for deSIRe, for poppyCOCK’s cock.
You splish-splash rubba baby phat bugger …

bumper … thing. You sweet wet, sticky face thing.
We spin tales of Epic Sex fails. “Want to

be spanked with my hands bound. Look!” On one odd
finger thick cum glazes. “Look! I’m soaking.”

But you’re there. I’m here. Not much we can do,
despite our myth of this Best Friends Fuck Squad.

roughshod

26 Friday Jun 2020

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I won’t reconstruct how utterly fucked
that was. Futile to try again. I said,

“Help me cope. Bring itchy rope, a switch, duct
tape and rock salt.” But I fled when I bled,

when I bent and a queer smear bloomed across
my shirt. The door was almost closed. You peered

through a crack. Hunched on a chair, the chaos
of my scars had come undone. I get smeared

with blood a lot, mostly my own. Just once
I’d bared my back. “Fuck me up. Go roughshod.”

I said. “Calm me down.” That was my mistake.
It changed everything. Pain is a science.

Science is divine. But you said, “my god!”
when you saw how I cut out my own ache.

frenzies

25 Thursday Jun 2020

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High seas, indeed. The upsurge of bed sheet.
Curling ripple in the quilt. You hand back

the bong to giggle, “I can’t feel my feet.”
If there’s a theme to our sex life’s soundtrack

it’s that feeding frenzies are addictive.
I’m the shark that broke your surface, mouthful

of your menstrual blood. “Harder, I can’t live
without your teeth in me,” you slur. I pull

you down, gulp you down, until you drown, pleased.
It took years of frightful sex to find each

other. I don’t miss that. I was famished
searching for you. Now I’m sated –– your greased

inner muscles squeeze my tongue. Your stoned speech
slurs. You’re all Seven Seas that I’ve ravished.

promised

24 Wednesday Jun 2020

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“I’m a grouch on a couch, full-blown grumpus,”
you moan. “Lockdown sucks.” Friendship will never

tear us apart; though sexting between us
almost did. I wanted a fuck-daughter.

“I lack discipline,” you’d write, sending me
photos of the hot figure-eight you’d traced

across your panties. “Times infinity.”
Apparently you’ve found it. I erased

everything you’d sent me like I promised
to do. There no shame in having second

thoughts. I’m poor father material, but
I can take pride in you. Somewhere lust must

wait for me to come, horny and orphaned,
wanting more from me than just a sonnet.

rex

23 Tuesday Jun 2020

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In the glow. Pillow talk. Cuddle. Our legs
shake, but slow. There’s metaphysics to sleaze.

Each thrust begs reaction. Each echo begs
return. In gasps. In rasps. In melodies.

The Twin Blasphemies made me sing your name.
The Pale Night Gnawing Worms helped drag those sounds

from me in tatters. Rot’s Labyrinth then came
to bound down the sounds, while Saint Jude’s hellhounds

intoned the rest like prayer; by rex, by hex,
by your climax. You say that its surreal

to feel me under you, seeing that gleam
in my eyes, knowing how we want this sex.

We do. Me. You. All that gleams in my skull.
All the nightmares that you soothe into dream.

venom

22 Monday Jun 2020

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“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.

only

21 Sunday Jun 2020

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“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

20 Saturday Jun 2020

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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.

][][

Notes:
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.

hydrant

19 Friday Jun 2020

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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.