foxfire

02 Sunday Dec 2018

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Your mum loves anal, too, you know. Request
for your breast as you undressed met with morose

pause, flushed flesh. Your whole soul I’ve loosened, pressed
your yaw to my maw, lubed in acts of gross

indecency. She stands outside your door
watching, you know. Once she walked in on me.

“You are hopeless. It can’t be helped.” Hardcore
spermatic fizz, jazz jizz, dribbled as she

swayed. Tonight is the hour to baste your mum’s
flower, that gape that devours girls and boys

up whole. Adorned with sex flecks, cum crumbs,
call her, tell her that tonight you’ll share toys.

Tonight we’ll get off on rage, blue foxfire.
Tonight we’ll all put the ire in desire.

dead-eye

27 Tuesday Nov 2018

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Felt your throat close around my flesh, potent
and deep. You rolled her, drunk her dry. To flare

up in you, drive your mouth against her cunt
with each thrust. I grabbed a hank of your hair.

You grabbed her thighs. She grabbed her breasts and cried,
“There! Fuck yes! There!” I could taste her on you,

cupping and sucking your face. We baptized
the bed in splattered red and blew. Virtue

lies in bluntness. “My tongue. Your clit. Your cock.
My ass.” Is cool kink endless when slung low?

What’s changed? I still love words more than others.
You’re still forfeit in a Detroit cell block.

She’s still dead. All of this was long ago.
Intolerable. Dead-eye. Lost as lovers.

licious

26 Monday Nov 2018

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You loved your jokes — “You feeling Mary? Yes,
she begged us not to stop.” “Grace cums. How? Hard.”

— like you loved blunts, cunts, a cumslut’s caress.
Strange girls and their moo juice was your reward.

Mothers’ udders dribbled drops. You wisecracked
that spoiled clits were mere child’s play to seduce

once you put your tongue to sloppy use. “Stacked
shorty,” you stressed. “Vicious licious.” Your juice,

with a snap, boils over. It’s in the laugh.
Suppose one day this ends? Without a bang

but a whisper? You will still have my lisp,
my snort, my rough chuckle. My better half.

All I wasn’t. With blunts and cunts. Girl gang
banger. Gone in laugh. Not with twang but wisp.

rant and rave

25 Sunday Nov 2018

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Behave like a slave, like someone who needs
to be ruined, stretched then roughly controlled.

Behave depraved. Crave that you’ll get nosebleeds
when you think of me, of how I withhold

pleasure, like a dark ant-show that infests
your dreams, like my mom’s dead sister, putting

the aunt in haunt. Cock-block. My name suggests
mild bliss, but I’m plague, scourge to your longing,

taut ghost of nights to come. They have reviled
me, called me ruffian in rhapsodies …

and yet. Deep down they want to be defiled,
shockingly used, too … made Aphrodite’s

shockwave. Princess, we both know that a slave
knows how to rant, knows where rave falls in crave.

between us

20 Tuesday Nov 2018

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In death haiku old soldier must ponder
frost and moonlit stubbled field to find life

fleeting. There are other types of slaughter,
though. In the bar’s bathroom you’re all ale-wife

groaning glee as your husband fucks your throat
harder, my cock pressed against your tightest

cleft. It’s pain and need all at once. You float
on bliss as your ass is forced wide. One thrust

I’m balls-deep, too. In rhythm. Spit-roasted
between us two. Perhaps one day I’ll think

back on this the way the poet appraised
frost fields but without woe. Yes, we squirted.

We came. I praise not death but godly kink.
I praise all that leaves us cum-rough and glazed.

baalim

15 Thursday Nov 2018

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Call it a quirk. To be hog-tied, unfit
to wait; for rope, for passion, for a throb

between your legs. Scorn the horny half-wit,
far too awkward for a kiss or blowjob,

whose needs go unmet. There are fuck buddies
in this world. There are those who have neither.

Cleaver of Asses. Baalim of Quim. Sleaze
comes in threes; three little deaths, three stranger

acts, three reasons why I’ll wreck you in bed.
Once for our lost time, once for knowing more

about grief than bliss, once to teach you how
to cum like chaos. Feel this sublime dread

that you’re raw meat and I’m pure carnivore
greedy for treats. Right here, lover. Right now.

swale

14 Wednesday Nov 2018

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Dog days ablaze. Near the school bus, sleazy
grass stains, both your skirts were pulled to your hips.

The nun said that this was a sin: the three
of us kissing, fingering phat girl-lips,

eyes glazed. Quinn was mellow and mild. You: mad
with haze. And me? Still don’t know who I am.

Say that Love led us to this sad triad,
nervous threesome. Besties. Say that to damn

one’s soul is to give up to temptation.
Like this? We gave up everything, like so.

Perhaps we were bewitched and bedeviled —
Quinn came, you came, I came — for where lichen

and moss clung to the swale’s grass the shadow
of the nun fell on us and hell followed.

bareback bones

13 Tuesday Nov 2018

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After the first cut these dry bones could speak.
Look. My arms have scars where the old bone-blade

pressed in; where I anointed this antique
to gods who demand blood. Once more I’ve splayed

open my skin, yet somehow remained chaste.
In the realms of love there are ghosts begging

for this. It’s hard to tell hell when distaste
is all that you can see in those staring

back. Bareback bones sopped fat with blood, my blood,
my gore galore, rancid wounds dripping want.

All my kindred are here: loveless, jilted,
spurned souls. We speak, we sing of all that haunts

discerning, semi-literate perverts …
brooder’s passion. Tryst between introverts.

slurred

12 Monday Nov 2018

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Strange how a nerve can ruin one’s sex drive.
For a week I lay on my back, tendons

frozen, muscles in knots, pinched nerve alive,
burning. All those stories of sex demons

who feed on the cum of the sick are bunk.
I slid out of my head in pain. Nothing

happened. No one appeared in my punch-drunk
fevers. For a week I lay there: crying,

praying the pain away. As if. It’s why,
at that moment, if I could have bartered

my soul away to end all this I would’ve.
It’s a sad day when even succubi

pass you by. My tongue rot. My vision slurred.
My mind forlorn over love … sublime love.

Note:
I’m on day 14 of dealing with a pinched nerve on the left side of my back. Hot and cold compresses, messages and the like do nothing. The pain has been slowly making its way up my neck, across my shoulder and down into my biceps. There is no way to get comfortable, no way of easing what is constant and unchanging, no escape. As the poem puts it, I am slowly sliding out of my head but not in any dandy shamanic-like manner. All I have is that ill-stomach feeling, like when I broke my arm and could do nothing but stare ahead in horror.

groped

06 Tuesday Nov 2018

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Beneath the touch of urgency your clit
throbs and aches with need. I want to take hold

of your foot pressed against my hip, join it
with the one on my shoulder. Uncontrolled

carnivore’s greed leaves me giddy to grope,
to be groped. “Honey from your cup,” so bragged

the song, “makes me erupt.” That and the rope
around your wrists. The way your lips get dragged

out at each pull, in at each twist. — Your eyes
roll up. Your jaw hangs down. Your hips are round,

pierced through the center. Twice. I’ll leave a mess
in each. I’ll run roughshod between your thighs,

wild with the act of ruin, as I pound,
and I pound. It turns me on, I confess.