disembowel

04 Sunday Nov 2018

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Shocking how a shock to muscles, to brawn,
sinew and thew, can ruin me. Hellfire

in the limbs. Rust in the nerves. Pinched neuron
and all at once my head has gone haywire.

Skull pain. Dull brain. All over what? A sprain.
Something inside. A railroad spike jutting

from my chest would be easier. Cocaine
and dime-store morphine won’t dull this throbbing.

My world of muck fuck (sludge boys and goo girls)
is gone, though honorable disembowelment

still holds its appeal. Anything to blur
what I must endure, what rises and swirls

inside me. Pain is a low-down varmint,
a touch divine, a great equalizer.

pungent

01 Thursday Nov 2018

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Corset cinched. Set your breasts upon a ledge
pressed in lace. Your nipples just visible

but one kiss will bring them over the edge.
Will you pout? Will you dare me to gargle

your cum? Read your clit like braille fat on
my tongue? Half undressed, you writhe, impatient

your folds dripping with anticipation —
for lips to inhale you, breathe your pungent

lust, make you sloppy just thinking about
grinding down the itch in your pubic bone.

It’s where my tongue goes. Why you get fingered.
This is my need to suckle, make you shout

as I quench a thirst as of yet unknown,
feed a hunger yet to be discovered.

Quote

quote unquote

30 Tuesday Oct 2018

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I believe in the flesh and the appetites;
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from;
The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer;
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

Walt Whitman, from, Song of Myself

kakhard

30 Tuesday Oct 2018

Posted by in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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After school I fingered you senseless. Filled
your mouth with more than quarrels over craft.

Left you soppy and brooding with my spilled
seed smeared across your lips. That word, I laughed

at what you called me: “kakhard.” It means witch.
Perhaps. I have blasphemed in the churchyard

of your arse sure enough. Made your clit twitch
with just my stare. Perhaps I am, “kakhard,”

and these dark Armenian arts the spell
that has ensnared you each time the school bell

rings, each time you knock on my door. Each time
kissing turns astonishing and sublime

while I lift the hem of your pleated skirt —
More. Touch me more. Make me hurt. Make me squirt.

Note:
In Armenian, “կախարդ,” is the word for witch.

who

27 Saturday Oct 2018

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I curl my fist inside you feel the slow
wet flow begin. You gnash and thrash and soak

my wrist until your voice is raw, too, though
I still keep it in. At times you mewl, “Choke

me when you fuck me.” At times I do. Lips
sloshing between your hips, your curlicue,

lathered teat: curled clit with spit. Acid trips
don’t last as long as I do down on you

while your spine shivers, mouth O, your haunted
eyes go blind. Few taste this sweet. Few can fit

me as you do. First below. Then above.
Round and around. First the flow, then the flood.

Who owns you? Whose teeth nibble at your clit?
Who taught you that depravity is love?

fusty luggs

20 Saturday Oct 2018

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To hunt for your cunt. To follow your spine
to the shrine of your ass wrapped in knickers.

Depraved. Shaved lips stretch as you recline,
draping heels around my neck. Worshipers

revere their sacred but I just cock-spank
your clit and call it prayer. To soil, defile

first one worships. The soul of all Love’s rank
and vile run riot in me. Will you smile

each time I sheathe myself in your behind?
Pull out to push in, again. Oui, chéri,

your son shall seethe when he sees me buried
balls deep. Call this position, “Gods Enshrined.”

My faith lies in all that’s pervy, curvy,
fusty luggs. Gods phat with children, married.

][][

Note:
“Fusty luggs,” much like, “Venus Observa Feminae,” is an archaic term for tribadism.