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.

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