kakhard

30 Tuesday Oct 2018

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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.

evermore

08 Monday Oct 2018

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So much repetition. You think I’m crass
what I do to your ass, each time I come

over. “That’s frowned on?” If I can’t trespass
why show up? You’ve been wearing my cum,

like cheap mascara, all day. — Now I frown:
“Not foul enough?” If your child could see you

right now, would she die of shame? Your nightgown
has. Each time puddles form and that funk-zoo

fuck-beast spice fills the room. How to explain
away this bruise? Those nail marks? That hickey?

Here I am, once more, knocking on your door,
“to fuck your shit up.” To spoil you with pain,

that drug of unnatural potency,
always in bad taste. Evermore hardcore.

tension

06 Saturday Oct 2018

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Tension all day. Not drug addled shakes. Not
that coy, mad disquiet soothed, by and by,

from an end of an orgasm. I’m caught
between jitter and soul’s strain. A horsefly

on an ass’s fat haunch. I feel friction
tug at the red thread of my fate. Lewdest

of love: sin. It’s how Sade’s lust has eaten
me brunt. Me grin. Then, am I a sadist?

¡Ai! to myself. — Someone has ridden me
hard. Not who, but what. Something. Some damn thing

from the graveyard where I pray has ridden
me last night. Now I’m vexed. Now I worry

how to cleanse the tension that the dead bring
when you’ve finally got their attention.

furies

04 Thursday Oct 2018

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I, too, can’t sleep. I, too, dress in dark heat
and take a walk. Somewhere a jukebox croons.

Somewhere two kids fumble in the backseat
of her daddy’s clunker. Rain soon. Monsoons.

I love those kind of hurried fucks. Hoping
you won’t get caught. Hoping the seat won’t smell

of cum after. But … that need. Me needing
you. I can taste you in the air. Motel

neon. Passing cars. I can taste your need
all the way out here. How do people sleep

when such furies run through them? That low ache.
The sky’s violent passion. Love gone frenzied.

Scent of a wounded night. I walk, knee-deep
in lust. Drops fall but the heat doesn’t break.

giddy

03 Wednesday Oct 2018

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Kitten, run your fingers along my jaw.
This is an appetizer — The French say,

“Amuse Bouche,” mouth pleasure. As in: raw
ginger pushed inside, then sucked out. Foreplay

all day. Pleasure spent with kisses. Tracing
the seam of your jeans. I can taste your clit

through the wet fabric. A touch of teasing,
knowing that I’ll break you. You will submit.

Not now. Soon. Now your tongue is greedily
in my mouth, wrists straining against silken

ties, eyes wide. Each kiss hints at bukkake,
your face soaked with joy, giddy and drunken

licking my thumb clean from where I buried
it in you, all spit-glazed and cum-honeyed.

honey-suckled

27 Thursday Sep 2018

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Bent like so — her wet, bushy cunt is just
beyond the reach of your mouth. My tongue swirls

against your hard bud. Swirl, twirl then a thrust,
sucking your skin in. You grind. You cowgirl

my chin. With two fingers quaver you spread
her, run them back and forth, sink them in, twist,

curl. I’m cock-slapping your clit. Your forehead
is slick from where she rested as you kissed,

honey-suckled her, tempest in your throat.
Honey-blossom, passion is so fragile

in our loneliness. Cashed out blunt, wineglass,
a line of poetry that you misquote —

It’s all good. You smile as you make her mewl.
I smile as I grind away in your ass.