I like putting a herbal sleepy-time teabag and a high-octane caffeinated teabag in the same mug and let them fight for dominance.
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19 Tuesday Dec 2017
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18 Monday Dec 2017
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never scorn/ morpheme porn.
fat palm
18 Monday Dec 2017
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anal sex, cum in mayhem, erotic poetry, Gleefully, palm, sonnet
Cum drips from your pretty little asshole,
rimming your cheeks. You shift your hips as I
slowly pull out. Your muscles form an O
where my cock has been; until, with a sigh,
your bud closes, trapping my cum inside.
Such orgasmic haze, when the soul, who fled
returns and we giggle, I let you guide
my hand back. You’re seeping cum. Fingers spread
you wide and you pour. My own sperm, millions
of them, pool in my cupped palm and you lick
my palm clean. I keep putting bits of me
in you. Gleefully. These are good omens.
That’s good. What’s better: there’s nothing cryptic
about ravaging your ass. Gleefully.
dumb bone
17 Sunday Dec 2017
Hunger. Always hunger. Restless. Never
still. The weeping ghost on the other
side of the door. I am elsewhere. Not here
but in need. Bent. Bulging. Dragging this queer
longing about. Hungers need to be fed —
witch-tongue, witch-word, words will do. What you said
about madness, ache, need. What you said. Words.
Your words sate even the dead, craze blizzards,
make dumb bones cum. I heft your words in hand,
finger their whip-like grooves. The world was bland
and then I read you. Now I am frantic,
lust sick. The way the hungry are. Hard, slick
with need. The sound that comes to you, a ghost
on the wind. You can feel this frenzy, almost.
quote unquote
16 Saturday Dec 2017
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It’s all good/ It’s all praise
RUMI
zed
16 Saturday Dec 2017
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Z. Like the Weegies say, “yoo’re feckin’ zed.”
Which is true. I am obnoxious, bratty.
All these chemicals. Havoc in my head.
Scrimshaw. Cuts. Cairn. Marker. What we bury
when we bury ourselves. This doesn’t work
well. You say that I’m better, like Delphi.
Visions that I don’t get. Let the gods smirk
when my name comes up. I shall have your thigh
around my hips, wrecking you. Even Pan
wept. For all my faults you let me bury
myself in you. No regrets. Just more praise.
Just. You are all. Just. We want a human
that we can call our own. And I, banshee,
death in the last name, wail: love born of haze.
quote unquote
15 Friday Dec 2017
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Kindness is an even distribution of dust.
Let me be finally without you,
As after a fire, I will be out,
Naturally, breathing, be kind
To myself, wrap my body up
In somebody else’s skin, untouched.
May Wong, from A Bad Girl’s Book of Animals
night seed
15 Friday Dec 2017
Tags
fill the sky, jaguar's toothed song, night seed, poem, Poetry, pony-bird, sky scars, sonnet, the sky, what you need
Empire. Incubus. Lust. The sky came through
and the window stood open. You were not
here, no. You were there; like how the crow flew.
Like the crow caught. Like how the sky was caught
at the foot of my bed. It squawked, rustled,
beat wings as I wrapped my arms around air.
Sky loves us all; but who loves its muscled
grace? When was the last time that you were bare
naked before it? Can you name its scars?
Can you name its need? Sky, love, pony-bird.
You’re still a lost empire. You’re still night seed.
My bed is wide. I swear by the jaguar’s
toothed song that I know why you have hungered.
Love, I know how to satisfy your need.
gospel
14 Thursday Dec 2017
I like you best with your face dripping cum.
It’s my form of prayer to you. A godhead
splitting your ass, ruining your rectum
until I roll you over on the bed
and you taste your own tart-funk on my cock
as it fills your throat. There’s nothing soothing
about prayer, just the sudden thrill and shock
when I pull out, my orgasm drenching
your cheeks, nose, eyelashes. If seminal
solutions are sacred then my temple
is your ass. Piercing it is like glory,
something sacred and cum proof of faithful
worship. Balls deep in you is like gospel.
Heathen, once more you and I are holy.
hothouse
13 Wednesday Dec 2017
Tags
comeuppance, drench the floor, erotic poetry, hothouse, poem, RUIN, sonnet, spanking
Spankings seem cruel. But when you bend to bare
yourself to me with your ink—one word stamped
in black, “RUIN,” above your derriere—
when you drape yourself on my knee, thighs clamped
tight with tension; then, yes, this will be cruel.
So rough. So sudden. That first splitting stroke.
You know that I find whining sobs shameful;
only kids caterwaul. Drench the floor, soak
your thighs, if you must, but keep count of each
welted slash left upon your upturned ass.
Correction’s hothouse. Discipline’s garden.
Pain blooms as divine comeuppance; this bleach-
in-the-eyes pain, add a-touch-of-teargas —
that’s why you’re here, you and your prayer: RUIN.
memories of my ghost sista 