mad sea

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There is always more to love. For you love
is a koi gliding through water: content,

at peace, blest. For me it is the clawed glove
piercing fish-flesh, feeling you wriggle, bent

double. Come, cum, pray: intense, phrenetic,
like a pretty piece of flesh — or a crushed

chrysanthemum — or the gothic chronic
that I roll for you. You have blushed and blushed,

swimming in circles. I do not love pools.
I love the mad sea. I love the forces

that no soul can control. Pierced and hoisted
high, fish, you crash back down. Seas have no rules.

Gape and gasp as all inside you gushes,
geysers, squirts such thick chaotic fluid.

scratch

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I’ll give you the, “root of suffering.” That
and the damn shag carpet will leave fresh rug burns

on your chin, your ass, over each knee, brat.
Sure, they’ll fade soon, from tart’s rosette to slattern’s

brown. The scabs will follow, crusty as lace.
And all around your precious throat, bruises,

both blue and yellow, will mark an embrace
that’ll match my fingertips. There aren’t sutras

for such love; but since all flesh aches, which leads
to such base urges, Buddha will know the itch

that we scratch. Under the shower steam flows
up our backs, soothing our cocaine nosebleeds,

letting heat soak into each scar, each stitch,
burning away all remorse, all sorrows.

Notes:
The basis of Buddhism is a doctrine known as the Four Noble Truths. A loose interpretation of the First Truth is that all life is suffering, pain, and misery. The Second says that the root of this suffering is caused by cravings and desire … at that point I stopped reading.

where it was

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“Wo es war,” where it was leads us to it.
There were days as if it were not hunkered

in the distance; from gangrened to frostbit
to flesh in the cold. Where it was. Absurd

to think of it: beastly, feral, depraved.
Absurd to follow. “Wo es war,” and yet,

I do. There be dragons; all that it craved,
ravings. I crave for you: take the blade, whet

stone, carve such German words on my neither.
Twist me this where it was hunkered. Our tryst

begged. I follow. I rave. May memory
be my only brood; the past such future.

You lay with your ass in the air — I kissed,
you clenched; puckered again, I thought, briefly.

memphis levee

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Of course this is tenderness. Of course, this
shall hurt — tenderly. Memphis’ levee

cracked, as levees do. From pressure. The hiss
of sea, two fingers just so, that achy

need to let go. Let those fingers in. Deep.
But you said no. No. Let the pressure build.

Then, not yet. Then, fuck me. Let waters seep
around stones gone cracked, stone left unfulfilled.

Sea is passage yet you’ll find it a vast,
rough fuck. You, precious stone, go splinter-splish

this way and this. Tender be tide, we’re told,
all which sucks feeds, all which flows needs, aghast

that such levee broke. Old sea was brutish,
nothing rose from the depth, child, nothing rolled.

fat palm

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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.