Tag Archives: anal sex

grisly sex

17 Sunday Nov 2019

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For my birthday I give you a butt-plug.
Rubber and wide. “It’ll stretch you open,”

I say, as you hunker down on the rug,
pulling off panties stained with my semen.

All day at school you wear it, feel it throb
deeper each time you sit down. After class,

after your clit’s havoc, you want macabre,
grisly sex. I’ll pull the plug from your ass,

I’ll leave a gaped dark O where my cock shall
go … now it’ll fit when I press myself in

you. I want to fill you … full. “Naaa,” you say.
“What?” “Sodomy is eur sin: naa anal.”

That was that. Still, shame that for me it’s sin
that keeps sex from being a straight cliché.

Note:
This is a re-write of a poem that I had written a couple of months ago. I know not everyone enjoys anal sex but I will admit the reaction I got surprised me: “Ahm naa ganin tuh wark aroond wi’ sum metal up me arse.” I had never realized she spoke with such a thick Geordie (Newcastle) accent.

wet with spots

21 Thursday Mar 2019

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On the playground kids sang, “girls with glasses
love it in their asses,” while sugar cubes

melted on our tongues. We’d skipped our classes
to hide under the jungle-gym. Your pubes

poked out from either side of your panties
wet with spots blossoming in the cotton.

When the acid hit us our high school sleaze
cranked to eleven. Some say that children

should be obscene and not heard. “¡Dámelo
por culo!” Your glasses slipped to your nose

as I buried myself balls-deep. My, O!
your, ¡Ai! Back before we learned of sorrow

and our beastly bent acid-fueled shadows
fused. Back when your afro glowed all halo.

hoarfrost

25 Monday Feb 2019

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After school the god Frost loves us naked —
loves how we kiss, our blood filled with fire-juice

flames. With our snowsuits peeled down, your rosebud
peeled wide, with your lewd laugh, the one you use

when you’re on the edge, with the fogged-up glass,
Mad Bad Winter watching, with your groan, “nein,

nicht mein arse,” but it’s often in your ass,
often in your mom’s shed filled with old pine

smoke as you stare without blinking. Gods lost
still love us, love our fire-juice, love the shock

of flame. Frost loves us even though my cum
doesn’t splatter plumbed, feathered, like hoarfrost

on glass. — That’s why it stares as we walk,
hand in hand, through dingy sleet and dusky slum.

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.

fatty batty

13 Thursday Sep 2018

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Naked under your oil-soaked overalls,
I lead you behind the filling station

to peel down, press you up against the wall’s
rough brick. You love ball bearings, oil, engine

grease, rough fucks while your husband drunkenly
snores next door. We use one of his condoms.

“A bit tight,” I admit as the frothy
acid begins to drip. When your cunt spasms

I shift to your “fatty batty” — molten
baby bhang and blue cheer. Your dreads hang down.

Your eyes closed. Your daughter will be home soon.
There’s an engine needing your attention.

Just now, though, you’re shaking, all pleasure-frown,
all unquenchable, all Saint Kitts monsoon.

milked

23 Monday Jul 2018

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To milk. To think of Lilith, her nine laws,

as I ream your ring. Moon-cycle, moon-horns,

 

moon-kin. She loves pilgrims, slattern outlaws,

butt sluts. With lubed tongue, with cum that adorns

 

Heaven. Haven. Your ass spread wide like so.

“Pervy,” you lament. “You’ve made me a perv

 

with my bum.” The other secret grotto.

We name it, then we pray to it. Fat curve

 

of cock swallowed up, shaft consumed. Clenched tight,

you’ve milked with your bowels. A prayer for Her —

 

Mother of Outcasts, Lady of the Dune,

Vagabond’s Love — blessed be and Her queer light

 

in this excess, in your ass, the other

grotto — Eden: laid waste by a typhoon.

fireworm

17 Tuesday Jul 2018

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Look at this mess. Leaning forward to lube

up your ass. Ease the curved plug in as you

 

kneel. Feel you shift around it. The flashcube

on the Instamatic. The Siouxsie Sioux

 

8-track. The neon dashiki. The joke

about finding fireworms in the cherry

 

pit. I still don’t get it. We’re friends who stroke

and pet and play. Friends who love the dandy,

 

dandyess, dandizette … Fret with the heart

string, it is always messy. You shall wear

 

that plug, lodged in the birthplace of fragrance,

within the core of your flesh. There is art

 

and craft to this; filling you like fool’s prayer,

dunce’s grace, like all that is not absence.

noontide

28 Monday May 2018

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Then I walk in. You are their Mama Bear;
Lyric’s cock hard in your hand, Karma’s cunt

spread wide under your tongue. Boys with longhair,
girls in combat boots; when you are pregnant

and huge like this your sex drive runs amok.
Noontide blunts. Bourbon. Gaping of your ass

as you slowly reach around your stomach
to guide Lyric in. I watch the blue-glass

veins, wide shaft, fatty tip vanish inside.
Who would ask for this when we feel pure want

consume us? When our lethargic passion
stirs? There is hell in not being denied,

in not saying no when you’re their mad aunt,
and these two, your baby sister’s children.

where it was

03 Wednesday Jan 2018

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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.

fat palm

18 Monday Dec 2017

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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.