Tag Archives: anal sex

epique

18 Thursday Jun 2020

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I stop tongue-fucking your cunt as you roll
over, gasp in pain, pressing your stomach

and breasts to frozen metal. Your asshole
gapes wide as my cock pushes in. “The fuck–?”

you gulp, amazed we’re in a war machine.
Wintertime in Muskegon is the worst,

but it does have an ancient submarine
no one visits. I adore love in cursed

places haunted with pain, where fear lingers
mixed with hints of petrol fumes, blood and brine.

In this frozen coffin the only heat
comes in floods: cock and cunt, kissing fingers.

Calling you love, calling you, “I, me, mine.”
Calling our thrills, “epique,” our deaths, “petite.”

][][

Notes:
I’ve written about this museum before, but in the lake-side city of Muskegon (about an hour from where I live) is the WW2-era submarine, USS Silversides. Since winters in Michigan are brutal and it’s difficult to heat an all-metal ship, visiting on those long dark frozen days of the year tend to be a touch frosty.

debauch

10 Wednesday Jun 2020

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Prayer, I say. Porn, you counter, reaching out
to rub my cock against your cheek. Disgust,

you gasp, down on all fours. I’m your devout
priest, my cock pressed tight against your tightest

hole. So slow, being filled with such spirit,
inch by inch. You arch your back and struggle

to breathe as I press deeper, as I split
you wide. Your dad said only a devil

would want all these wet shocks and aftershocks,
would want to moan, mew and writhe as I stir

inside you … like the porn you hate to watch
when we watch it together. Your dad mocks

what he doesn’t know. For me this is prayer;
your high priest when we praise and we debauch.

balampalampam

30 Saturday May 2020

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Behind the closed garage doors engine oil
fumes, touch of ganja, dust on the wainscot,

on a workbench piled high with odd gargoyle
lumps, unfinished tasks your husband forgot

about years ago. We’ve come here to play;
the grease spot on the floor mirrors our own

messy thoughts. Hair in rollers, negligee
cast down, my cock buried in the well-known,

well-loved well of your balampalampam.
This is, “kunou-monou;” what the obeah

vow, old-school sodomy. At sixty-five
strokes you shout, at ninety-five you melt. “Damn,

boy-boy,” you groan. “Damn, cum in me.” If we
sin its through love. If we love we survive.

][][

Notes:
I use Barbados slang in this poem. Balampalampam means a very large ass. Kunou-monou is a bewitching spell. Obeah is witchcraft.

fanny

10 Friday Apr 2020

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“Hurts,” you hiss, hoping the moppets won’t hear.
They sleep next to us. This is not new pain,

strange and supreme; just stretching, what Shakespeare
called, “the full length of my wit,” like cocaine

and all of our needs, deep in the, “marl’d earth,”
of your fanny. It’s the expansiveness––

what fear and endorphins bring, this rebirth
between gasping breath, dark realm of Eros

––that I adore. Like wit, not everyone
gets it; my sliding down, squeezing balls deep

in you. I’m a hungry ghost. You’re famished
for love, all love; even as your children

wake, to stare at you twisting in your sleep––
blind that one more time you’re being ravished.

delish

28 Saturday Mar 2020

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Money, cum bunny, is what we don’t have,
but I’ll show you just what two fingers worth

of your drizzle buys. KY jelly salve;
redolence mixed with that delish wet earth

skunk funk as my cock moves from the inside
of your gaped asshole to your step son’s mouth

and back again. Hogtied but not denied.
The rump’s phat pump. Tura Satana’s South

Side Ass Wreckers, her Anal Delinquents.
Who needs trash cash for that? Give me an itch

sweet like jam – violet with jelly. We awe
ancestors … raze progeny. Our fragrance

is thick with booty, not boodle; not rich
snitchs playing at being dope outlaw.

jaeniesh

30 Monday Dec 2019

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Possess, as I possessed that demon, bits
of flesh needing love. In letters I sound

like an arse, I know, writing about clits,
cocks and cunts, and (what did McKay say?) drowned

Harlem girls on drowned Harlem streets. More, please.
Jaeniesh called me infernal. I still grin.

What does a demon know about Hades
but that it’s home? I met her and moved in.

She screamed storms and then flooded with my cock
in her arse. “My mind bursts each time I cum.”

You did not want that but she did. “Please, more,”
Jaeniesh hissed. Other called this smut and schlock,

but they’ve never been possessed with Harlem
of souls, with bliss, with libertine rancor.

Note:
Claude McKay (1889-1948) was one of the key figures in the Harlem Renaissance of the 1930s. He wrote, “Adventure-seasoned and storm-buffeted,/ I shun all signs of anchorage, because/ The zest of life exceeds the bound of laws.”

vulgar

27 Friday Dec 2019

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Magic lies in sodomy, you’ll find out
after babysitting. Brute! you laugh in

the back seat. Windows fog. I pause, about
to push in. This is rough vulgar Latin.

It’s what the ancients praised. It’s what your dad
declared sin. Like Sappho, we’re misquoted

and bi as fuck. I’ve sucked your sublime, mad
for your feral flow. You’ve deep-throated

my tusk, slathered up this load-bearing shaft.
After prom we were all claws and cogs. Brute!

you called me; your cum, my root. Now I pause.
Magic is dark, savage. Last time you laughed

at my witchcraft. Now? Deep, you say. Your root,
your tusk, I want to love this. Give me cause.

unmasked

22 Sunday Dec 2019

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“Fairy tales and sex shouldn’t hurt,” you say.
“Except when I want them to.” True. Except

when I read to you tales from that ballet
of the Snow Queen and the Nutcracker kept

with her in bed. Tales that turn your requests
toward the need for my flesh. “Press it into

me,” hands pushing your bra over your breasts
and your low-down moan, “split my ass in two,”

as I redden your face … my cock engorged
in your throat. “Love me, kiss me, choke me, fuck

me,” you hiss. Unmasked the best fairy tales
reflect what scares us, like fever dreams forged

in what we refuse. Embrace love’s havoc.
Embrace all that rips away our veils.

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.