Tag Archives: blow job

pig roast

23 Wednesday Oct 2013

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What was awkward wasn’t the need, wasn’t
just the will, it was the way that the straight

guy made it clear that he had consented
to this only to fuck your wife. The eight

shots of vodka that the three of you split
should have loosened things up, but no. You both

take a place beside her. He will submit
to her deep throating him down. But he loathes

the thought that he might be forced to kiss you.
Perhaps she’s watched too much porn. Perhaps she’s

blind to the clues. But with your cock in her
mouth and his in her ass she grins at you

both with joy. This is what she wants: boy grease,
cum, sperm, pig roast with two men, two lovers.

overshot

25 Sunday Aug 2013

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dunce1

dunce2

once I overshot from the drunk
that she siphoned off pleasure
from base to tip perhaps
she just liked the word dunce
as if all her students weren’t
young and dumb and full
of cum I sucked her lime
sodden lips tasting queer
tequila, salty, on her rim
and too young to know
what the hell did she
just put in her mouth

nox diva

20 Wednesday Feb 2013

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at the temple in aphrodisias

at the temple in aphrodisias

I am the mildest of creatures, spell-bound,
gossamer, a thorn jutting. The nox diva

inside the mushrooms growing on the mound
where I buried you. First there is nausea,
sweats, my gut turning. Then you open up

inside my skull-bone; a whiskey cactus,
melting. A mushroom is like a polyp;

I’ve found both on you. I turn, like Horace,
into your well-mannered court slave. Ghost slave.

Slave of a ghost. Each time you slide into
my mouth you leave part of yourself behind.

One day I’ll consume you all. Then your grave
will stand empty. I can’t let go of you,

no-no, even if I was so inclined.

* * *

Notes:

Nox diva is my attempt at translating the phrase “night goddess” into Latin.

Horace was one of Rome’s greatest poets, one whom the English poet John Dryden dismissed as “a well-mannered court slave.”

unfit

16 Saturday Feb 2013

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unfit

They say that the cruel one must now depart
at dawn. Come back to bed, love. I’ve been cruel
but not like that. I am shallow. My heart
knows that it will be judged by the jackal
headed god Anubis one day. “Unfit;”
I am sure that will be what I am told.
“Unfit” gets you consumed by vile Ammit,
the soul-eater. Tomorrow I’ll be cold
as a crypt. Tonight, though, I burn. Stay here.
They say you can’t get to heaven depraved.
What’s a bruise? a bite? I’ll mark your flesh mine.
And then what comes between us I will smear
across your face. I don’t care to be saved.
Damnation is also an act divine.

* * *

Note:

Anibus is the jackal-headed god associated with mummification and the afterlife in ancient Egyptian religion.

Ammit is a funerary deity, a female demon in ancient Egypt; part lion, part hippopotamus and part crocodile. Her titles included, “Devourer of the Dead,” “Eater of Hearts” and “Great of Death.” Her job was eating souls judged by Anibus as corrupt.

deathblow

24 Thursday Jan 2013

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There are some ghosts you should never love. Not

that they want your love or that you interest
them, not you; in life they loved their gunshot,
stabbings, those odd marks we find, sinister
proof of some alien design. In life

peasants would cross themselves when they saw her.

They called her La Quintrala: butcher-wife
of old Chile. Even death could not slow
her down. I slept with her once, big mistake.

She was still calling a blowjob, “deathblow,”
and it was. She said, “I’ll make your heart break,”

and she did. “I only fuck you because
you are damned, like me,” she said, and I was.

see dead boy come

21 Monday Jan 2013

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playing with death

Passing through the door, I drift nearby you,
spoon your sleeping body. I love your queer
hunger. You said your mother was Zulu,
taught you how to wield a boar-hunting spear.
“But there’s more than one way to catch a boar,”
you said, sucking my cock deep down your throat.
You were my babysitter, took much more
than my virginity that night. “Devote
your soul to pleasure, call upon shadows
to be your lovers,” you instructed me
as I, on my tip toes, released rainbows
deep in your cunt and across your belly.
Playing with death, you said, “cum in my bum.”
You said, “dead boy cum, I love dead boy cum.”

glory hole

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

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glory hole

You are nude under your clothes. Your perfume
gives you away. Sounds of strangers pissing
brings you to your knees in, please, a mensroom;
one you crept in when no one was looking.
“Do it! Do it!” comes a voice, one, you note,
filled with “baby!” how much you are wanted,
as his alien darkness fills your throat.
Some love their trysts and treachery, lifeblood
that sings. Some don’t. There’s the urban legend
about some bloke who lost more than his soul
and his pride when he had his cock bitten
clean off one Thursday at the glory hole.
Do not believe such tales. The earth-weary
tell these tales. We’re not weary, we’re horny.