Tag Archives: blow job

ooze

28 Monday Jan 2019

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Tender? I make a poor first fruit. Green shoots
scarred to buggerclaw. You fret with kissing.

I with the bruise left when you knelt, peach fruit’s
spread. I gripped your hair in a knot, basting

down your throat. You tell of picnics, fat bees
droning, spring-time’s fete. I of back seats parked

in vile parking lots; two beasts of pain, grease,
cum, while a cop taps on the hood. I’m marked

to be broken. You’ll break me. Not ribald,
not curt, but tender. If redemption comes

in a kiss, in nothing more, then we’re doomed
since I ruined your faith, your bee-dazzled

glade. — You bit down on what felt like spasms
that burst inside: love that oozed, that mushroomed.

perked

24 Thursday Jan 2019

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I taste of mud, pert meat, the moon’s eclipse;
being born still and cold until Lilith

breathed life into me, wrote the word, “Emeth,”
on a stone and placed it between my lips.

I still shimmer as I pass through heated air,
though my lisp anchors me here. One day soon

you’ll kiss me and taste the wasteland’s dark moon
while on your knees, while tonguing my curled hair.

Lockjaw and spittle. “Lilith’s Pet,” you said,
staring as your nipples perked. Like footprints

trampled in red mud, in blood, my kiss shall
leave its mark, tell you that I was born dead

in dearth and plague. I want to see you wince
taking me in, like sin’s gin, raw’s mescal.

][][

NOTE:
According to Jewish folklore, Judah Loew ben Bezalel (a 16th-century rabbi of Prague) created the automatonic Golem by shaping it from river mud and writing the word, “Emeth,” meaning truth, on its forehead.

off the lost coast headlands

17 Thursday Jan 2019

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Strong winds, then squalls. Rain scooting over sea
while fog swallows me up, leaves me lagooned,

warped in wild-haired gray. The split-plank jetty
groans in the storm. I mean to be marooned

here, too. Waves, billow daughters, have promised
to have me one last time. They care nothing

for man-made gods, tedious laws. Their lust
is the sea’s — pure as fucking and drowning,

rough faith. You should be here. The sea has no
use for cum, not like you — streaks splashed hardcore

on your cheeks. What waves want is warmth, the spark
that moves love, moves my flesh like tide, lust’s flow.

I’ve been swallowed by you just once before —
now I’ll leave my heat mixed with rain-stained dark.

curs

12 Wednesday Dec 2018

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Foul and depraved. Some might say, bestial.
A hint of skull-duggery. A slap dash

of skull-fuckery. That nightmare: jackal-
headed ghast with a touch of cock, a splash

of cum, one who makes your nipples pucker
pushing six– ten– twelve inches down your throat.

Haven’t thought of that fiend with a swagger
in years. Yesterday your sister’s buck-goat

eyed you with lust. Today it was the curs
next door. Awake or asleep you’re crudely

used. Some say that we do this on purpose,
so that naughty thoughts might make us monsters.

Grace comes when we admit that we’re horny.
Denying that is what’s monstrous.

thickset

23 Thursday Aug 2018

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Not that bent field stone, slick with dew, jasmine,

chicory — there are gods of those fields, scant

 

hairy things who watch you squat and piss in

the green flax. I wish to know what the ant

 

and the bee see in such jewel-weed. Not

that plush spot plump between your collar bones.

 

Not bone or field stone, not odd god, fleshpot

or urge (there is always an urge) that groans

 

thickset, clover seed to plant root in you.

Open your mouth. Root seed and suck, inhale.

 

Simple as not gagging. The way you pass

through a pallid field turned bronze. What shall spew

 

from me shall dribble down your chin, a pale

trail, a craving, splash, dew-dropping the grass.

shushing-slush

20 Monday Aug 2018

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Gushing-gust. Rammed, slammed, damned as I can slow

downward thrust. From above. From such thick stem

 

lusting-lust heat, then seed. Round cheeks aglow.

Round chin in shambles with spit, cum and phlegm.

 

Bodies are round. Muscles are a myth. No

sinew, no bones, just bliss. Just lunacy —

 

that “rave” in crave. That moan quake. That widow

maker. Fat stem in quim. In cosh. In glee

 

as I plumb the depth of your throat. Convulse.

Gag. Try to stand up. “Back to your knees, cur.”

 

This is a game. I play to win because

you play to lose. To be used on impulse

 

with a thrusting-trust. — Fuck like a centaur.

Cum like a sphinx. Without grace. Without pause.

suffused

20 Friday Jul 2018

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Dark love: filling your throat up to the balls.

This, too, is romance. Hands pulling, clenched in

 

your hair. Call it rough. Call it crude. Fuck-dolls

and archangels whimper at our work. Sin,

 

good and proper, they’d call this. Cum and drool

cascade down your chin. You grin. I trust you.

 

You trust me. Other love lives are cesspools

of hurt. To spread your ass wide. To corkscrew

 

into you with head thrown back, with throat bared.

Others moan of lives lived without passion

 

but you quiver when that word is uttered.

You’ve taken what nirvana offered.

 

Suffused with such dark love our souls open,

reverberate with wonder — we’re well paired.

gospel

14 Thursday Dec 2017

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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.

bastard’s freak

18 Saturday Nov 2017

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Arse’s trickster; Lather maker; Rude root.
You say cocks are symbols of devotion,

godhood, rebirth; like you’re the first to put
the “erection” back in resurrection.

Knacker bone; Billy-me-nag; Love’s horsewhip.
First strip away myths, all the begetting,

its use as a weapon, male ego; strip
it bare and what’s there? 8-inches … pulsing.

Leather stretcher; Jockey’s pride; Bastard’s freak.
Some days I can say, “Brother, your beauty

haunts me.” Give me those days without bullshit
crafted to glory in this queer physique —

days where I can leave your face soaked, splotchy,
cum-streaked, where you hold out your palm and spit.

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.