Tag Archives: conversations with imaginary sisters

complex

29 Wednesday Jul 2020

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Sometimes it’s simple; the way your nipples
grow hard at the thought of soul-damning sex

with my cock in your throat. Face flushed, nostrils
flared; still you choke. Other times it’s complex.

When I cum on your face gods run amok,
turn odd, lecherous as any bar fly ––

Faith is as messy as this facial-fuck
that left you blinking in bloodshot, pinkeye

surprise. There’s other metaphors but they
don’t please; like in your patriarchal

faith: “the Sons of Heaven begat Daughters
of Man.” If all acts lead to the source pray

with me. There is awe when we both tremble
and cum; like fools, like divine messengers.

enthralls

09 Thursday Jul 2020

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After class you lingered, interested if
I’d help with your homework on pro-sex

feminism? –– back home? –– over a spliff
and witch wine? Liberation is complex.

You peeled out of your dress. We fucked; ragdolls
smeared with cum. Sexual freedom is rare ––

but we have choices –– and lust that enthralls;
lust that saves radical change from nightmare.

Affair without nightmare. Broken fuck toys
healing. “No, here,” you say, guiding my cock

to your ass’ gaped O –– “Make it vulgar.”
Vulgar pleases. We make fuck-slushy noise.

We laugh. Others will call this porn and schlock.
This bliss is what others want to censure.

venom

22 Monday Jun 2020

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“But how?” you hiss. How? Your split-flower swells
purple with my tongue in it. How you curve,

grip the sheets, come undone. How hunger spells
leave me famished. I could lap at each nerve

in your clit, leave you both fazed and flayed, slow
ravage –– no? Yes. I’d still devour your heart.

Still lick you away until your ego
dissolves, your mind goes blank and the gods start

buzzing in you. The point of this poem
isn’t that I can, but that I will. Juice

and sauce and sprinkle. “I’m a slutty brat,”
you hiss. Yes, we know. The only venom

in my tongue is what I say to seduce
you. My cum chum, pussy willow, cunt cat.

viscid

17 Wednesday Jun 2020

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Lame, tame and meek were all that those drudges
that you called Doms could dream up. “Make rules/

Break rules/ Get Spanked,” is what everybody does.
Psychoplasm miscreants need more. “Fools,

you still have teeth,” I jeered, once the acid
kicked in. You were trippin’ balls. All cunning

stunts need are hints at the bloody, viscid
ecstasy that I’ll take at correcting

your flaws. I place pliers, bone saw, hammer
in front of you. Yokes and ropes are common.

You could stand up. You could say no. Instead
you squirm, disturbed. This torture is hunger

for pain withheld, for doors few can open,
for trust that this is love, too; love and dread.

soweto blues

28 Thursday May 2020

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“Bibi,” was all the Swahili that your
grandchild knew. Here, in Babylon, married

to a banker, you liked it bent over:
slow and hard and deep. Our weekly trysts freed

you from a deranged world where, “Soweto
Blues,” was just a song. At fourteen I had

no words for it, but deep and hard and slow
made your hips shake, made you cry, made your sad

eyes flood. Bibi, you moaned but at fourteen
your pain and pleasure all sounded like grief.

Even now I hear, “Soweto,” and hear
you cry as you came, pressing me between

cum-curled pubes. If that was joy it was brief
in a deranged world euphoric for fear.

Notes:
Soweto Blues is a protest song, sung by Miriam Makeba, about the 1976 children’s Soweto Uprising and police brutality that left over 170 protesters dead.