Tag Archives: cunnilingus

swale

14 Wednesday Nov 2018

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Dog days ablaze. Near the school bus, sleazy
grass stains, both your skirts were pulled to your hips.

The nun said that this was a sin: the three
of us kissing, fingering phat girl-lips,

eyes glazed. Quinn was mellow and mild. You: mad
with haze. And me? Still don’t know who I am.

Say that Love led us to this sad triad,
nervous threesome. Besties. Say that to damn

one’s soul is to give up to temptation.
Like this? We gave up everything, like so.

Perhaps we were bewitched and bedeviled —
Quinn came, you came, I came — for where lichen

and moss clung to the swale’s grass the shadow
of the nun fell on us and hell followed.

pungent

01 Thursday Nov 2018

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Corset cinched. Set your breasts upon a ledge
pressed in lace. Your nipples just visible

but one kiss will bring them over the edge.
Will you pout? Will you dare me to gargle

your cum? Read your clit like braille fat on
my tongue? Half undressed, you writhe, impatient

your folds dripping with anticipation —
for lips to inhale you, breathe your pungent

lust, make you sloppy just thinking about
grinding down the itch in your pubic bone.

It’s where my tongue goes. Why you get fingered.
This is my need to suckle, make you shout

as I quench a thirst as of yet unknown,
feed a hunger yet to be discovered.

who

27 Saturday Oct 2018

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I curl my fist inside you feel the slow
wet flow begin. You gnash and thrash and soak

my wrist until your voice is raw, too, though
I still keep it in. At times you mewl, “Choke

me when you fuck me.” At times I do. Lips
sloshing between your hips, your curlicue,

lathered teat: curled clit with spit. Acid trips
don’t last as long as I do down on you

while your spine shivers, mouth O, your haunted
eyes go blind. Few taste this sweet. Few can fit

me as you do. First below. Then above.
Round and around. First the flow, then the flood.

Who owns you? Whose teeth nibble at your clit?
Who taught you that depravity is love?

giddy

03 Wednesday Oct 2018

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Kitten, run your fingers along my jaw.
This is an appetizer — The French say,

“Amuse Bouche,” mouth pleasure. As in: raw
ginger pushed inside, then sucked out. Foreplay

all day. Pleasure spent with kisses. Tracing
the seam of your jeans. I can taste your clit

through the wet fabric. A touch of teasing,
knowing that I’ll break you. You will submit.

Not now. Soon. Now your tongue is greedily
in my mouth, wrists straining against silken

ties, eyes wide. Each kiss hints at bukkake,
your face soaked with joy, giddy and drunken

licking my thumb clean from where I buried
it in you, all spit-glazed and cum-honeyed.

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.

murk

08 Saturday Sep 2018

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Fruitcake and sludge love, a love-smudge, dried crust

crusting my nails. Few ghosts come back with pride,

 

with tales. On our last shift you were tied, trussed,

crotch-rope spreading your pudendal cleft wide

 

under your scrubs. Release, in all its forms:

from me, from work, that cum-sticky murk smell,

 

cirque-slush fog. I know how a nurse transforms

with bliss of rope kissing her, “pumpkin shell.”

 

Bad joke. “Peter, eat her.” Very well: last

kiss, last shift through your cottons. Moist as cake,

 

as fruit — as the mistake we want and yearn

for, crusts our nails. In the future our past

 

falls from us — Call this the sort of mistake

that leaves behind only ghost-tales, rope-burn.

monstrous

09 Thursday Aug 2018

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Sucking on the onyx, the molasses,

in you, while our mothers in the kitchen

 

chortle and your country-hedge of brat fuzz

tickles my nose. Wets my chin. If we’re kin

 

we’re a queer kin. There’s hissing in your hair.

We’re snakes and snake charmers. There is nothing

 

here to vex the tongue. Clit and cock, prayer

fat with blood. An itch. Your fingers moving,

 

pulling me in. Perhaps they’ll notice grass

stains, flushed cheeks, itches itched. You’re serpentine

 

just now, spine arched, hips buckled, monstrous

with need. Sublime in the morning sun. Crass

 

with cum, with becoming love’s lore. Your seam

split wide, your hedge soaked. Perhaps they’ll notice.

hourglass

13 Friday Jul 2018

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Thin are the night-skirts and thin was your skirt

you’d meet me at the door in. Thin, short hem,

 

held in place with a pin. Coffee, yogurt,

chronic; breakfast out back. There was mayhem

 

in your breast as I brushed your breast, bending

down to take a dish. In the basement

 

with the worn-down washing machine running

I could feel it vibrate through your splayed cunt,

 

up through your hourglass curves, your unsurpassed

ass, your double belly. It’s a Tuesday

 

and may all our Tuesdays begin like this,

with cum. Let the neighbors be aghast,

 

this is not for them. Let us stretch our foreplay

out all day long. Desire calls and we kiss.

dishabille

06 Friday Jul 2018

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Kindness is a strange aphrodisiac —

You show me shocking blue bruises, stitches

 

and a thick tattoo on your lower back

that reads: Baby Mac Sappho. Your nieces

 

come to visit. Your sister frowns at me.

I look like trouble. The hospital room

 

is small. I wait in the hall as you three

chat but as soon as they’re gone we resume

 

where we left off: your gown pulled to your breasts,

thighs wrapped around my neck. Your dishabille

 

lips, the moon-stud in your clitoral hood,

the way you spurt. All week you had no guests.

 

That hurt. But this kindness, you say, this feels

good. Just good? I ask. Heh, cuntablunt good.

fat palm

27 Monday Nov 2017

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Night wind in the trees; though I never heard
that din back then. Just your mewling quim qualm

cries with each flushed thrust while your lips puckered
and dripped. To pull back. To mark with fat palm,

the smack, the sting. Onto days; felt your burn
on my fingertips, melted deep in my hair —

I walked for days glazed in a world of stern
scorn, ghast hush, torn crush. You’re all of despair.

I of need. How do you say? High maintenance?
High greed? Come back, love. Return like clockwork.

Or, soul, don’t. Gods do not love indulgence,
just the noise that you give when your hips jerk.

We are nights with wind and trees and ozone.
We are the low crackle that breaks the stone.