Tag Archives: cunnilingus

twice

05 Friday Jun 2020

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In some films, when someone cries out, “I’ll suck
out the poison!” the wound is always here ––

on the ankle. They make their, “cooties! yuck!”
face, so it’s sincere. Snakes never bite near

cocks, ass, underboob. Just the chaste ankle.
I like yelling, “I’ll suck out the poison!”

too –– when we’re out in public. These nipple
biting snakes are bad news when they fasten

their fangs on your inner thigh, neck, G-spot.
Since I’m eager to save you I’ll suck twice

as hard, twice as long. Odd you keep getting
bit when we go out. Does poison run hot

in you now? Others call this sin and vice.
Let them. We both know this is life saving.

harvest

27 Wednesday May 2020

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With laps and droll slurps your harvest glazes
my chin. Chaos is life blood, you claim. No.

Chaos is fitful spasms, moon phases
that leave you to burn. Blood-fire, my psycho

killer, qu’est-ce que c’est, requires controlled burns;
like jazz, like bop, like, “a loo bop a lop

bam boom.” Caramelized, your uterus turns.
I peer over belly and breasts. To stop

would be crass. Cupping your ass in my hands.
Bringing you to my mouth. This is life blood,

indeed. I feed on bam boom. Your harvest,
best friend, expands you. My hunger demands

rough love. Who else has done this for you? Flood
and flame. Chaos and cum. First lick. Last thrust.

under tongues

10 Sunday May 2020

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You long for stranger’s lips on your wet splayed
lips, a mouth on the mouth between your hips.

I yearn to learn each Old World term that made
your Ma squirm. Songs of sighs. Which word still drips

from your Bibi’s thighs, though tyrant English
tried to damn it? Words can be colonized

and then redefined, called sin and banished.
Words for cum, sensuous sucking, clits baptized

under tongues, parted lips. If I sang them
while your baby-phat nectar soaked my tongue

would you be my translator? Forbidden
words, deep, biting, dripping, like the mayhem

found in a poetry slam. – Words you shun;
words that make you blush and gush as one.

lèche-la

15 Sunday Mar 2020

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There is monotonous darkness and heat
under your bed. What adults fear they shun.

They took me away. Now nightmares will eat
you — not like how I ate you, that was fun.

Just why Trots and Cap’n Bill’s adventures
were,“Grand,” but ours were,“Smutty and Unchaste,”

I still don’t know. Was it the sex? Sex blurs
the line, they claim. So I know what you taste

like. Is that a crime outside of Utah?
As if. “Lèche-la,” you sang. What am I but

fable? Lèche-la: now they police even
your make-believe friends. What will you let gnaw

on you? Them or lust? There’s no shame in smut
or lust or hungering to be eaten —

Notes:
Trots and Cap’n Bill were characters created by L. Frank Baum for his Wizard of Oz series. Lèche-la is French for, “lick it,” as in, “lèche-la chatte.”

drizzle

02 Thursday Jan 2020

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Less blindman’s bluff, more soixante-neuf, climax
ached as I sucked the crotch of your blood-splotched

panties, pomegranate drizzle. Soundtracks:
quaff, sip, sup. Soon half a century debauched

will be nothing; like storms sired in your gut,
your stirred cunt, when we parted your sarong.

I’ve lapped up secrets the color of smut:
anathema’s dawn, cthulhu’s spawn, the long-

lipped yawn of menstrual flow. The zodiac
has grown grotesque. Soothsaying holds no bliss.

Soon. Soon I’ll be fifty … in March (hint-hint),
on a Tuesday, your clit-smack the soundtrack

of my day, your lips leaving a blood-kiss
tasting just like copper and peppermint.

scritch

01 Wednesday Jan 2020

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Coïtus interruptus. Spanish oak moss
and cicadas. Chronic heat. Unease deep

in singed Sierra hills. True. That chaos
sex I brought wasn’t fun. Gnawing deep creep

of dusk, faces at the window, the, “scritch,”
of nails unseen on your skin. At long last

you kicked me out. I could sleep with, “the witch,”
you said. Your mom, pure, “bruja,” loved all vast

pleasures elder gods brought. I was neither.
A child of dry heat. Mesquite. Chaotic

sex soon lured you back to lurk, still sullen,
as the witch got lip-lapped. “Voy a venir!”

you could hear your mom shout. Your fingers slick.
Even the creeping dread stopped to listen.

Note:
Bruja means witch and “Voy a venir!” translates into “I’m cumming!” in Spanish.

pane

25 Monday Nov 2019

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Mist moved beyond the tree tops. “Let’s resume,”
you said, guiding me. We’d hid from the snow

after school that day up in your bedroom—-
with your mom downstairs. You bit your pillow,

keeping your groans in. Off in the forest
dead things rattled; a wet dream, all rime wings,

toothy gristle, stirred. Hoarfrost and dark lust
make for some corrupting magic; somethings

good grades can’t save us from. You soaked my palm
as you curled and jerked — letting a touch more

chill in. Chill and conjure. Even your mom,
sensing cold queer power, paused at the door

while frost and nightmare pressed against the pane,
watching you watch me lick you clean again.

venus red

21 Thursday Nov 2019

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After the movie I scratch dried cum from
your dress. I might be a sloppy fuck-toy

but an indiscreet heat made the maelstrom
in your cunt rage. I know that you enjoy

the storms your body makes. “Mama told me
just bad girls do this.” On our second date

your neck bloomed with a venus-red hickey.
On our third your toes curled. Boring and straight

were your classmates. “I’m a storm-witch,” you said.
“I make my cunt typhoon.” No one at school

got you. “They think I’m weird.” I understand.
I felt the Wyrd in you, too; that wild dread

for the forbidden, a greed that’s not cruel,
a thirst for all that’s beyond this wasteland.

NOTE:
One definition of Wyrd is the Teutonic term for Fate. As Beowulf said: “Everyone in this life will go lay themselves down on the bed where Wyrd has decided to nail them.”

swollen

06 Wednesday Nov 2019

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I thirst where you seep. Where others haven’t
touched you. Where you don’t touch yourself either.

I love the wet grace found in cock and cunt,
in cum and kisses. All that flows, lover,

is ours. Bathe your body in river mud.
At night, on the bank, under a full moon,

between your raised hips, feed me your moon-blood.
What your body doesn’t want I’ll take. Cruel

to waste such a gift and deny my thirst.
Who else has stirred such swollen wet passions

in you? You seep like damp honey coating
my tongue. Soon, lick after lick, you will burst

into waves. Drown me. Cum like a fountain’s
geyser. Shake like a quake in the ocean.

tongue

03 Sunday Nov 2019

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Lilith — First Mother, First Lover — you play
roles. Let my tongue find your soul and your toes

will curl deep in the woods. I still search, pray
and call on you. Sometimes I hear echoes

of your pleasure. Sometimes it’s just a cool
light in the green darkness. At the crossroads

your owl took my words. I still think it’s cruel
that you never came, though the complex codes

of your prayers confuse me at times. My grasp
of your Armenian tongue is, “shat vat,”

at best. Perhaps I’ve forgot my own role?
I’m built for faith and pleasure, not grief. Clasp

me to you, love. Spread yourself wide. Now squat
over my face. My tongue will find your soul.

NOTE:
In the Armenian language, the term, “very bad,” is “shat vat,” (շատ վատ).