Tag Archives: cunnilingus

itch

01 Tuesday Sep 2026

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“I’m a big fat mama, got the meat shakin’ on my bones/ And every time I shake, some skinny gal loses her home” ~ Ida Cox (1939)

“Hurry up and crone!” you groan, menstrual cramps

being what they are. Change been a long time

comin’ in this world of tramp stamps and vamps.

Mental fog and fatigue. “This itch makes playtime

kinda…,” you confess. Kinda? What flows floods.

What floods transcends. The lips at the center

where the tongue slides in. Cum thick like the muds

of hell. Lolly gagging. Toe curling. Whir

and blur and… “gag me, Lolly.” Neighbors wag;

I wolf, you howl. Quake peaks. Nip slips. Blood claws.

Flash floods. Mudslide mustache. Rag ride you

home. Slag? No. Itch in witch and hag in shag.

There is no bat mitzvah for menopause.

So, dear heart, this will bloody have to do.

dearth

21 Friday Aug 2026

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The muse, which is to say, all these taboos.

She bop. Shave ’em dry. “Just a little bit

of juice/ keeps him in line.” If these are blues

they’re the sloppy kind. Fit for a misfit

pervert rinse, perhaps. Any damn long song

that longs that gone, that wrong, and still wants more,

is dearth the trance. Any thing marred and long

from pain and cocaine, muse. Your bedroom floor

took our abuse blues. Little bit of juice

sung down low. “No, chow down/ on my downtown,

goy.” Fit for a squirt, I’ll blurt, from between

your thighs. Croons tunes, titties. “Juice will seduce.”

“Go south and get me some more.” “Cum and drown

me” ————–The scratch of a needle drop, I mean.

silt

16 Sunday Aug 2026

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Tongue tapped. Tasted blood. I abide in blood,

monthly lune; having no womb I must swim

elsewhere. I’m tomboy’s toy and you’re pure stud,

as in, Stone Butch with strap-on. “On a whim,”

you said, when I asked you how you had come.

“Gotta tongue tap that.” Pulling a muddy,

bloody tampon out with teeth; like I’ve swum

before. Scars on your amputated knee

smelt of cloves. Yes, you’re brutal but I’m built

like cake. What him-femme isn’t? “grrls with girth,”

your right tat spat. “Pussy Power,” your left

tit tat spat back. Ghost of mud-flow and silt.

Ghost of tampons to come. I still taste earth

in you. Ghost of whims and menstrual theft.

violaceous

15 Saturday Aug 2026

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Amethyst is thicc, phat like mulberries,

wet like mauve. Neighbor flavor; what I’ve missed

with these new memories. Bend of strange knees,

dimples, fat fists, lips you say that I’ve kissed.

Rewired. I forget names, tastes, even hues.

Had I been this age then, instead of nine,

then ‘wine dark’ would still be a reddish-blue.

Your plum to my peach. Your curls to my twine.

You said L.S.D. would set us all free.

You said, “tuck here, toy,” then cried for Jesus.

Love gone messy? So it seems. Like sweet ilk

and sweat. Lotus and loam. Cum foam and glee.

Said I filled your throat? Tickled your glottis

going down? Thicc like brine and buttermilk.

taste

20 Monday Oct 2025

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Now write about yourself. Not witches. Not

lust, but “i” – the gauntest part of myself.

Now write about your childhood – that distraught

grimoire, “vulval witch lore,” lost on the shelf.

Which lore? Exactly. “Witches gummed gristle”?

But of course! “Make a crone moan while sucking

her bone”? Bad rhyme. It must rhyme with “vulval.”

Offal? No. “Something-something … we’re kissing.”

La bruja me agarra,/ me lleva a su casa,/ me sienta en su regazo/ y me besa.

The witch grabs me,/ takes me to her house,/ sits me on her lap/ and kisses me.

Yes! You got it. The clap, I mean … the Witch

Clap. No! You said this would be in good taste.

¡Ay! dígame, dígame/ dígame usted/ ¿cuántas criaturitas/ se ha chupado usted?

Oh! Tell me, tell me,/ Tell me,/ how many babes have you drained the life from?

Cannibal humor slays me. It’s a niche

duffer; like porn for the boring and chaste.

Or this strange folk song you keep quoting from.

Ninguna, ninguna/ ninguna no sé,/ ando en pretenciones/ de chuparme a usted.

None, none,/ none, I don’t know/ but I’m planning to drain you next.

Drain who? You: kid. Me: booty witch like bomb.

Notes.

It’s a sonnet getting interrupted by a folk song. That’s the problem with short term memory loss, I keep forgetting what I wanted to write about. I’m thinking about my childhood and my broken home on the range and suddenly I find this Mexican folk song, “La Bruja,” which apparently was one of Frida Kahlo’s favorites and now I’m trying to work it in as if it’ll magically fit in 14-lines of poetry.

The new Agent Orange: dropping song fragments into crap verse from very far away just to watch it burn.

quake

02 Wednesday Apr 2025

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Super lewd stretch time. Thicc new aches, shapes, quakes.

Thicc knew. Ache knew. Quake knew what you wanted.

Me? I didn’t. I never do. I traipse.

I tramp. I walk out. I am undaunted

funeral crap. I go. Soiled comforters. Shite

water. I went. I brought the shadow’s back

and leg and tongue for you. The right in, “fright.”

The hack in, “whack.” Sucka MC. But first: flashback!

“Super lewd stretch time. Thicc new” – No, not that.

Quake knew, stretch pants. Quake knew. No, nay never

forgive Quake. Never. Me? I never – Who?

Not once in a year of Mondays. Cocked Hat?

Not once? Not once did it go – Whatever.

Do be do be do. Do be do be do.

randomize

20 Thursday Mar 2025

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One for the road. Yes, I placed the barrel

of your pistol in my mouth. You were out

of the room. For the taste. Once. Gunmetal

lime. Fat germ lemon. Tart like sauerkraut.

Tart like the road. Death tastes all taste buds gone

wrong. You said it was like sucking cock, but

no. Life has a taste. This does not. Neon

cherry. Photon peach. My moppet mouth, gut

wound. I placed the barrel of your pistol

in my mouth. To taste defeat, randomize.

Haha, fool. Ha. “Till my Pussy sucks/ Air,”

you wrote. You were out and I put it mull

in my mouth. “Lick the moon between your thighs,”

Chrystos. Make you swamp-wet glut with prayer.

shore

18 Tuesday Mar 2025

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Blood tastes the same, I found, pressing my lips

first to one stump … then the other. Brackish

tart. Sour iron. Licking her breasts, her hips,

her chin. When it came to combing the fish

and crabs out of her hair I said my prayer,

the whole reason I came. If you can’t do

this, they said, who can? So I came, harbor

master. I came. You still call this taboo

because you lack faith. I call it the bone

crushing depth of the sea. I call it home.

I, whose blood tastes nothing like yours. I call

and call. On the shore. In the crash and moan

of the surf. I’ll lick your stumps clean. I’ll comb

drown your hair. I’ll down with my dead man’s crawl.

sumptuous

13 Friday Sep 2024

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At hell’s gate the damned, in turn, pace and burn.

Harvest moon came too soon for them. For us,

though, Death herself holds up her skirts to turn

so that her clit shines between shorn, beardless

lips. Like you, my sumptuous grin hide ghastly

teeth. When I grimace chipped canines suggest

that I’d rather rip meat than eat dainty

morsels. Of course that’s wrong; I can digest

anything that comes my way –– omnivore

obscene. Marking you with love bites improves

your taste. What you call hardcore makes me go

all blood-rush famished. “Eat to the Beat”? Hoar

hound, please, our hips skip, then eclipse. It proves

that we’re not damned, just hell lit and aglow.

note.

“Eat to the Beat” is the title of a Blondie record.

lunacy

06 Saturday Jul 2024

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Your mom said good girls don’t go there. Bummer.

Last year you and four other girls dropped out

pregnant. Now you do, often; your daughter

snoozing in her crib, your hips crotched, girl scout

skirt pulled to your lips. Charmed, I’m sure; you smiled

at my tongue’s path from your C-section scar

down through phat flesh. You got, “daddy defiled

me,” inked above your ass. Bedroom-boudoir

with your bizarre mix-tapes. Cigar-sized spliffs.

Death was the breath that you sucked from my lungs

as I dived face first through you. Flesh slapped. Skin

bitten. Fingered and fucked. I miss those whiffs.

Scent of lunacy. Reckless as cum. Tongue’s

crow. We say gang-bang. Your mom says love-in.