Tag Archives: cunnilingus

shaman

15 Saturday Aug 2020

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Our gods call this prayer. Men say sin. I’ll take
divine every time. Your fingers barely

brush my flesh as they pass by. We are ache
and stardust, star-child. In a galaxy

afraid of this sort of pleasure you press
down. Take me in, shaman. We speak in moans,

holy words that leave us a sopping mess.
This prayer. This space between your pubic bones.

Stretching you. The good pain when you use this
as the conduit to speak to our gods ––

Lean back while I finger your clit until
you can’t hold yourself up. Hard fuck. Hard kiss.

Hard faith, moon girl. Lilith’s daughter. Ramrods.
Gold mines. We cum as one. Our gods’ goodwill.

tricks

10 Monday Aug 2020

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Bit of scruff? My cheeks, your pubes; when we come
together can’t tell where one ends, where one

begins. You can tell where my tongue ends. Hum
of my lips on your lips. Your low, “damn, son,”

as I carry more than a tune. Turning,
lifting, touching, fingers sliding in fat

back there. Toes curling. Go with it, stirring
trouble between your legs. Calling me brat

each time your hips jerk. Call me sir each time
you cry, “amen!” like applause. Night before

I come over I don’t shave. Feel that scratch.
DJ’s sick turntable tricks work sublime

on your clit. Time enough for an encore;
a tune that I call tongue-fucking your snatch.

flux

12 Sunday Jul 2020

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Blind with steam and water blocking what I
can see I follow my nose –– it always

knows –– the way to your cunt. You are the sky
over me. While I lap the shower sprays

my face. While I swallow you down the sponge
between your legs soaks me in. I’m good in

you. I wring your juices each time I plunge
inside. Each time my tongue tickles the skin

of your clit. Hydration comes when you cum.
Justdoit –– you grab my head like a wish.

Hellgasm –– Water Vapor Fire –– You flux
while your spine tilts back. I don’t drown. I’ve swum

your seas as a goddess-thang. Sacred fish
that thirsts for you; that swims in you; that sucks.

6-2-9

09 Thursday Jul 2020

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The night is round and black, like your throat just
as you gag me down whole. You squirm, settle

your rump on my face. Slow grind as I thrust
my tongue deeper. Hell is straight boy coital,

but as I pull out concerned you gasp: “More!”
For years we put the one in lonely; now,

somehow, we’re two … even if you once swore
how all my kind made you spew. Cum is how

we cure hate. 6-2-9. We’ve got this licked
while I suck the good parts of your soul out.

I prayed for a lover and then you came.
Now we cum. They say that nothing’s perfect,

but this? So damn good. That’s what I’m about
with you: to heal from lives of scorn and shame.

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.