Tags
ars poetica, bad dad, beastly boyfriend, brawling bliss, erotic poetry, fear not fellatio will be coming next, foul god, sonnet
Little death around your lips makes your smile
somehow sad. Little cum on your chin, eye
liner smudged, your love-bitten throat: I’m vile
to my toys, the ones who say yes, the shy
ones who feel a bit queer. Vile with a touch
of slash-and-burn joy, brawling bliss. I’ll salt
the sour earth that you’re buried in. You’ll clutch
at my hips, gag-spit at my cock’s assault
on your throat. I make a foul god, bad dad,
beastly boyfriend, but a good friend to those
who laugh at this. You say sex. I say soul.
We write about all that we’ve never had.
Little death, I’m shy; tad queer with sorrows,
tad sad only words let me lose control.
