Tag Archives: finger fucking

hydrant

19 Friday Jun 2020

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Slight pain as I reach to pluck one curled hair
from the edge of your panties, its tip drips

with wet– “Sweat,” you say, flip flustered. “I swear,
that’s sweat.” “I see.” Stroking your lotus-lips

through the cotton. It was my thick knuckles
that you noticed. Hard butcher hands cupping

your ass. Calluses leave scars like freckles;
but when I slip them inside your wellspring

downpours. It’s why these fat nails are cut short.
Why I ask first. Three fingers in your cunt,

my thumb, curved, in your ass. “You fill me up.”
“That’s just my right hand.” Soon you can’t support

your legs –– soaking us both like a hydrant.
With glee. With something like sweat and syrup.

posh ‘n becks

24 Tuesday Mar 2020

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“Bad lad,” your father calls me: “Hooligan.”
Each time you come home smelling of skunk weed

and gin he sighs. Each time you nurse your son
and he spies all the hickeys that my greed

left you get Da’s foul scowl. I’m, “off my tits,”
I guess, putting the “cock” back in Cockney;

the cor in your blimey. Thrupenny bits.
“Bum and brat mum,” he calls us. Yet Baby

Danzig doesn’t howl like a haunt when I
bend you over his crib, sopping up two

fingers worth of your drizzle from inside
your drenched frillies; just when Da floats by,

sad old ghast. He hates our, “posh ‘n becks;” you
being my hard shag, I’m your roughest ride.

cranked

13 Monday Jan 2020

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“Twenty minutes,” you gasp, dropping the phone.
“Beastly perversions,” as your dad calls this,

take time. This is just, “d’baw-chuh-ree,” thrown
in high gear. All that drenched, languid, “sk-hiss,”

rhythm we love gets cranked. Fury cums, it bursts,
leaving us sodden, like prayer. We all pray

in our way. I pray in you so these thirsts
and greeds might slow. No. Climax is doomsday

postponed. Once again that damned car pulls up
and I pull out. Once again we scamper

to get dressed. “¡Sodomite!” your dad christened
me. True, I swing both ways but I worship

with you. Love takes time. In prayer, however,
we cum like feral gods, fuck like legend.

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.

aslant

19 Wednesday Dec 2018

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After dinner your mom pours the coffee
while the grownups gossip. You take me up

to your room. We sit on your bed, your knee
pressed up against mine while distant grownup

voices come from down the stairs. “They’ll hear us
if you do that,” you warn. “I know I’m … loud.”

More than just loud: each time you’re a circus
of sound. You cum with the noise of a crowd

brawling. Hormones tow us. Our bodies
aslant. Sex spray. Lovesick sparks through your clit.

Once your mom caught us; called this sin. Parents
are odd ducks. It’s all sin to them. Your cunt’s

muscles flex. They know we’re both freaks, misfits.
They know if I move you’ll shout: “More sleaze, please!”

kakhard

30 Tuesday Oct 2018

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After school I fingered you senseless. Filled
your mouth with more than quarrels over craft.

Left you soppy and brooding with my spilled
seed smeared across your lips. That word, I laughed

at what you called me: “kakhard.” It means witch.
Perhaps. I have blasphemed in the churchyard

of your arse sure enough. Made your clit twitch
with just my stare. Perhaps I am, “kakhard,”

and these dark Armenian arts the spell
that has ensnared you each time the school bell

rings, each time you knock on my door. Each time
kissing turns astonishing and sublime

while I lift the hem of your pleated skirt —
More. Touch me more. Make me hurt. Make me squirt.

Note:
In Armenian, “կախարդ,” is the word for witch.

what the dead and chaste abhor

12 Thursday Jul 2018

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What is this need: sex among the ruins?

We kissed in the remains of a school-house

 

by the gray marsh reeds, while the ghosts of nuns

ached and dead things crept in the weeds. Your blouse

 

undone, skirt on the floor. Slowly we bent

over a desk top with fingers at work:

 

stretching, coaxing, melting down walls our scent

mixed with willow, dust, sumac. With a jerk

 

you came, shouted, “¡Lilith!” wild with tonguing.

Just then all that the dead and chaste abhor

 

we became. Let ruins of grace that fuel

lust be a blessing. Let ghosts mark our coming

 

with sex stains gracing their world: warped floor,

battered seat and jack-knife carved initial.

what escapes

01 Sunday Jul 2018

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Say that submissiveness is a wavelength

simply seeking proper context. You wet

 

yourself, you say, because your secret strength

comes from dreams of cum, of cream, of stout jets

 

arching up from between your legs. I’ve squished

juice from you, pinched your lips until, like grapes,

 

you ran down my arm. “I drip when ravished,”

you squeak. “Je mouille comme une folle.” What escapes

 

between us is slick. We burble. We rave.

We read the patterns with a soothsayer’s

 

prowess that you sprinkle and dew. Always,

they say, you will come again. That this wave

 

in you will come out. Call these kisses prayers

to all that bucks and groans, gushes and sprays.

NOTE:

My French is very bad but I believe that, “je mouille comme une folle,” translates into, “I’m as wet as a crazy woman.” We all should be that wet.

boreas’ curse

07 Saturday Oct 2017

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The gods are rabbits in burrows, sleeping
below the crunching feet on snow. The worst

time to conjure a spirit is during
the tree-dead months, when Boreas’ Curse

lays on the land. October is laughter
for fun; there’s still tree sap. But for the us,

because all the earth sleeps good, the wonder
comes that we roused something in this coldness.

Your jeans pulled down … call this a … revival.
Fingers curled in a C, stroking shocked fur.

Your mouth opens … spiritual agonies …
or ecstasies … they’re the same when knuckle

deep. Let the gods slumber through dead winter.
All I ask: “if you want to cum say please.”

-m-e-s-s-m-e-u-p-

09 Saturday Sep 2017

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Sunk in you, three knuckles deep. Palms pounded
on the car’s roof. Each hoarse, “Fuah! Aah!” Telltale

stains on the seat, your jeans, a pad with blood.
That night my mixtape and the winter’s gale

drowned out your croaky cries. You arched your spine,
sprayed down my wrist and arm. We had nowhere

to go so we drove downtown as the whine
of the blizzard led us to a daycare

parking lot, now abandoned. Friday night.
Our third date. “Mess me up inside,” you said.

You had to be home soon. I kissed the scar
on your inner thigh, rubbed you with delight,

then stuck my fingers, all cum-soaked and red,
in your mouth. The taste of going too far.