Tag Archives: i’m spilling more thank ink y’all

frenzies

25 Thursday Jun 2020

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High seas, indeed. The upsurge of bed sheet.
Curling ripple in the quilt. You hand back

the bong to giggle, “I can’t feel my feet.”
If there’s a theme to our sex life’s soundtrack

it’s that feeding frenzies are addictive.
I’m the shark that broke your surface, mouthful

of your menstrual blood. “Harder, I can’t live
without your teeth in me,” you slur. I pull

you down, gulp you down, until you drown, pleased.
It took years of frightful sex to find each

other. I don’t miss that. I was famished
searching for you. Now I’m sated –– your greased

inner muscles squeeze my tongue. Your stoned speech
slurs. You’re all Seven Seas that I’ve ravished.

promised

24 Wednesday Jun 2020

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“I’m a grouch on a couch, full-blown grumpus,”
you moan. “Lockdown sucks.” Friendship will never

tear us apart; though sexting between us
almost did. I wanted a fuck-daughter.

“I lack discipline,” you’d write, sending me
photos of the hot figure-eight you’d traced

across your panties. “Times infinity.”
Apparently you’ve found it. I erased

everything you’d sent me like I promised
to do. There no shame in having second

thoughts. I’m poor father material, but
I can take pride in you. Somewhere lust must

wait for me to come, horny and orphaned,
wanting more from me than just a sonnet.

bonne chance

20 Saturday Jun 2020

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Call me loose change, your coming attraction.
I’ve gone from Harlot Chic to Tart Deco

over the years, working the Freak Show Fun
Tent as a wild ride. My Story of O

pop-up kid’s book came with rope and harness.
In school my pelvis served as a playground.

My come hither grin drove the furious
search for new penicillin. College-bound

with my Erector set, my lips won Best
Blow Dryer of the Year. My tongue got banned

as a controlled substance. I still think pox
as a badge of honor. Don’t get depressed;

just wave, bonne chance, your panties in one hand,
as I walk this odd world where sex still shocks.

][][

Notes:
Story of O is an erotic novel (1954) by French author Anne Desclos under the pen name Pauline Réage. It deals with love, dominance/ submission and erotic torture. In French, bonne chance, simply translates as good luck.

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.

comely

19 Friday Jun 2020

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Promise of rain never came. Heat soaked up
in the pavement. In the trees. In my skull,

all pinned and needled together. Adult
subject matter means just one thing. Gristle

and shanks, you write about cum and moisture
and things you think I want to hear –– the ride

high and holy, my face comely in painsure,
feeling me harden even more inside

you. But that’s not me. When I say I ache
–– that’s just literal. When I say I’m more

scars than skin –– if you’d seen me naked you’d
agree. And this trapped heat? It’s the earthquake

that leaves you in rubble. Last god of gore.
No rain but eruption. Grotesque when nude.

epique

18 Thursday Jun 2020

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I stop tongue-fucking your cunt as you roll
over, gasp in pain, pressing your stomach

and breasts to frozen metal. Your asshole
gapes wide as my cock pushes in. “The fuck–?”

you gulp, amazed we’re in a war machine.
Wintertime in Muskegon is the worst,

but it does have an ancient submarine
no one visits. I adore love in cursed

places haunted with pain, where fear lingers
mixed with hints of petrol fumes, blood and brine.

In this frozen coffin the only heat
comes in floods: cock and cunt, kissing fingers.

Calling you love, calling you, “I, me, mine.”
Calling our thrills, “epique,” our deaths, “petite.”

][][

Notes:
I’ve written about this museum before, but in the lake-side city of Muskegon (about an hour from where I live) is the WW2-era submarine, USS Silversides. Since winters in Michigan are brutal and it’s difficult to heat an all-metal ship, visiting on those long dark frozen days of the year tend to be a touch frosty.

viscid

17 Wednesday Jun 2020

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Lame, tame and meek were all that those drudges
that you called Doms could dream up. “Make rules/

Break rules/ Get Spanked,” is what everybody does.
Psychoplasm miscreants need more. “Fools,

you still have teeth,” I jeered, once the acid
kicked in. You were trippin’ balls. All cunning

stunts need are hints at the bloody, viscid
ecstasy that I’ll take at correcting

your flaws. I place pliers, bone saw, hammer
in front of you. Yokes and ropes are common.

You could stand up. You could say no. Instead
you squirm, disturbed. This torture is hunger

for pain withheld, for doors few can open,
for trust that this is love, too; love and dread.

pout

16 Tuesday Jun 2020

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I’ve seen your dad drunk. Somehow he’s younger
but looks much older than me. “He guesses,”

you shrug when I pick you up. A daughter
mad for pain. You say you won’t but bruises

and welts under your dress make different claims.
You have men that you call sugar daddies

and you have me who has no time for games,
just pain. We park near the swamp. Willow trees

make the best switches. You’ll come home and pout
tonight with muddy knees, with my cum caked

to your cheeks, with seven new stripes hidden
under your dress. You’ll find your dad passed out.

That’s broke. You’re not like him when your soul ached
to be drunk with pain, to be loved, broken.

do you

12 Friday Jun 2020

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Meekness, you sigh, is kinda all that we
got here. That’s okay; there’s many other

ways to get you off. Before you left me
to go to school I ran a long leather

cord down between the cheeks of your ass then
up to spread the lips of your cunt wide. Wear

this all day, I say. Again and again
this dull world passes you by, unaware

that you’re trying hard not to cum. Each time
you sit the cord rubs your clit. No one knows

your head spins when you stand. All leather
can be torture. All pain can be sublime

when you want it. Do you? Under your clothes
you grow wet as swampland for an answer.

naked

08 Monday Jun 2020

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You caught your son at it. Your daughter told
me how she does it all the time. The first

time I tried it I was shocked to behold
how I must look to others. “I’m the worst,

grotesque naked. No one wants to see this.”
But you did. That also shocked me. “xHARDxCOREx

Camwhore,” you teased, half a world away. Bliss
didn’t feel like I’d hoped it would as more

and more cum splattered on my thigh. “Maybe
one day,” you replied when I asked you why

you weren’t nude too. That’s fair. As safe sex goes
it’s dope, but for you, I see, not guilt-free.

Without bliss all this is absurd; like my
O-mouth, my shaking hips, my curling toes.