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

nickered

07 Friday Aug 2020

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“God’s cock!” you nickered, bound, blindfolded. Once
you were sure about sin. ––Lust’s rage. ––Sublime’s

power. ––Once you saw your god’s indifference
as love. Each plague must be signs of End Times.

Sin must be punished. Now you quake: the sting
of whip, scent of hot wax. Now you’re unsure.

You’ve been wrong before; can’t see me scowling
when you called me angel-headed hipster.

“4 face’d, 6 wing’d & full of eyes within”?
Only Eldritch horror looks like white dudes

with wings, not Seraph. All the angelic
orders are forged in malice, old-school sin.

Speak of what we know. I offer my nudes
and trust, cum and soul. I say: take your prick.

lunacy

25 Saturday Jul 2020

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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.

phlebotinum

15 Wednesday Jul 2020

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My words are lascivious prayers, priestess,
and my temple lies in fiber optics,

cyberspace. Sexting is the new Venus,
our ars poetica. Other matrix

only repeats standard universal ––
baby, aam gonnae make ye buck an’ bleed.

None of that pleases. Through wire and crystal
I weave spells just for you. What do you read?

Words, words, words. Our prayer. I know that you feel
magic at work. We cum with strange forces,

phlebotinum and nasty sub-routines.
Sexting reveals what others must conceal.

Temples wide as the world web. Priestesses
unprogrammed. All these sacred smut machines.

Notes:
Like unobtainium, in science fiction, phlebotinum is whatever made-up technology the lazy author has invented to keep the plot going. It’s magical pixie dust in outer space.

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.