Tag Archives: incest

puckered

27 Saturday Apr 2019

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For so long masturbating and sick drunk
was what I did. I might look like jailbait,

but my stink was just like how the damned stunk:
shame-faced and aroused. Once, when I was eight

and you ten, your mother undressed us, laid
us down belly to belly. “I’m swollen,

babies, drink up mama’s milk.” Her milkmaid
nipples dribbled as she stroked your hymen,

puckered my ass. — What’s a freak and bar fly
when you’re ten? Now I find that what I yearn

for I must drink to smother. Far better
to cum by myself than to be ruled by

chaos because part of me wants to burn
every time that I hear: “come in, mother.”

foxfire

02 Sunday Dec 2018

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Your mum loves anal, too, you know. Request
for your breast as you undressed met with morose

pause, flushed flesh. Your whole soul I’ve loosened, pressed
your yaw to my maw, lubed in acts of gross

indecency. She stands outside your door
watching, you know. Once she walked in on me.

“You are hopeless. It can’t be helped.” Hardcore
spermatic fizz, jazz jizz, dribbled as she

swayed. Tonight is the hour to baste your mum’s
flower, that gape that devours girls and boys

up whole. Adorned with sex flecks, cum crumbs,
call her, tell her that tonight you’ll share toys.

Tonight we’ll get off on rage, blue foxfire.
Tonight we’ll all put the ire in desire.

noontide

28 Monday May 2018

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Then I walk in. You are their Mama Bear;
Lyric’s cock hard in your hand, Karma’s cunt

spread wide under your tongue. Boys with longhair,
girls in combat boots; when you are pregnant

and huge like this your sex drive runs amok.
Noontide blunts. Bourbon. Gaping of your ass

as you slowly reach around your stomach
to guide Lyric in. I watch the blue-glass

veins, wide shaft, fatty tip vanish inside.
Who would ask for this when we feel pure want

consume us? When our lethargic passion
stirs? There is hell in not being denied,

in not saying no when you’re their mad aunt,
and these two, your baby sister’s children.

lapping thistledown

27 Sunday Jul 2014

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car car

piano

bed

purple

kitchen

star

wet as a swamp/ drowning between her thighs/ lapping thistledown

heat shimmers/ in the shade of her bedroom/ the widow goes down

two virgin boys/ all that defines me/ endless hunger, she said

he-she-he/ their teacher showed them how/ to enter together

my heroes are always/ undersexed with/ with the most vivid of imaginations …

you say

13 Sunday Apr 2014

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Not all housewives are hungry, but you are.
Not all home-schooling parents develop

crushes on their sons, but you did. Bizarre
as that seems, many dwell in and worship

at the house of incest. Lot’s daughters did.
The French have a whole genre devoted

to son-and-mother love. What we forbid
always becomes tempting. You are naked,

you say, going mad with need. It’s not right
that no one wants you, you say. But I do.

I don’t care who your lovers are, what dumb
dreams and fancies get you to sleep each night.

I’ve spent my whole life looking for one who
can be honest about what makes her cum.

half-emerge, gleaming

17 Tuesday Sep 2013

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And she touched boyish lips and felt his fierce
need so she rubbed his childish heat. Bending
over, she raised her skirt, letting him pierce
her. A son’s love. Belly down, back curving,
she felt him slip between her cheeks, debauched
as all goddesses are. He was possessed,
a beast, creaming deep in her guts. She watched
him half-emerge, gleaming. Prince said incest
was all “it’s said to be.” She squeezed him, dull
and soft in her muscles, blushing, childish.
He called her “mom,” and, with a slurping sigh,
withdrew. Then he too was gone, a middle-
schooler home for lunch. She stood, his boyish
gift for some blessed rite dripping down her thigh.

my sister [irmã minha]

19 Wednesday Jun 2013

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Irmã morta minha dentro de mim está.
Você entende os mortos?
Se a minha irmã era uma montanha eu era um cactus em chamas, aquecendo sangue dela.
Os mortos não têm casa, e nada pode acalmar seus medo.
É por isso que irmã morta minha dentro está de mim.
Porque eu amo ela.
.
My dead sister is inside me.
Do you understand the dead?
If my sister was a mountain then I was a burning cactus warming her blood.
The dead have no home and nothing can calm their fear.
That is why my dead sister is inside of me.
Because I love her.

what i saw

18 Monday Feb 2013

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Was there blood. I didn’t know what I saw.
My breath gurgled down deep inside my chest.

I saw — what. First time you unclasped your bra
for me, your nephew, I saw your right breast,

upturned, beads of sweat dripping down. First time
you pulled your jeans around your knees I saw

your tight parted curls that tasted of thyme,
amber and lust under my tongue. Cat’s paw

tattoo, clit ring, missing toe. I saw all
of this. But now blood. Everywhere on me.

My blood. “What happened?” I whispered. But you
silenced me with your lips. My breath: a small

rusty gasp. “I am here to set you free,
naughty boy,” she said. “My foolish nephew.”

witch-mouse

22 Tuesday Jan 2013

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I called her Witch-Mouse, for the dawn-glimmer
hung on her heels and the keen-eared, sassy
bat knew her by name. “Call me your mother,”
she said, parting her robes. “Call me Ommy.”
Her dark legs straddled me, guiding myself
inside; so deep that our pubes touched. Witch-Mouse
raised her hips and thrust down. She was part-elf
and part-prophetess. In the tiled bathhouse
all that she told me then came true. Outside
her small Bedouin daughter kneaded bread
dough by the wood-fired stove. But Witch-Mouse cried
and grabbed my ass and bit me until red
mixed with our cum. “Ibni,” she moaned, “my son.
I love you even more for what we’ve done.”

][][

Note: In Egyptian Arabic “Ibni” or “Ebni” means “my son” and “Ommy” translates as “my mother.”