Tag Archives: more than just spilled ink

stirred

04 Saturday Jul 2020

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These thick fingers push into your layers.
Your skirt lifted. Buttons undone. My tongue

swerves as my thumb finds your clit. Deluge stirs
inside you. Floodwaters. For years you clung

to the notion that you were poison. Trysts
turned sour. Friends left. Love was what others had.

“Just ghost shadow,” you thought, “a poltergeist’s
sneer.” Now you’re alive and I the nomad

baptized at your fountain. I’ve traveled through
dangers untold and hardships unnumbered

to find you. You bubble. “Have you bathed yet?”
“No.” “Good. Lemme clean you up proper.” You

grind your cunt and ass until waters stirred.
I can taste your soul through your cum and sweat.

roughshod

26 Friday Jun 2020

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I won’t reconstruct how utterly fucked
that was. Futile to try again. I said,

“Help me cope. Bring itchy rope, a switch, duct
tape and rock salt.” But I fled when I bled,

when I bent and a queer smear bloomed across
my shirt. The door was almost closed. You peered

through a crack. Hunched on a chair, the chaos
of my scars had come undone. I get smeared

with blood a lot, mostly my own. Just once
I’d bared my back. “Fuck me up. Go roughshod.”

I said. “Calm me down.” That was my mistake.
It changed everything. Pain is a science.

Science is divine. But you said, “my god!”
when you saw how I cut out my own ache.

yowl

14 Sunday Jun 2020

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The din you make would wake even Bedlam
when I unbuckle the belt that you yowl

for; when retrained by rope and fat dumb
fear makes you growl to be ill-used. I’m foul

each time I play this role to the hilt, though
it’s not blades I bury in you. You glare

at me, call me daft things, scowl then bellow
for pain. I like that. You whimper: “Don’t scare

me.” “Why?” “Promise me you’ll do it. Don’t ditch
me.” In reply you watch me loop the belt,

snap-slap it against my palm. “Just testing,”
I tease. The first smack will make your clit twitch.

By stroke five you’ll burn alive and then melt.
By nine you’ll be raunchy glee and howling.

][][

Notes: Bedlam was originally an English lunatic asylum, though now it just means loud chaos, uproar and confusion. Playing something, “up to the hilt,” means being extreme, a violent image, when a sword is buried completely in someone or something the only thing visible is its hilt.

flick

12 Friday Jun 2020

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Feel this as I fix clothespins to the skin
around each nipple. A halo of small

wooden teeth pinching. I’ve left hickeys, twin
love bites, before. I’m greedy. I’d suck all

of your breast into my mouth if I could.
Instead I -flick- each tip until they rise

above the clothespins -flick- this pain is good
-flick- the kind we beg for to make our thighs

shake. I can feel, between your thighs, your lips
part as I place a clothespin on the hood

of your clit and then twist. You could say no
if you wanted; stop this pain in the tips

of your breasts, in your drunken clit. You could.
Instead you burn: like anarchy but slow.

debauch

10 Wednesday Jun 2020

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Prayer, I say. Porn, you counter, reaching out
to rub my cock against your cheek. Disgust,

you gasp, down on all fours. I’m your devout
priest, my cock pressed tight against your tightest

hole. So slow, being filled with such spirit,
inch by inch. You arch your back and struggle

to breathe as I press deeper, as I split
you wide. Your dad said only a devil

would want all these wet shocks and aftershocks,
would want to moan, mew and writhe as I stir

inside you … like the porn you hate to watch
when we watch it together. Your dad mocks

what he doesn’t know. For me this is prayer;
your high priest when we praise and we debauch.

owlet

31 Sunday May 2020

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Wrapped tight around my wrist? I stalled at first.
Fistful of rough love? As pillow talk, sure,

but I’d break you. Slow brain’d, heavy limbs, cursed
with crude taste. Bliss is something to endure.

Called you the nickname of my dead daughter
once. I shudder at what else I might say

while in heat, rutting. “Who’s the cum dumpster?”
you’d asked, unaware of my past. We play

games that require trust, but there’s one secret
I can’t divulge. How else do fairy tales

end but the Princess impaled on a fist?
One more broken daddy, Princess Owlet.

You ain’t her, star-child. I’ll endure with my nails
clipped, with you, lover, wrapped around my wrist.

fanny

10 Friday Apr 2020

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“Hurts,” you hiss, hoping the moppets won’t hear.
They sleep next to us. This is not new pain,

strange and supreme; just stretching, what Shakespeare
called, “the full length of my wit,” like cocaine

and all of our needs, deep in the, “marl’d earth,”
of your fanny. It’s the expansiveness––

what fear and endorphins bring, this rebirth
between gasping breath, dark realm of Eros

––that I adore. Like wit, not everyone
gets it; my sliding down, squeezing balls deep

in you. I’m a hungry ghost. You’re famished
for love, all love; even as your children

wake, to stare at you twisting in your sleep––
blind that one more time you’re being ravished.

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.

fivefold

14 Friday Feb 2020

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We’re no burgundy brew crew; derisive
of how slow liquor takes to reach your clit.

We’ve clinched quicker means. Your conservative
spouse and his church clan claim, “effeminate

brats,” like me go straight to hell, boy. The glee
and joy we got each time we rolled your old

cuckold, sloppy drunk sick upstairs, while we
capered (plunged and hit deep, frothed your fivefold

lips, reared back to plunge again) like the brat
cats that we are: witch’s brats. Fuck buddies

with the Black Arts. Lovers of corpulent
terrors. Your husband can’t even, “begat.”

We’re progenitors of beguiling sleaze,
eldritch sex acts, love both odd and ancient.

][][

NOTE: Contrary to popular belief, a “witch’s brat,” is simply a male, of any age, who studies the dark arts under the tutelage of a licensed necromancer. Niccolo Paganini, the 17th century violin genius, was called, “The Devil’s Stepson,” and the “Witch’s Brat,” for his demonic and amazing musical virtuosity.