Tag Archives: poem

slow hand

22 Friday May 2020

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Make it tender, you suggest. I stop. Think.
Shrug. A tender love poem? It could be

done, I suppose. But why? Love without kink
is love in name only. It’s like the sea

without waves; the only way you might drown
is through boredom. You must be difficult

in bed, you sigh. Perhaps, I say, then frown.
But who will ever know? Like the occult,

few have experienced my mysteries.
I leave vague tenderness to those begging

to get laid. I know a slow hand can please
when it’s a fist. Love lies in defiling

and sin; what you call ruin and hardcore.
Love lies in all that you fear to ask for.

after birth

21 Thursday May 2020

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Magic in the afterbirth, which I ate
the day that you were born. I was shadow

that the midwife brought in. It wasn’t fate,
you see, that brought you to me. We both know

that you’ve been in me all this time. This makes
me your grotesque parent. Born blind, second

sight is a gift, like that itch that still aches.
All this time you thought that you were destined

to be forgotten. Who would want a freak
like you? Desperate, sullen, you’ve search your earth

and dreams for something else. I’m still the shriek
that wakes you wet, like the day of your birth.

Only, though, if you want this. No is fine.
Without consent no god would call you mine.

sub play

20 Wednesday May 2020

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You said you don’t like kink, but when you do
you like bondage, group play, the stench of fear.

You’ve read about sex clubs and Masters who
love pain. I’d try that, you blush. With you, dear.

I’ve got off on fear, too, but my nasty
are in war films with submarines; that scene

where the crew despairs while the enemy
drops depth charges on them. All those obscene

faces in the dark, aghast, sublime stink
of dread. That’s an endorphin rush that no

sex club can match. Sub play, indeed. That’s not
kink, you say. That’s just hellish. Which is kink.

I think all perversions that lets us know
life is blessed are both dangerous and hot.

Notes:
For those unfamiliar with the term, a depth charge is a bomb designed to be dropped from a ship or aircraft to explode under water at a preset depth, used for attacking submarines.

know

17 Sunday May 2020

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This world is full of lost daughters, vanished
daddies, misplaced parents who never learned

love right. Some of us got praised, some punished,
when we followed our hearts. What our hearts burned

for was not shameful. Others disagreed,
they could not see how orgasms were keys

to our soul, how bliss freed us, how our need
to cum was also a divine gift. “Sleaze,”

they called it. “Sin.” True, passions can corrupt,
but so can hearts and daughters and daddies.

I’m proud of you. The struggle is real. So
is your faith. Be true, dear heart, and worship

to make your soul glow. Not with sin nor sleaze,
but with praise in ways only you will know.

ill incubo

15 Friday May 2020

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After detox, “fun,” changed. It wasn’t booze
that I missed. It was fucking anything

that moved. Self-preservation? That excuse
got lost on the dance floor. Now, sobering

up has left me adrift. Once I wanted
to save the perturbed; pitied those who’ve knew

this just as a curse. What ran in my blood
was lust for it all … if it were taboo …

if I were drunk. Now, now, now I can’t be
bothered. That’s bleak. Once I’d have told you, “dare

me; – we’ll put the ass back in massacre.”
I still have, “ill incubo,” inked on me.

Sober now I’m no one’s Bi-bone Nightmare,
Cosmic Casanova, Randy Hotspur.

Notes:
In proper Italian grammar, “il incubo,” translates as, “the nightmare.” An incubus is a demon believed to have sexual intercourse with men and women while they sleep. Three days from now (5/18/2020) will mark 27-months sober for me.

under tongues

10 Sunday May 2020

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You long for stranger’s lips on your wet splayed
lips, a mouth on the mouth between your hips.

I yearn to learn each Old World term that made
your Ma squirm. Songs of sighs. Which word still drips

from your Bibi’s thighs, though tyrant English
tried to damn it? Words can be colonized

and then redefined, called sin and banished.
Words for cum, sensuous sucking, clits baptized

under tongues, parted lips. If I sang them
while your baby-phat nectar soaked my tongue

would you be my translator? Forbidden
words, deep, biting, dripping, like the mayhem

found in a poetry slam. – Words you shun;
words that make you blush and gush as one.

fractious

04 Monday May 2020

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Most of our lusts are hell-bent. Hot breath in
our head. Chaos flurry. Keen for a leer,

vile look, fractious love. They say that sin
is man-made. We get off feeding our fear.

We all have shreds of it riddled through us.
I felt yours when you came over. Nightmares

full of husband’s fists, mothers of violence
are just dreams. Some are as toothless as prayers

against rage. I’ve raved and craved that hate, too;
but my rage went inward. Ate me in ways

that you never will. Violence born bliss
still shames me, anchors me, sucks me in, spews

me out. Why such a craze for the male gaze?
We who insist that we’re above all this.

misdid

02 Saturday May 2020

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Flip the Bird was a bird, from Leeds, no less
and since it was the 80s – a junkie,

to boot. Junk is droll, you’d said of the mess,
when I finally pressed, your panties barely

hiding that odd smirk. Not the worst tattoo
that I’ve had to stare down while staring down

inside someone. “Perv much?” in faded blue
ink gave me pause. Once. Sex with the class clown

tends to be desperate: all your pussy-fart
jokes, that eyesore, Flip, your constant reference

to our age difference. I get it. Life sucks
for the misdid kids. I’m not smart. My heart

means well, but I remain a perv, class dunce.
All I have is mercy and messy fucks.

coddle

27 Monday Apr 2020

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In the end it’s barely there. Touch of heat.
Spark of grief. Why won’t such a tiny prick

set me gangling? Not the first to treat
me like this, but … it’s a bit bombastic

to say the last. I mean, a night not fraught
with pain is kinda weak sauce; and, my dude,

you don’t show me much. Is that all you got?
Stubbing your cigar out on my chest? Rude.

Tied down? Duct-taped while Dylan & The Dead
blare? That’s not torture, twitchy. That’s just tripe.

Count the scars. I don’t coddle amateurs.
It’s why these fingers have no nails. I’ve bled

better and you promised me a huge fright;
so damn proud of that tiny prick of yours.

schemes

26 Sunday Apr 2020

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You get sloppy. Your thoughts muddled, jumping
from hint to hint. How many evil schemes

have you half-hatched? One more undertaking
undone. Friends try to joke but something seems

infernally wrong. You’d bet your scrumptious
cloven hooves that lockdown out in Hades

is like this: promise of having promise
squandered. Even this poem does not please;

started weeks ago it sits on the page –
sneering – go on, make one more droll blow job

joke. You think you’re a horny devil but
you’re more Sucka MC. Your old-school rage

doesn’t age all that well. You’re quaint. Both slob
and snob. Say it. Sacred smut. Arse biscuit.