Tag Archives: poem

6-2-9

09 Thursday Jul 2020

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The night is round and black, like your throat just
as you gag me down whole. You squirm, settle

your rump on my face. Slow grind as I thrust
my tongue deeper. Hell is straight boy coital,

but as I pull out concerned you gasp: “More!”
For years we put the one in lonely; now,

somehow, we’re two … even if you once swore
how all my kind made you spew. Cum is how

we cure hate. 6-2-9. We’ve got this licked
while I suck the good parts of your soul out.

I prayed for a lover and then you came.
Now we cum. They say that nothing’s perfect,

but this? So damn good. That’s what I’m about
with you: to heal from lives of scorn and shame.

enthralls

09 Thursday Jul 2020

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After class you lingered, interested if
I’d help with your homework on pro-sex

feminism? –– back home? –– over a spliff
and witch wine? Liberation is complex.

You peeled out of your dress. We fucked; ragdolls
smeared with cum. Sexual freedom is rare ––

but we have choices –– and lust that enthralls;
lust that saves radical change from nightmare.

Affair without nightmare. Broken fuck toys
healing. “No, here,” you say, guiding my cock

to your ass’ gaped O –– “Make it vulgar.”
Vulgar pleases. We make fuck-slushy noise.

We laugh. Others will call this porn and schlock.
This bliss is what others want to censure.

stranglings

08 Wednesday Jul 2020

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Once there was three. “I don’t want to hear that,”
you said. Now there’s two. Lucy’s “Karen’s dead,”

gave me pause. For a year we shared a flat
and I slept betwixt them in our big bed …

except when Karen stayed out at the pub
or the club. Lucy from Leeds. Karen from

Kingston. A year full of big beat and dub
and, “Tottenham sheet.” Sex was the maelstrom

that Poe warned us of. Lust that, “unnerves strings.”
Love drug’s thrall. But you didn’t want to fuck

stranglings. You weren’t bi. You just left. You said
I think about kink too much … and fuckings …

and cum. True. Sex is chaos. Love amok.
Holy fuck with three now two, with one dead.

oodles

07 Tuesday Jul 2020

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I’m the deep that scares you. The dark that might
take note of you as you’re peering down. Down?

Drown. What monsters lurk deeper than sunlight?
Neptune’s grisly progeny; though they’d drown

in your world, too. Are your fears as crushing
as my love? At twenty feet? Your lungs burn.

Thirty feet? Panic drags you back. Yearning
isn’t enough. You say that you’ll return

but swim with eyes shut to the sea’s grace.
I have taken note, risen from the deep

for you, for all who come to me. Your fear
is like others who’ve yearned for my embrace.

There have been oodles who’ve taken this leap.
I can swallow you too. Show me sincere.

chompers

06 Monday Jul 2020

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3 a.m. Damp heat. Crumpled cotton sheet.
Other broken grins wallow through my night.

Other teeth. Other sighs. None here to bleat
out their bliss at each mouthful. None toyed quite

like how you toy. Once more you failed to find
me in my dreams. Or maybe I failed you.

It’s the same. We’re apart. The heat, combined
with pain, keeps me awake. My scar tissue

seems to draw others. You know others touch
me, run fingers over your work to guess

as to the source of this fine mess. Of course
they’re not close. I use to smoke Mystic Dutch

to soothe where your chompers had been; fine mess,
indeed. Now I’m sober, sleepless, morose.

cucurru

01 Wednesday Jul 2020

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Toes curl. Heels lift off the floor. Reward comes
as I cum, as I stiffen in your throat ––

except English is bad at this. Problems
arise with description. To bulge? To bloat?

Rigid works. Fossilized? Not really. Hard
is what most say: hardcore, hard as a rock,

fat and hard with blood. In porn, cocks a yard
long are every small man’s dream. We get cock

from Late Latin’s, “Cucurru,” a rooster’s
crow. You brag of your perfect cock sucking

lips and needing a perfect cock to suck.
I don’t brag. I wait until your parents

go out. Your reward comes with words meaning:
“To gag.” “To splutter.” “To cum in havoc.”

munchies

29 Monday Jun 2020

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Your dad finds you in the bathroom, scrubbing
make-up from your cheeks. He doesn’t approve

of, “loose morals,” he says, “and women looking
cheap, like strumpets.” Each day you remove

all signs of what we’ve done while he’s at work.
“Pull out then ram deep,” you cried two hours

ago. He talks virtue. We go berserk,
fueled by chronic and munchies. He blathers

about sin. We invent new smuttiness
each time our tongues touch. He scowls. We giggle

on the phone. “Miss you!” “Miss you more!” He’ll glare.
We’ll meet after school; all wild and reckless

with our joy. “On my face, leave your puddle
there.” It’s still the only make-up you’ll wear.

titillation

27 Saturday Jun 2020

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Do you cry out, “I’m cumming!” when you cum?
When you lose your mind in that odd moment,

when gods can see you, does your orgasm
compel you to howl like it’s prayer? Ancient

forces prowl between us, waiting for us
to crest and climax while our cups runneth

over. I love titillation’s promise
that you, too, hunger for a little death,

petite mort; that under your striped school skirt
passion soaks your thighs; that your swollen slit

glistens and your clit, queerest of queer seeds,
waits for tongues. I’d howl, too, if I could squirt.

Call this prayer; when grace caresses your clit,
since grace knows all of your lascivious needs.

anys syn

27 Saturday Jun 2020

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Fauns are always spirits of seduction,
my Aunt explained. Lucy was only eight,

just like you. She had read me Anaïs Nin,
explained what pansexual meant. They’d mate

with all manner of beasts. Of course Lucy
knew this, why else would she follow him home

just for tea? Henry and June, Gay Paree
and the way in which my Aunt’s lips would roam

made me flustered. Anys Syn’s old school jive
would love to chime in –– You stop me: what? What!?

Eight? Fuck that. You’ve got no Aunt. You just brag
in verse that you’re cursed with a high sex drive.

Asshole! I stare at you. You’d asked for smut.
I shrug, light the hash pipe and take a drag.

][][

Notes: Anaïs Nin was a Cuban-French American writer who wrote numerous diaries and erotica. Henry and June detailed her affairs with the author Henry Miller and his wife, June. Lucy and the faun, Mr. Tumnus, are characters from, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, by CS Lewis.

yarn

26 Friday Jun 2020

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Here’s a yarn; Best Friends Fuck Squad. We love sin
thick as nectar. You let lose screams as steam

hangs the air. This is how fables begin.
To kiss me is to perish in wet dream.

Detour through my body leaves you in shock,
in shox, inshoxication. You fLUSTer,

beg for deSIRe, for poppyCOCK’s cock.
You splish-splash rubba baby phat bugger …

bumper … thing. You sweet wet, sticky face thing.
We spin tales of Epic Sex fails. “Want to

be spanked with my hands bound. Look!” On one odd
finger thick cum glazes. “Look! I’m soaking.”

But you’re there. I’m here. Not much we can do,
despite our myth of this Best Friends Fuck Squad.