Tag Archives: poem

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.

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.

rex

23 Tuesday Jun 2020

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In the glow. Pillow talk. Cuddle. Our legs
shake, but slow. There’s metaphysics to sleaze.

Each thrust begs reaction. Each echo begs
return. In gasps. In rasps. In melodies.

The Twin Blasphemies made me sing your name.
The Pale Night Gnawing Worms helped drag those sounds

from me in tatters. Rot’s Labyrinth then came
to bound down the sounds, while Saint Jude’s hellhounds

intoned the rest like prayer; by rex, by hex,
by your climax. You say that its surreal

to feel me under you, seeing that gleam
in my eyes, knowing how we want this sex.

We do. Me. You. All that gleams in my skull.
All the nightmares that you soothe into dream.

venom

22 Monday Jun 2020

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“But how?” you hiss. How? Your split-flower swells
purple with my tongue in it. How you curve,

grip the sheets, come undone. How hunger spells
leave me famished. I could lap at each nerve

in your clit, leave you both fazed and flayed, slow
ravage –– no? Yes. I’d still devour your heart.

Still lick you away until your ego
dissolves, your mind goes blank and the gods start

buzzing in you. The point of this poem
isn’t that I can, but that I will. Juice

and sauce and sprinkle. “I’m a slutty brat,”
you hiss. Yes, we know. The only venom

in my tongue is what I say to seduce
you. My cum chum, pussy willow, cunt cat.

only

21 Sunday Jun 2020

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“I said, I’m scared of moving on. I said,
I don’t wanna. I said, I don’t want you

to leave me. I said, I don’t want the dread
of you being happy with someone new,

or how you look at another person
the way that I look at you. I said, I

want it be you forever. No one
else but you. I said, I think I’d die

if you were happy. I wanna. I want
to be your one and only. I wanna–”

I stop the voice mail, a frown on my face.
I hit delete. Some mistakes live to haunt

us, some to drag us to hell. I’m your karma,
I see, a hell made without hope or grace.

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.

subversion

18 Thursday Jun 2020

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Hardcore and sublime. We found your limits.
Now comes the pushing over. As you stretched

your jaws wide, cried, “I must be fucking nuts
to let you do this.” As you gagged and retched.

As I pulled my cock from your throat. Others
have asked me if everything that you claim

is true. Who? That hurts. I’m a bad older
brother or uncle or whatever game

we play today. There’s bliss in subversion,
pleasure in chaos. What is true? You cry

only because you want to cry. “Want more?”
Pounding, filling your throat. Drunk on passion

and pain. Spunk drunk with bruises in your thigh.
We’re both sick and fucking like it’s our cure.

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.

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.