Tag Archives: poem

do you

12 Friday Jun 2020

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Meekness, you sigh, is kinda all that we
got here. That’s okay; there’s many other

ways to get you off. Before you left me
to go to school I ran a long leather

cord down between the cheeks of your ass then
up to spread the lips of your cunt wide. Wear

this all day, I say. Again and again
this dull world passes you by, unaware

that you’re trying hard not to cum. Each time
you sit the cord rubs your clit. No one knows

your head spins when you stand. All leather
can be torture. All pain can be sublime

when you want it. Do you? Under your clothes
you grow wet as swampland for an answer.

cleft

11 Thursday Jun 2020

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There should be a word for when a cleavage
is laid bare, unbosomed. Moments ago

you bent forward to unbind the bandage
that kept your flesh in place. I’ve rubbed aloe

oil into those ridges those bindings left:
ridged bruise that ooze. What good is this magic

if it can’t salve you each time you pin, cleft
and strap down? Voluptuous magic. Thick

magic. Curvaceous. In the bath, after
work, you tell me about your day. One day

you’ll be a queen crone and then we can heal
from the need to conceal. We learn other

words when we do. We’ll be boss. We’ll slay
when we unwrap, unmask, unconceal.

gash

10 Wednesday Jun 2020

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They say alcohol makes us beasts. Indeed,
I was drunk each time I snatched you up, mauled

you with clack-claws, with tongue, with unhurried
greed. I thought temperance would cool my ribald

tastes; that my need for a good feed would wilt
with no thirst to drive it. Foolish. I’ve been

foolish. Tell me you still want me to split
you wide, pierce you through like St. Sebastian

with my cock: dozens of bloody deep strokes.
Drunk on that word: gash. Drunk on that other

spirit. Tell me your bone’s marrow is mine
for the sucking. No hangover will coax

out these moans when you cum. Drunk sober
when your cum tastes better than any wine.

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.

roughhouse

07 Sunday Jun 2020

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When I lurched from the old-timey, baroque-
ass stove, when flame claimed my lashes and brows,

when a third of my scalp went up in smoke.
Odd how our flesh reacts. You say roughhouse

is fun. Hot wax feels scrumdiddlyumptious,
you say, lighting the candle. Suddenly

my scalp’s scars come alive with pink, wet puss
as the skin peels back, as I sit for three

days with open wounds until the Peace Corps
doctor can drive to my post. I forgot

that pain. My flesh, though, still loves to remind
me, in odd ways, at odd times, that I’m more

scab than baroque, that I’m slow at being taught,
that these scars are of the runnyrot kind.

][][

Note:
Scrumdiddlyumptious (wonderful) and runnyrot (horrible and painful) are gobblefunk words made up by Roald Dahl for his book, The BFG (1982)

twice

05 Friday Jun 2020

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In some films, when someone cries out, “I’ll suck
out the poison!” the wound is always here ––

on the ankle. They make their, “cooties! yuck!”
face, so it’s sincere. Snakes never bite near

cocks, ass, underboob. Just the chaste ankle.
I like yelling, “I’ll suck out the poison!”

too –– when we’re out in public. These nipple
biting snakes are bad news when they fasten

their fangs on your inner thigh, neck, G-spot.
Since I’m eager to save you I’ll suck twice

as hard, twice as long. Odd you keep getting
bit when we go out. Does poison run hot

in you now? Others call this sin and vice.
Let them. We both know this is life saving.

razzles

03 Wednesday Jun 2020

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A small smudged death around the lips. A smear;
a vile small smear. Meanwhile, the rest of us

have more haunting tasks. Mascara-like fear
flaking around your eyes. Rise. A painless

love is no love at all. Wise know these scars
never heal. What are scars but our bodies

keeping the dazzling in? All that mars
beauty is beauty itself. Ties what frees

us frees us. Others cry, “why hurt us?” You
sigh, “why not?” It’s not your spit-speckled grin

that I stare at as you gag down my cock,
it’s your eyes. Here lies what matters. Here, too,

lies what the false fear when they call love sin.
Their love dries to a smear, ours razzles, shocks.

grape

01 Monday Jun 2020

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Hi Tech changes. Some sins get left behind.
Of the endless hours of VCR tape

there’s just one left, with the, “be kind/ rewind,”
sticker on top. You thought, “Tentacle Grape,”

a droll name for our sex act; while, somewhere,
Oscar Wilde rolled his eyes. Now everyone

has a cam, and what you called our, “nightmare
bliss,” pales compared to all the hard-core fun

posted on-line. No one can even view
this, our last carnal act, which your husband

might be glad about, if he knew. “He don’t
know,” you said. It turned out that wasn’t true.

These days I’ve yet to find you in dreamland.
True, I could send this to you, but I won’t.

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.

balampalampam

30 Saturday May 2020

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Behind the closed garage doors engine oil
fumes, touch of ganja, dust on the wainscot,

on a workbench piled high with odd gargoyle
lumps, unfinished tasks your husband forgot

about years ago. We’ve come here to play;
the grease spot on the floor mirrors our own

messy thoughts. Hair in rollers, negligee
cast down, my cock buried in the well-known,

well-loved well of your balampalampam.
This is, “kunou-monou;” what the obeah

vow, old-school sodomy. At sixty-five
strokes you shout, at ninety-five you melt. “Damn,

boy-boy,” you groan. “Damn, cum in me.” If we
sin its through love. If we love we survive.

][][

Notes:
I use Barbados slang in this poem. Balampalampam means a very large ass. Kunou-monou is a bewitching spell. Obeah is witchcraft.