Tag Archives: sonnet

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.

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.

frenzies

25 Thursday Jun 2020

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High seas, indeed. The upsurge of bed sheet.
Curling ripple in the quilt. You hand back

the bong to giggle, “I can’t feel my feet.”
If there’s a theme to our sex life’s soundtrack

it’s that feeding frenzies are addictive.
I’m the shark that broke your surface, mouthful

of your menstrual blood. “Harder, I can’t live
without your teeth in me,” you slur. I pull

you down, gulp you down, until you drown, pleased.
It took years of frightful sex to find each

other. I don’t miss that. I was famished
searching for you. Now I’m sated –– your greased

inner muscles squeeze my tongue. Your stoned speech
slurs. You’re all Seven Seas that I’ve ravished.

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.