Tag Archives: strange possession

plague

02 Wednesday Sep 2020

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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This time nude in the sheets isn’t a turn
on. To wake after a long illness. To

rise with no more ache in the lungs, no burn
in the breath, no pain in the bones. The flu

made its home in here, much how I suspect
gods would when they take over; possession

being nine-tenths of the law. Prayers to protect
all fall mute, hushed, until windows open,

bed sheets stripped, hot water washes the plague
stink from us. I still love to coax and tease.

Yes. Bliss is our birthright … even when it
does no good. This sick sweat. This rotten egg

fetor. My prayers were simple: just a please
end this. Make me well or make me spirit.

jaeniesh

30 Monday Dec 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Possess, as I possessed that demon, bits
of flesh needing love. In letters I sound

like an arse, I know, writing about clits,
cocks and cunts, and (what did McKay say?) drowned

Harlem girls on drowned Harlem streets. More, please.
Jaeniesh called me infernal. I still grin.

What does a demon know about Hades
but that it’s home? I met her and moved in.

She screamed storms and then flooded with my cock
in her arse. “My mind bursts each time I cum.”

You did not want that but she did. “Please, more,”
Jaeniesh hissed. Other called this smut and schlock,

but they’ve never been possessed with Harlem
of souls, with bliss, with libertine rancor.

Note:
Claude McKay (1889-1948) was one of the key figures in the Harlem Renaissance of the 1930s. He wrote, “Adventure-seasoned and storm-buffeted,/ I shun all signs of anchorage, because/ The zest of life exceeds the bound of laws.”

mercy’s bane

03 Friday Jan 2014

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Like that, I’ll take your pain upon myself,
so that you no longer hurt—an exchange,

release, this little act that you, yourself,
can’t do. That isn’t love, but it’ll do. Strange

possession—hot breath on my neck, strong hands
in my hair, cuffs biting my skin, my neck

pulled taught. You call this control? Pain demands
strength that you don’t possess. All your needs: flick

the whip, bend to your will, be mercy’s bane.
Mercy’s bane? Show me a Dom who laughing

at did not fluster—they’re far too fragile
without power. I love the games of vain

people, they’re so easy to break; proving
that they have yet to learn the word cruel.