You were going to be late for an appointment. Sunlight constricted everything. The shock of your face as if I never truly remembered it. I dropped on one knee in dampened grass while you grabbed my hair and eased your world into me.
The effortless arousal at your command to take you into me, pushing, pulling. Something so natural, I wept as you fed me.
I have not showered in three days. Haven't brushed my teeth.
I want to feed him with my breasts. I want his tongue darting softly in my mouth, in and out like the waves upon the shore. To sit upon his engorged flesh and love his pain away, my tongue lapping at his tears.
I want to swallow his past, his fears while my sex swallows his member, up and down, side to side, in slow, deliberate agony. His thick stalk is slick and glistening with my need, so deep inside me I can feel the tight pounding of his testicles.
Sometimes, he lets me behold the wonder of our bodies joined...
Little Miss Isabel, I came upon you suddenly, fresh from autopsy, flowering with the fetid stink of the parsimonious medical examiner.
Two moldering arcs of stitches were embedded in your chest cavity, twitching to sprout wings. An embalmer sat sewing the layer of skin and hair back onto your tender scalp. His foot tapped in rhythm to the local country music station.
I was awestruck by your singular beauty. Five year-old magnolia pinched of petals in a cruel session of Love-Me-Not, greasy-cold from moisturizer...
(This poem is about when my daughter was very young and at the time I was screwed up emotionally, partying all night at clubs and doing drugs... It concerns the guilt I felt and how eventually it led me to change.)
my reflection in your Christmas portrait little thing of peaches and cream sighs Mama a ghoul, around her eyes fuming a grave deliberately drenched in blue
dancing on the catafalque like a resurrected banshee stink of corpses, Camels, and Cuervo on her clothes back at home an erratic heartbeat thought she’d sizzle come...
he had once affected an erotic mercy and lent his scent to my clothes and essence I could grow drugged upon later
that entrapped opiate lingering within such scant garments as indigo lace and stained chiffon the chamois nestled feline into the pillow at times scattered upon the hardwood floor to make a shocking quilt
his scent feral, overwhelming a pungent urgency jolting the senses that of a wolf within shadow talons bared, moisture glistening in ragged crescent moons
and now reliving the spectacle I lie sprawled on...
I used to think I'd be loved because of my ability to give a good blow job.
There were simply some boys whose essences I craved like water: the haunting curve of a collarbone, a delectable jaw line, the satiny trail of hair leading down to a groin could make tears spring to my eyes, my stomach surge with love.
There is nothing like the feel of a silken shaft in your mouth, the heart-beat throb massaging your tonsils. I'd weigh their engorged testicles like bags of gold in my palms, pausing to bathe those swollen plums in...
My mother burns my face with the iron, my corkscrew curls turned limp in fog. Our white pinafores gone green in wet, sodden grass. That time my father lifted me by the leg, beating me in front of all the neighbors. I am tormented by the sadness of mahogany end tables. Even the doors are dangerous. At the funerals our grandmothers’ hands rest at the napes of our necks. Making sure we behave. That we believe. Grandpa lets me sleep in their bed while Grandma wrings the house of devils. The lamps lit low...