Tagged: cum

Will it read Poetry?

If I ejaculate on the page
Will it read
Poetry?
What if I tease them
With another man’s seamen?
If I use my little peter
Will it rhyme with meter
Reveal my best feature
I’m student, plaid skirt
Spank me teacher
The ruler breaks
When I masturbate
Auto asphyxiate
Spit in my face
Put this little bitch
In his place
Don’t be meager
Be the woman
man enough for me

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Sad Tugging

I took her love
like a well fitted suit
snarling
shame
in between torn
Kreuger thighs
of suicidal dancer
tapering to toes
curling

taking me to celestial lows
(revolutionary)
In-furled frilled brow
Hand clenching
my heat

David

Swaying hips, seducing steps
Playing games
I am your queen
You are my king
Shuffled together
Front to back
I can feel your desire

Your heat swelling
Throbbing against flesh
Like the magician that first showed me what it means to love
You flip these cards

With hairy hot strength
At first it hurt
Cracking pelvis
You flip those cards

Play those cards effortlessly
Endless monstrous cock
Sometimes you pass me in those beginner halls

Sometimes nearly naked
With firm pectorals
Raging biceps
The red sea couldn’t spread far enough for you

Taught skin
Tightening
Sweet jagged friction
Drenched in
Excited sweat, spasms,
and warm
Pure
Snow

With him inserting himself
Into my very own
Like an artist
Throbbing to create
Vibrant
pink
lips

Left hand on the bible, right on Denim bulge

Squirm past squeezing palms
Clenching snake, pulled from the grass
More slither than green
Torturous in grip

Alcohol is one of several
lubricants needed in love
Pulsating, Swollen, past fiery red thumb tack
Crimson Inflating balloon
Deep in thought of the
Dandelion Drip drip
Past the tip

This is what life is
Pass the ball
Back and forth
Waiting to score
On the Pew

She’s warm
Strained mushroom
Ecstatic she feels like the love of Jesus
a collage of pieces of impregnated
Maple Syrup stick tissue

My savior
The drip drip daffodil
Feels just like
My savior
Oh God.
Oh.

A Special Ejaculate

The waitress said “Garbage”
She was right.
The painful realization
that I’m not Hemingway
Or Plath, or Neruda, or Rimbaud.

That I can never hope to be them
I don’t even have the balls or the hatred in me that made Bukowski
But I can watch her walk away shaking her fat ass
That doesn’t make me any more of a writer
Than the men going into late night movies
Leaving with wads of toilet paper

A literary ejaculation
A response
To pornography
To the way the world works
To the way children squeal
If I am the man going into these late night movies
Then I guess I am a writer after all.

Love Seat

Junkie California coastals
Fuck on the tattered up
Couch on my porch

They don’t mind the light
From my burning cigarette
Or a hand down dirty denim

While they go at it
And at it
They cry out
To an impartial
Crescent moon

Sometimes I join in
They say that’s how I became
venereal vermin

But it was me
That did it to them

I’ve collected every disease
From the five corners of the world

I wait on a throne
Of the dead proletariat
the exclusive club
of people whose
genitals share the same rot

Slip On Shoes

No cure
for the restless
with sputtering minds:
an ’86 Chevrolet
with a hole in the gas tank
and a corpse in the trunk.

Eyes shut
brace the doors
of my water damaged
asylum
insects within my split tongue
released to the public
kernels stuck between
my teeth
the protein
of Heaven’s head lice.

Trade shoes
but
some laces aren’t worth being tied
I won’t be surprised
to find you’ve hijacked a plane
murdered your spouse
and ejaculated on the President’s face.