Hope · Love · Spirituality

Olivewood | Poems that Suck

We snuck into the church's gift shop in
 hopes of escaping the oppressive summer heat.
  They had an air conditioner, which felt delicious
   on our sweaty skin and sunburnt shoulder blades.

Trying to look inconspicuous, we pretended
 to shop, so the clerk wouldn't catch on and
  throw us out. You were looking at something intently
   and when I came to see, you extended your hand to me.

In the bowl of your palm was a perfectly carved,
 polished olivewood heart. I turned my palm skyward
  to see if you would offer it; you dropped it into
   my waiting hand without hesitation. 
Sex · Humor

Ain’t That Somethin’ | Poems that Suck

When I was 19 I had this 
 boyfriend and he was a little
  strange; a little too in to women's
   silky panties, a little too intellectual.
                                          ya dig?

Anyway, this one time when we
 were fucking, he jumped up on my
  chest and swung his little ass around
   and wanted me to blow him from the back. 

Now, I've seen and done a lot of
 weird and kinky shit since then but, 
  you never forget the first time you see
    the back of someone's ball bag. Magnificent. 
Hope · Mental Health · Writing

Nostalgia | Poems that Suck

 There's one addiction I have
   and that's living in the
                         past.

 I like to go back in time and
    replay scenes in my head;
      good ones, bad ones,
        they're all the same.

 I like to relive them in great detail,
   slowing down time to capture the specifics
    I missed in those moments the first
                              time around.

 I imagine that they are photographs,
    and imagine the condition they'd be in.
      Some edges worn from constant replay,
        other sticky with the aftermath of love making,
          still others, ripped and pasted together again, their
                             edges burnt in fury. 
Love · Sex

To Swallow the Sun | Poems that Suck

 Your long, thin finger crept
                       like a spider
           up my inner thigh.
 
 "Stop," I hissed through my teeth;
                 a warning. 
 "No one's looking, no one cares."
                and you continued
 your journey up the pale length of my skin.
 
 The pads of your fingertips reached their
                   intended destination
 and I sighed with the delicious feel of them,
 
 as I gazed, heavy lidded, at the sea,
                    head tilted back,
 as if I were swallowing the sun. 
Writing

Shitty Poetry | Poems that Suck

Shitty poetry

is cowardice.

It tries to beautify

the human condition

to either mask it

or find the beauty

in the awful.

It’s shit because

it doesn’t have

the courage

to capture

what’s is

disgusting,

wrong,

depraved,

obscene,

indecent,

traumatic,

and

heartbreaking.

It sanitizes life,

stripping it of

the bone and

sinew that

makes us

connect

with

each

other.

So go ahead,

write another

poem about

a beautiful

flower

graciously

farting out

pollen

or

some

other

bullshit.

I’ll stick to the underbelly.

Humor

The Shit You’ll See in Paris | Poems that Suck

I was walking along a narrow,

Parisian street; very posh,

the kind with neat hedgerows

that camouflage the iron gate

intended to keep

the riff raff

out.

I was having a pleasant

morning stroll, but

then a giant pile

of dog shit

came across

my

path.

I paused for a moment,

nibbling on my

chocolate croissant,

mulling over

the turd in

my way

before

continuing

on.

Not five steps away,

I beheld what was

very clearly a

skid mark

that repeated

every three

paces

or

so.

I quickly put the

pieces together,

some unfortunate

fellow had stepped

in that

shit

not

far

back

And had spent

half a mile

trying to

scuff it off

the bottom

of

his

shoe.

I gazed at the

last, short

skid shaking

my head.

Surely, this

was a

commentary

on

life.

Humor · Sex

Paris | Poems that Suck

I was in Paris, once,

just a few days.

I didn’t do all the

touristy shit;

the Arc du Triomph,

the Eiffel Tower,

the Louvre.

Instead, I went down

to Pigalle, where the

streets are a litany

of porno shops.

I bought myself

a vibrator

and

some lube.

Then went back to

my closet of

an apartment

and had a

good fuck

on the

lice

ridden

bed.