I watched him - as beautiful as any woman - from the doorway of the bathroom as he smudged eyeliner along his ice blue eyes, an artform more men should learn. When he glanced at me in the mirror, I wisecracked "You want some lipstick with that?" Causing him to arch his thin brows in defiance, "If you weren't being such a smartass about it maybe I would."
Desert Fantasies | Poems that Suck
I'm dreaming of
rocky deserts;
dehydrated packed
earth and a
blistering sun.
I'm dreaming of
vultures - those
winged friends -
swooping overhead
in slow circles,
as my body
lies still and
prostrate, feeling
the death and
desolace all
around me -
rising up, and
through me,
cleansing
this body
like a
burnt
offering.
Nola | Poems that Suck
I was thinking about New Orleans today. My New Orleans, whose streets and alleys are as personal and intimate to me as a pussy stroke. Far away from the blaze of Bourbon where the neon children live their lives that burn bright, flicker, then die. Away from the tourist traps where Black men are forced to shuck and jive for those who are simultaneously lily White and scaly with sunburn, and who are all too pleased to press a dollar in a palm that’s butter mellow or burnt sienna to ease their consciences of what their granddaddies did and what their grandbabies will continue to do. Far, far outside the districts where the night air is weighted differently; the sound of the Zydeco creeping on the wind like a ghost in the alleyways. Where the slow drawl of, ‘how you doin’ ‘chere?’ is as satisfying as the crunch of new gravel under the heel of my boot; good for the ear and the Soul. Where the familiar smell of smoke, stale beer and sawdust floors feel like home, and I can dance, and dance, and dance.
Biology | Poems that Suck
I want you to cum inside of me and say 'fuck it' to the consequences because the idea of your biology and my own - of cell and tissue, swirling strands of DNA co-mingling inside my body has become the height of romance.
I Wanna Fee that Free Fall | Poems that Suck
I don't know where I'm at or where I'm going - only that I am standing at a precipice and the only way forward is d o w n . Instead of feeling anxious or fearful, I'm fantasizing about what it will feel like to finally tip over, head first. I imagine it will be a relief; the dropping sensation in my stomach - like that second you crest over the first coaster hill - and the wind in my hair, tangling it all to hell, as I plummet toward the ground. What a comfort it'll be to leave the dust of the old behind; what a delight to be carried on the thermal of a new life.
Why He Won’t Let You Fuck His Ass | Poems that Suck
If you want to know the REAL reason why your boyfriend won't let you fuck him up his ass you have to ask questions - deductive questions - the kind of questions that eliminates all the superficial reasons. "Do you think it's gay?" No. "Are you afraid you'll like it?" No. "Are you afraid it'll hurt?" No. "Are you worried poop will come out?" <<Silence>> There ya go, ladies. Your man won't let you fuck his ass because he's afraid his own shit will come back to haunt him.
A Poem About You Doesn’t Deserve a Name | Poems that Suck
They say you can't get blood from a stone, but you tried to get milk from my bones to nourish your anorexic heart that weighs love and control in equal measure on the rigged scales of parenthood. I've grown up in the shadow of your buzz words and catch phrases for women: Cunt. Bitch. Dyke. Slut. Cocktease. Prude. Whore. Pronouncing with a fascist authority what women can and can't, shouldn't, be or do And me trying valiantly to mould myself to the exact form for what you consider the ideal man - because women, in your eyes, ain't shit - so that I could garner a single scrap of affection or respect from you. But after 38 years, I've finally caught on to your game - better late than never! - and I'd rather char my bones to cinders in the crematorium of my own righteous fury and indignation than ever let you back in the door that I slammed in your face last April.
Dangerous | Poems that Suck
The problem with calling yourself the muse of a girl with daddy issues, and a habit of using men's bodies to masturbate with is that the love may be fabricated, and when she's used you up and the well of inspiration has run dry, you'll be thrown away like a shitty diaper.
Trash | Poems that Suck
Who the fuck are you anyway, that my blood should turn from rust to fire at the mere closeness of you? And who the fuck am I becoming with the shiver of every orgasm, under the pressure of your lips on my own? Who am I? Because I seem to have lost track - seemed to have forgotten that I'm only a: broken girl, a fast girl, a foul-mouthed girl. Who the fuck am I? Because when I look in your eye, and see myself reflected there, I'm not trash anymore.
Oh Shit | Poems that Suck
I forgot I called the plumber because the sinks weren't draining properly in my house. After a strong cup of coffee, and about twenty menthol cigarettes, I felt the tell-tale rattling in my guts that I have to take a monstrous shit. So I ambled to the bathroom, produced a bowl-buster, marveled at its length like a proud parent, and then - without a thought - flushed my shit baby away. About ten seconds later I heard a horrified scream from the basement, and immediately remembered.... Oh shit. The plumber.