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.
Poems that Suck 