The last straw was when I slapped his ass while he fucked me slow. "You sick fuck," he rumbled in my ear. We laughed in the thick darkness with nothing but each other to cling to.
I want to write a poem on your body, scrawl all the words of my love and passion upon your flesh; my mouth the pen. I promise to write slowly, ensure proper punctuation and grammar, and to end with a stroke that brings you bliss.
I keep getting these emails about making my cock bigger. Which is strange because I don't have a cock. Well, I do. I bought it. It's mine.
I don't want love, not really. Not the contented domesticity of a white wedding, a swollen pregnant belly, a house in the suburbs or a white picket fence. None of the considerations and compromises that leave you resentful, thinking about how you're losing out on your best fucking years as you brush your teeth while your partner takes a piss. No - what I want is, in comparison, hedonism. The blaze of passion, white hot and unquenchable. To worship your body with my mouth, my hands. I want to shiver under your touch, feel the desire of your gaze and die the little death beneath you. I want the romance of dancing in the kitchen, of falling asleep in your arms, to hold your deepest secrets in confidence, to know you better than anyone else. Then I want the drama. I want you to break my heart, to shatter it so that I can write shitty poems for a lifetime.
I feel hollow - skin tight like a drum - bouncing my fingers upon my chest to hear the echo of my heart.
It lay heavily on my tongue, syrupy with a cloying sweetness, before I swallowed, feeling the burn of Napalm. "That was the only alcohol in the place," you observed, dryly but not without amusement. "Did you want a taste?" the words were too mature for me but you knew that, and perhaps that was the appeal for you.
The darkness slipped inside me at the end of a knotted winter scarf slung over the dilapidated door of a hotel room. There swung the jerking feet of my hopes for faith, love, brotherhood and a well adjusted childhood. It took me decades to understand that you can't change the shifting hands of Fate, much less the accidental slip of the foot.
Hey guys and gals,
I just wanted to remind you that, come Sunday, I won’t be posting daily any more. Like I said in a previous post, I have a chapbook coming out later this year and want to focus on writing content exclusive to that. I also want to focus on submitting my work to more places – I’ve had some good luck so far, and want to see how far I can ride that train. It’s kind of a morbid curiosity 😉
There are also some other avenues that I want to venture forth on – namely expanding my presence on Instagram (my poems are posted there with some visuals) – maybe starting a Patreon and …. my friend is trying to convince me to go on Tic Tok which, I gotta say…just makes my skin crawl. Either way, I’ll let you know what’s happening.
Rest assured, I WILL continue to post here – just not daily. I’m thinking maybe 2 or 3 times a week – maybe more or less depending on how I feel. In the meantime, I invite you to go through the archives – there are just under 90 poems here…. which is kind of mind blowing to me in a way.
The sky is grey, pressing down on me, always pressing down into that hollow cavity where my heart should be. The muscle and sinew still there, of course, useful only to keep time. It does that well, at least, better than a Rolex.
The worst part is when I lie in bed at night, and I have to stop myself from thinking about a (our) future. I catch myself, then cross my wrists over my chest, like a corpse, to protect my heart.