"I'm your muse," his slow smile met my hesitation, exhaling a billow of blue smoke into the space between us. "Yes," I allowed, raking my calloused fingers through his soft, fine hair. "I like it," he kissed me gently as only a shy lover could. Do you? I wondered if he understood what it meant to be such a thing. If he grasped how much of my emotional landscape is painted in a pallet of him, The brown of his hair, the blue of his eyes, passionate reds, bruise purples, and the black of abandonment. It's all fun and games until someone loses their heart.
Safe Harbor | Poems that Suck
You came to me,
pockets overflowing with
tamarind pods,
ripe figs,
celery root
and
prickly pears,
bravely holding me
for thirty seconds
"because that's how
long it takes for the
endorphins to be released."
No one's held me
that long before,
and I could've fell
to pieces in your arms
because you felt so safe.
Blue – Green Hair | Poems that Suck
It turns the bathwater chemical blue reminding me of the Mediterranean and better days. Of absorbing Vitamin D through my skin as a beautiful man begged to worship at the temple of my body. Where I felt alive being carried on the waves which rolled like a skilled lover's hips. This fiberglass tub is a cheap, lifeless imitation of that Middling Sea; The blue stain ringing the basin a reminder of that.
Nabokovian Relationship | Poems that Suck
You were my Humbert, and I was your Lo. Together we created an unholy concoction of synthetic love and questionable consent.
It Was a Fucking Love Tap! | Poems that Suck
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.
On Flesh | Poems that Suck
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.
Spam | Poems that Suck
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.
Let’s Smash | Poems that Suck
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.
Drum| Poems that Suck
I feel hollow - skin tight like a drum - bouncing my fingers upon my chest to hear the echo of my heart.
Cognac | Poems that Suck
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.
Poems that Suck 