Tag Archives: sex

Better Free

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Locked behind bones wrapped in brocade
an indelicate escape plea
screaming inward for a reply.
This bustle will surely outgrow
the short lived modesty debut.

One could claim you're on a crusade
offending nobles in a spree
until it's protests can outcry,
overpower, your own deep woe -
setting you down, trapping anew.

Perhaps you'll set to work, or trade
Or marry yourself a marquis.
Resolve your fate with one more lie:
he undressed you patiently slow
then treats you as more than a screw
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Shiraz

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Against the cool of your skin
Is the beckoning of touch,
Ringing crystalline droplets
Glistening trails on curves
That plead for caresses. 
Anticipatory surface tension
Tested against lingering traces
Until ever so slightly vibrating
In a sweet longing response.
Suspense is broken by desire
For a full bodied, sweet taste. 
Thirstily savouring the flavour, 
Sun kissed, warmed in hand
And held in a divine vessel

Question Touch

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Do you have to scrub your skin too?
Scratch off it’s surface over and over
Until twenty burning layers away
From the tracks of unwanted caress?

Remember as the acid seeps through
And you lose that arrogant composure,
That I am only just beginning to play
With these things that helps me ‘process.’

Have you ever had to show your face
When no-one knows the predator won?
Force a smile, a dead eyed, dull grin,
Hoping when friends hug you don’t flinch.

Centre of the tooth, with nerve in place,
I’ll drill a hole through every single one,
Thread through each a fine steel string
To pull them slow with a hand crank winch.

When you’ve walked passed each other
Have you been filled with complete terror?
Did you grasp tightly at your fabric clothes
As though they’ll protect from the shame?

It’s so gratifying to watch as you suffer.
The chemicals turned your skin to leather
It’s time to cut that wailing tongue into rows
I hope I don’t strike a vein, I like this game.

Does the night bring back all the memories
That weigh you down with its terrifying grip?
Do you hope that by the morning sunrise
Your heart would stop it’s painful beating?

I’d quit the whining, there are no remedies
As I watch you choke behind glued lips.
I can’t stand to be devoured by your eyes
But a pin prick will remove their seeing.

Are your days filled with asking why?
Blaming yourself for being the prey,
Breaking yourself down ‘til you barely exist
Pretending it never hurt you that much.

I’m sure you’re all but ready to die?
But you don’t look like your inner decay!
I’ll let you decompose in your own shit
Because a touch is not just a touch.

Buying Happiness in Room 208

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The cheap cotton shirt 
Rubbed on his plump neck 
As he sat on the edge of the bed
Watching her adjust her cheap polyester bustier. 
They’d discussed pricing. 
He’d already paid half. 
He was nervous, 
Hesitant, 
Didn’t think he could
So she cut him slack.

She pursed her lips 
And tugged at his zipper. 
When she was bobbing her head
He was positioned staring at the ceiling 
Unable to sit. 
Before long his face, 
Once a grimace, 
Glowed from completion. 
Slipping out another twenty, 
He passed her a tissue and left.

An Angel on Fire

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The feathered wings smelt the worst,
Like plastic had fucked hair and created hatred.
The smoke those feathers created
Wrapped itself around every breath
And burned our tracheas raw.

At first, His visit was delightful,
But as judgment reigned on our indiscretion
The townsfolk yelled witch
And bound His wings with the rope
They bound their wives with at night.

We were entranced by the screams 
Just as we were oft enraptured in each other’s sex.
Gleefully we cheered melting skin,
And screwed as the fat charred,
Breathing in roasted celestial.

The final flames danced at the messengers’ feet
As townsmen recovered from climax,
And wives licked each other's wounds clean.
We satiated all violent and sexual desires,
The day we set the Angel on Fire.

The Girl That Could Dance

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Outstretched legs that could reach the sky,
And nails long enough to lose an eye.
Curves small and soft, but defined and outlined,
Face tight, flawless, and often kind.
Pointed toes that swept deftly, precise,
And affection that came at a price,
Back tickled with golden hair,
A body most beautiful bare.
Elegant movements, jeté, plié,
Childish as very cliché.
Parents who raised their child right,
With the grace of a mythic sprite.

Shame everyone else had loved her too.

Mrs. Delora

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Come take a seat with Mrs Delora.
Find the answers to your questions,
Discover your truths,
Explore your future,
And marvel at her talents.
But, beware,
You may find more than you seek,
You may learn more than you need,
And you may leave... Liberated!

I took the man up on his offer,
And sat on a stool inside the tent.
Across the large wooden table
Sat a Fortune teller
Drowning in hemp cloth
And gold charms.

Her face was haggard,
As if she had seen a thousand lifetimes.
Her breath, strained and heavy,
And the smell of stale smoke,
Mixed with burnt herbs choked my lungs.

She placed her hand out on the table,
And coughed, wordlessly
Demanding my hand in hers.
In my open palm she placed a red stone,
And closed my fingers tight.

Are you a whore child?
I gasped, offended,
A whore! How dare she!
I guess you’re just promiscuous,
Don’t be offended,
I’m just teasing, child.

She started laughing,
Throaty and coarse she cackled.
But her humour was fugacious.

You’ll be barren of life,
You’ll just be a stand in,
A temporary.

Her words spun around my head,
As they tightened the garotte
Around my throat,
Pulling burning breaths
And twisting them under my tongue.

Would you like some tea?
It helps with the truth,
Makes it palatable…

I sip the mossy coloured liquid,
It burns my mouth,
But I can breathe again.
I can breathe much slower,
Pulling air deeply 
Into my famished lungs.

Yes child, that’s it,
Breathe.

I nod, and bare my hand,
The red stone in my open palm,
It was tinged with black,
Like a plague was spreading
Tainting its surface.

You won’t have to worry,
You’ll not be left a spinster,
You’ll be left,
Penniless, naked,
Alone in a ditch.

Wha… Wha…
The words slur incomplete.
My breath long but shallow,
My eyes open,
Unblinking.

Just breathe,
Let Mrs Delora liberate you,

Come take a seat with Mrs Delora.
Find the answers to your questions,
Discover your truths,
Explore your future,
And marvel at her talents.
But, beware,
You may find more than you seek,
You may learn more than you need,
And you may leave... Liberated!

The Sequel Child

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Images move animatedly across the tv screen,
Sounds are blended into the background noise,
The foreground filled with heavy breathing,
The satiation of pleasure between two,
Summed up by title of ‘Netflix and chill.’

The sequel, a follow up on two series merging,
Finally born, gendered by the pink onsie,
The gentle curves of tassels and bows,
And the growing basket of perfectly painted,
Single expression, pose-able dolls.

Years of playing courting, marriage,
Nuclear house, one ken, one barbie, and baby,
Of traditionalism imposed in playtime, destroyed.
The babe who once played with dolls,
Becomes the doll in the tent playing with her bae.

Within a flash, the two are married,
Both taking and barrelling their surnames,
Living equal in their roles, life, and love,
Until the hourglass is empty,
And the grieving hold their umbrellas in the rain.