fuck is more fun when you're female (a sestina)

I love to flick fuck off my tongue: Fuck.
A feisty Fffff forces a crack
from my mouth. The word is like rocks,
dense and damaging.
and hard for me to manage
some sort of self control

a single utterance is a defiance of control:
fuck you, fuck them, fuck that; fuck.
And why is it that manage
Starts with man? I’d crack
those cocks. Do some damage
to opinions that reside in those rocks,

and maybe throw some rocks
at those comptrollers and constant control.
I revel to ravage a trail of verbal damage
through this frequent friend, fuck.
I’ll curl this wondrous word to crack
at anger management

I’ll manage
that. And when this rocky
word wreaks havoc, crackles
at this self control,
I’ll sling savage fuck
some more and bask in this damage.

And Damn, the damage
I'll manage
with Fuck
in my pocket arsenal, like rock
and roll with no volume
control;
speakers crack.

I love to slip fuck through the cracks
like water through an aged dam.
Fuck control.
manage
man made rocks
to flood with fucks.

Fuck is my crack
Fuck is my damage
Fuck is my control

I'll never tell

I love to watch
the destruction
of something small,

a toppled stop sign
or
cracked glass
that spiders outwards
for months,

and think,
I'm the only one
who knows.

Passers will wonder
on the way to work
for weeks how
the wooden fence
across the street
splintered in halves?

I have these secrets.
Something to show
but never tell.
something to
snicker to myself.

I revel in these
little rewards
for watching the world;
millions
might know more
if they weren't always
so bored.

bait

you've gutted me,
again.
a fish severed in
halves,
my
silver scales
sparkle across
your hands
and all I have
are inked
eyes
and face agape
to watch this
rape.
you escape
with ease
these
pieces of me
no please
for the place
to store
the shit
you stole

now I am
nothing
but this black hole
once whole
before this
stripped
stock.

when open season
cycles
I'll fish
fresh waters;
ravage you
useless
and toss
this carcass
to drown.

tonight

we curl inside
this pile
of sewn feathers,
into a confettied cocoon
of cotton
we spoon.

our eyes sing
whispered wanting
that ripples across
orion's salted darkness

your fingers trace
my vanilla silhouette
and set ablaze a terrace
that melts us a buttery mess

I ask for forever through
sugared breaths and bet
this bed that he'll say yes.

thanks, but no thanks

fat fuels
a lifelong
battle
for beautiful.
I wage a war
with
a woman's
fattened shadow
showing
more than she
owns;
an onus
on burdened
shoulders
that should
stay locked
indoors.

things seem
so much easier
with slender
thighs
that reside
inches apart.
and how I hurt
for slim
hour glass
s hips,
slick abs,
and a set
of smiling
back dimples.
I pine for a
pair of
defined cheek
bones to brush
my pink blush
upon
and the kind
of skin that
vanilla
envies.

this girl is
not me.

God implanted
other plans
for these thick
hands;
I've been given
a plump set
of everything
and a superior
sense of humor
to laugh
at this
sick
self.

And I laugh
all day
at this
twisted
shit
I was
blessed with
when
beautiful blondes
bask in the acclaim
of everyman.
why do they deserve
beauty more than
me?
this waste of a deck
desperately begs
to be shuffled
when she holds the
royal flush.

and what a waste
to want so much
in a world where
we should show
thanks,
appreciate,
but I bend
backwards
to bask in hate.

I didn't ask for it;
I fell into this fate
and a face
I'm forced to live with,
God's gift
that I'm so sorry
to be spitting on.

I hope he can forgive
this.

worms

April showers
bring May
flowers,
and I always
remember to
tiptoe
in spring.

curtains of
rain
drain nearby
grassed patches
from which the
worms
exile,
slithering
naked bodies
onto wet concrete.

I sidestep
their curved
S's
as I slink across
the sidewalk
and think
about the
thousands
of nude tubes
who've died
for a new
season

I count
the few
I can save
with this
springtime
ballet
and hope
they know
this dance is
for them.

compost

What is
this sickness
we've created,
stacked brick
thick
for years
and lived
within?

this friend
fosters
snakelike
hate
sliming a
scaly
trail through
my trust,
trudging
on what
seemed so
steadfast.

it's
ending so fast.
I've plucked
her apple
and asked for a
handful
of
a rotted
mealy mess
we planted
and implanted,
and now our
garden
grows sick
produce,
swarms with
flies,
and blooms
broken buds.

we will
plant seeds
elsewhere
next spring.

you're still here

I pissed in a place
that smelled like
cigarette smoke
and somehow my
memory
slipped
towards you.

I think about
what I've flushed
away.
the time filled with
heated hate
red faced rage
of piss poor self perception
my endless deprecation
and the spaces
you filled
for me
when I
lacked a glass
to satisfy.

my smokey
conscious
curls a
kiss of grace
towards your corner
where I can
crawl to overcome
the cruel
attic of
unintention.
my intervention,
you ventured
sure footed
through these
gluey forests
for us
and for me.

these are the things
I think about while
I pee.

there's a gate around our house

dad loves
to lock our
broken
oak
door.

he traipses
towards the
door
and slides the silver
lock to the left.
and he seems to feel
relaxed now
that he has locked
everyone else
from his life.

I've watched him
in futile
frustration
wondering why he wants
to keep
everything
locked inside
himself
and this pile
of pink bricks.
And
I
wish
I had
the combination
to his lock,
and that I could
be the
pick
to his secrets,
that it was me
who
unlocked his silence
after all these years.

with a key and a click
I'd kill to open
what makes him tick.
open him like
an accordion
and find whats
between the folds.

for now I
follow him
and twist our
lock open,
hoping he will
get my point.

a new castle

I long
to leave
this childhood
bed.
this bed
is best
built
for one,
and I'd
rather sleep
by my man's
side;
someone to
lie beside.

I wish
to swap
this teddy
for more sturdy
arms,
and this faux
fur
for the swirled
black body hair
of a body guard
to guard bad dreams
and loosen my pajama's
seams during
thunderstorms.

I want a
bed built
for doubles
and adult sheets
to toss between
while we whisper
love sincerely
beneath down feather
blankets
feathering your fingers
through my hair.

I hold bated breath
for breakfast
in my double bed
of scrambled eggs
and buttered toast
we toast this space
our own
and only
when we are alone
we salute this slumber
palace
as our place.

anatomy of the universe

I am your
crotch rocket;
you,
my astronaut.

let's
play space
as we speed
away
towards
stellar
blackness
and
sex
amongst the
stars.
this universe
is ours,
a glittering
salted canvas,
art
of infinite.
small
inside
swirled
layers of
cerulean dust
you steer us,
and I fly
as your ride
while
you explore
my
dark
galaxies
and find
with pride
a solar system
for you
to stroke.
set off
to the sun
just as
we run out
of gas
you expel your
milky way.

dad didn't buy that

gold and silver gifts
from strange guys
glitter
across your fingers.
you wave them as I wonder
where the hell those hands have
been.

do you cuddle
with
the cocks
of new dudes
as our
familial
glue
flounders?

what else
has touched
the guilt-ridden
dinner you've just prepared?
you peel our potatoes
wet
in your starched hands;
holding them gingerly
as you think of the other man.

even your clothes
don't smell like dad's cologne
after a
(now long gone)
goodbye kiss.
no
I love yous,
we've all been dismissed,
and now
you've gone from Mrs.
to Miss.

I
cringe
to share your kiss
with
him:
a picture of
lipsticked lips
stacked around
his dick
swallows
thick
in my throat.

I vote
you put
those hands
back in both
pockets.
please go
sparkle
for
someone else.

an empty room

discos spin silvery
mirrors across my skin,
symmetrical in their dance,
I'm hypnotized again.

I dance in darkness
to forget me,
the things I can't be,
and to shrug off gravity.
these worries weighing
in constant rotation
seem to stand in line
to be forgotten.

lipstick smears across my cheek
and sweat seeps down to the
pit
of my knees
while I pretend no one
can see.
I've cocoon myself
inside my music
with nothing
but these discofireflies
to remind me
of life outside

half-masticated

my father was taken
from me
too easily.
a soul once so loved
was plucked
from us,
still standing,
rapid as a rug.

it was citrus season
when it happened.
his coma left him
with a comma between my first
father and a frosty stranger.
dad's slumber softened in still freezing
february,
and he thirsted for oranges
only.
nurses promised fruit when
he could finally chew
properly.

I
too,
had to learn to chew
properly,
but even now
it is hard to swallow

modern medicine
marooned
him to an island
on his own where
he rarely
paddles back
with a visitor's
pass.

I've packed it
away
as best I can.
stacked in a suitcase
in my attic
of avoidance,
food for fruit flies
to fight for.
I've lost this war
and even oranges
have lost their allure

nature channel

the cottony curtains
exhale
fresh breath from
beyond glassed
windows
croaking
like widowed
frogs
wanting mates

and I sit to
appreciate
the ways
to bait you
into my bed.

propriety
and modesty
are dead
weight
when all
it takes
is
shaved legs
silken smiles
and brazen gazes
to burn ablaze
this pile of pillows.

say you will
oh, and we can dance
with our curtains
like slippery amphibians
until night becomes day again

garbage day is friday from what I've heard

I see your wicker
waste
paper basket is littered
with
broken bits
of condom boxes;
their white insides
don't quite hide
your two-timing
from me
or dad.
you hardly even
tried
to hustle the
hurriedly ripped
package
to the bottom of the trash
where we could at least
imagine
this isn't happening.

the Trojan helmet
glares in your garbage
and you are his horse
that snuck up on our house.
you kept this new men as yours
while you let them fuck you
on all fours

and we are still at home
forced to witness
whorish
empty boxes of once twenty-four.
one of many things you've
thrown away.

baby got back

her spectacular ass
asks,
grab
as
passers worship
her width,
broad hips,
and that mountainous gift.

daydreams drift like
tides as I wish
for that to be mine.

oh, how men linger and long
for an ass like ham
to pump their hips upon.
to stare down at
while those cocks go to bat.

I watch her bounce that backside
back and forth forming figure eights
and drag that freight through
thankful crowds.

she sneers, cries, covers it,
shy,
as I watch from afar and wonder, why?

she has the script of hypnotists;
a single peruse
of that caboose
and men want you.
a handful of pink flesh
to sink their palms into.

she sheds this power like
useless skin.
shrugs it off;
wasted again.