you said fruit wasn't sexy

fresh fruit
ripens best
when caressed,
like your hands
between my breasts.

I am sweet,
too;
seduce me
like
fruit

like strawberries
in august,
my flesh begs
for your breath
upon it

my fig lips
lilt
sweetly
for your kiss;
they
are ripe
for
picking.

paw my
papaya
between your
palms
and
lick
the sexy
slick
pit

and notice
how black
centers
summon
nectar;
they
beckon
and

beg
to be

fed.

for him

she is
waiting

beneath
a roaring
sky
for the rain
to remind
her
that she's
alive.

her insides
howl
with dead leaves
dried;
she cowers
beneath
forests
of lies.

long live
her sickness
to cyclone
itself into
maddness.
she wants
to watch
colors die
and cry
liquid lies
to write
against
her skin.

she prays
for pain
and blooms
an anguish
she enjoys.

all this shit
all for a boy.

taller

I want to strut
stilettos
for him.

some
four-incher
tight pant
pinchers
slim limb
bimbo
bouncers
pronouncing

pouncers.

this
skyscraper
thigh shaker
shit
isn't for
beginners;
my limbs
long for sin.

I want
this
patent leather
prance
to permeate
his
pleasure centers.
Fascinate your
fantasies
with visions of
licorice long stems
and longing
and
foggy glass.

ogle these legs
up to my ass
and plan your
palm to pass a grasp

then grab.

then gasp.

wrap these
rocketship sex shoes
around you
and let's
blast to the

moon.

infestation

this
spider
looks like
chamomile
tea leaves.
it spindles
across her lips

and she lets
it.

she has a death
wish.
she washes
it
thick
in
deterrent
detergent.

Cheer.

and
spider
inside her
negotiates
escapes
beneath the
breath
she bates.

she prays.

she waits.

she lets
spider
sew
and hopes
its
circle
lets her

go

men have penises for brains

you

are too
easy,
mister
sleazy.

does this skin
get you off?
ooh,
yes.
how soft.

and this breast;
are you erect
yet,
erection set?

my ass
is begging
for your boner;
bring home the bacon,
baby.

are you longing for
my lips
to fondle
with your dick?
yum
slick.

what if
I touched myself
like this:
trace fingers
south
against my
hips?

would you
like
some of this?

I bet,
big boy.

If you're
good
I let you
play
with my
toys.

a hole

the
unholy
pink
hole
that you
pump your
pompous pole
protrusion
into
promises
not
to get
unglued.

he's just
this
dude.

who

looks like
sex.
musk
and cigarettes.
a different
set
of
should
expects

are erect.

I reject
his
wrecked effects
and wretched
affections.
I switch
the subject
and interject
an
eject.

at this
junction
I jot
sexmusk mister
sinster
an obituary.
this bitch
buries
the
barely believable
lies
that reside
in skin
hammocks.

lower your
pole
and find
a new
hole.

ownership

what is this body to you,
dude?
skin to screw,
a boat
to float into
so
your balls
won't bounce
blue?

press that
sex
strained
face
skywards
and put me
on
me like
prom flowers

then
use up
my juice
and go junking.