un

I am the peach
pit.
But not slick.
Wasted.
Licked
And tossed.

I was ripe
For a bit
Bitten
Dripped
Slurped
And deserted.

I have no fruit

moving on

And how is that other bitch?
Is her twat
as tight as mine?
Does she wine
When you twist
Your cock clockwine
In her cunt?
Does she grunt
Does she scream
Does she make you
Feel big,
Wrinkle dick?

Are her tits huge
And does her ass
Have gravity?
Is her skin smooth
And do her thighs
Touch?

Is she everything
I’m not?
Is she hot?
Is she thin
Are her fingers
Dainty
Does she smell
Like lily
Are her
Arms less
Hairy?

Did she leave
A pink thong
For you to
Smell
Is her
Wet spot
In your
Mattress
Does her
Hair smell
Like your
Marlboros
And does she
Bum a smoke
And stroke
Your manhood
Manwood.

And when you
Look at her

Do you think of me?

Coffee Porn

She licks red lipstick off her coffee cup. Then looks up.
He thinks she was giving a blowjob to her cup of caffeine. Please. Who pleases caffeine? Coffee is its own semen. A dream. A wonder machine. A love liquid that quilts a lilting lust through her gut. A steamy libation penetration.
She is wrestling her pink tongue into the cup’s lid that has an unflinchingly small opening. Her taste buds scratch at the plastic like a desperate cat.
She is at it again.
Her unconscious caffeine routine gathered an audience: He, who rather liked the obscene.
He wore jeans. And a dark roast cashmere sweater. His skin was breve.
“I’m Joe”
Maybe she could blow coffee.

Matter

His breath is lit cigarettes. He doesn’t know the bitch beside him. His head spins sins and he has no sheets and no box spring on the mattress that just shits on the unfinished floorboards.
Holes in his Hanes. Frayed seams. Seems ‘fraid.
Pale legs swim with black kinks clog his drain sink. He melts in showers. His skin smoulders. Hunched shoulders. Failed shoulds. Failed woulds. Fuming wounds.
The air is empty. The air is cold.
His nails grow. Too long. Baked with dirt. Frayed. ‘fraid.

Swirl

He might as well have swirled me with his finger like chamomile tea because that’s how I always felt. And I always made sure his fingers were near mine.
“Can I have this?” I pose his skin to sin with mine. Nestle our fingers a love nest. And carve a cradle of his chest.
His face is happy with my arrangement.
It is another season of colored lights. Orange, I think. Our shoddy bar is dim and our drinks are downed.
And the air is a clean crisp that cuts our lungs before we breathe each other.
We will swirl together before he has to go home to his wife.

Some thoughts on a smooth breakup

Broken hearts!
And shit
And cupid
And red.
And the smell of sex rotting my bed.
And the pretty girls.
All of them
Like, everywhere.
With their fairytale hair. Why is there always a breeze to make them look beautiful?

I’ve eaten better bratwurst than your penis
And those screams were for want of better meat
And mustard.
Oh, and a poppy seeded bun.

I take back all the babes
I babbled your way.
And there might be sugar in your gas tank.
And you always said I was so sweet.

Just to be nice, I’ll name my next bratwurst after you.

breakfast and religious shit

Mary
stares at me
through silhouetted
crumby
wondertoast.

I am holy,
she boasts.

She is brown
and begs for butter.

confess your sins
at breakfast;
leave your secrets
within my crusts.

though
i don't know
if I can trust
this
holy dough

or if
i should talk
to toast

She seems sad
beneath a smear
of cream cheese

The early bird

Bitches watched a blue swallow tattoo
needle ink into her
neck
after she nearly drunk herself to death.
birds, bimbos, and blowjobs belong.
neck and neck.
next to gold Jesus
outstretched.
welcomes
ejaculate.
wet.
and milky
with a million
that die on her chest