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.