Tuesday, 22 October 2013

Pornographic Memories

I need that again...

The wetness of his tongue on the tippy tip of my nipples
The sharpness of his teeth biting into my breast in between flicks
The roughness of his fingers grabbing my thighs, squeezing me open...

I remember it all.

Every detail pornographically stamped into my memory
Every feeling spinning on the reel of my mind
Open air
Cool breeze on my face
Tits exposed
Ass pressed up against the hood of the 4 wheel drive
His hardness hardly hidden
Anticipation building
His thickness strained against the boundaries of his corduroys
Pushing against the frustrating pain in my belly
The sound of the zipper finally zip zipping
His gift arriving
And I knew he would be good...

I remember it all.

Completely naked against his cotton shirt
My every garment artistically thrown near the front wheel
Challenging Van Gogh
Hot sex against cold painted metal
He thrusted
I pierced open
The trees watched
The stars were jealous
I reveled in the thickness of his blackness
Him probing
Beating my fatness...

I remember it all.

Standing in line at the bank...
Frozen in thought...
Enthralled by pornographic memories.

Sunday, 22 April 2012

Cry Me A Beautiful Poem

Cry me a beautiful poem.
Let it pour from your heart
Filled with declarations of your love for my soul.
Convince me of the trueness of your purest intentions
As you weave passion with words.

Cry me a beautiful poem,
And let me know that doubtlessly, you are mine,
Make me unafraid of losing you
By bonding yourself to me eternally.
Convince me of your plans of a relentless pursuit of my heart
Until your poetic words and mine are one.

Cry me a beautiful poem,
And if you must, bleed.
Let me believe in your efforts at wooing my mind and body into your favor.
If you are genuine, prove it
And let me have the satisfaction of your suffering.
Convince me that I'm worth everything you are
And everything we could be.

Cry me a beautiful poem
And I will drown the Earth with a thousand of my own,
I'll purge any skepticism, any fears,
Eradicate any questions about the direction of my heart;
It was made for you,
And I will convince you that all is yours and I am all.

Wednesday, 11 April 2012

Lose Weight!

Lose weight,
Lose weight…lose weight!
Pumping quads burning through the movement of squats,
Biceps and Triceps
Linked like two school girls
Gripping onto each other on a long, dangerous ride,
Chest muscles smashing the sides of their faces together
As I try to improve their overall outlook on life.

Lose weight,
Lose weight…lose weight!
A pool of sweat
That might as well have been blood
Forming a molten pathway on the hardwood,
Dumbbells slick with the efforts of my exertion
Screaming at me from their position on the floor,
“You pussy!”
As I try to fight through the burn of today’s pursuit of fat burning.

Lose weight,
Lose weight…lose weight!
Thinking about the never been worn dress
Taunting me
From its place of prestige in my closet,
Flaunting her smallness as the years go by,
Filing her nails and batting her eyes,
Impatient with my prolonged heaviness,
As I try to become identical to her measurements.

Lose weight,
Lose weight…lose weight!
And here comes the pepperoni pizza that will take all my dreams away…

The Sidewalk

Lady of the Night;
      The sidewalk:
            Everyone uses you,
            But nobody takes you home.

Sweet Childhood of Mine

White, crisp, clear visions
Of a pure childhood;
Innocence at her best,
Dressed in royal finery,
Her hair silky,
Lavishly styled,
Smelling of blossoms.
Her shoes glittering
With the precious stones
Of a joyful heart.

The uninterrupted alto
Of a youth's musical laughter
Ringing out to bless the Heavens;
Cupid's harp touched by jealousy,
Smiling parents' ears attuned to the symphony.
Winds that smelled of coconuts,
And pineapples,
Of kittens
And puppies,
And a great grandmother
Who smelled of  honey and mint.

A tongue rolled around
A precious slab of milk chocolate,
A rosy faced doll
Sitting patiently
Awaiting her chance
At a lovely sample of sweet childhood
That crusts the exterior
Of a pan of freshly baked pastry
Across the way
From alien ship sized bowls
Of deliciously ripe mangoes;
Their juices throbbing
Beneath the surface
Of golden skin,
To this sweet childhood of mine.

Friday, 10 February 2012

Lucy's Pretty Socks

Lucy is a girl with many friends;
Twenty pairs of pretty socks sitting impatiently
In the top drawer of her clothes cabinet
Anxiously waiting for her to come home from school
To play.
They jump out at her,
Recognizing the feel of her excited fingers
As she pulls on the drawer handle
And accepts the advances
Of only one beloved pair,
Slipping them onto her feet
In the same way that she imagines
The Queen would royally adorn herself
In the softest winter stockings.
Yellow is always the first to say a sunny hello,
Almost outshining Green
As he inquires if she remembered
To place the plastic bottle in the recycle bin today,
Red offering her a band aid to cover the awful
Cut on her big toe
Which she got from running home too fast,
Blue ecstatically telling tales of his adventures at sea
Where he encountered a shark that swam right through him!
Lilac can barely be heard, sighing contentedly,
Pleased about the way the smiling orchids
Are learning to speak the language of
The bunnies that sip sweet tea
At the quaint café next door.
And White, well she's indifferent about everything!
As Kitty, poor Kitty,
Who, in the buzz and hum of sock activity,
Can only be concerned about sheltering herself
From the iridescence of Lucy’s oh so lonely moments.

Need to Get Over Him

If God would burn this fleshy, pumping organ
From the upper left of my chest,
I’d be grateful.
Deaden the nerves that cause me to ache
For this incessant pain-inflicting man
So that the cool bliss of being emotionless
Could dry my red tears.
Straighten my back
So that I could hold my head high,
Napps blowing in the wind,
As I return to the journey of being my happy self,

Tuesday, 7 February 2012


I know not when, nor where, nor why,
Except that I love you.
The reason for heart racing, veins pulsing,
Eyes watering, membranes bleeding,
Brain freezing, lips trembling,
Skin goose-pimpling, feet tripping,
Is you.
Roses have no beauty,
Water quenches no thirst,
There is no air; no breath,
Nothing abounds and excitement is dead,
Unless there’s you.
The sweetest sonnet is written by the daft,
Music is made of a single shattering treble,
Juicy kisses are meaningless,
The taste of me is sour,
Until you come along.
The earth is dry,
Food is bitter,
The sun doesn’t shine,
All is waste,
Except that I love you.


Hear him begging for his life
For the destruction of her solitudinous existence
A chance to prove his worth
A new start
He swears she won’t have regrets.
The other man
On his knees
Mouth full of promises
For the drastic change of plan
For his chance at a threesome
A new start
He swears she won’t regret it...
She drops the forceps
Lays on her back
And from her womb
Births a bright light.

Monday, 30 January 2012

Doggie Style

He was rough.
From a man who bragged about how hard he was,
About how powerful he was,
About how powerless he left all the other girls…
She shouldn’t have expected anything else.
Every night with him was a constant struggle to keep her insides intact,
A constant struggle not to anger him by falling apart and crumbling to the floor in front of him,
‘Cause you see he didn’t like to be interrupted;
Interruptions meant he had to start over,
So she kept still, her eyes riveted on the white washed wall,
And she kept up this constant recitation in her head:
“Don’t worry…He’s like this because he’s passionate about you…
Don’t worry…It’s only a matter of time before he realizes that there are other things he can do with you…
Don’t worry…If you can only take it just one more time, the next time won’t be as hard.
Don’t worry…”
But all she did was worry.
Would he come home, sweating and panting?
His appetite for her pain fueled by the empty bottles of Johnny Walker left behind the bar at Spirit’s pub?
Would he do it with her clothes on this time, or command her to strip naked?
Believe it or not, naked was the worst.
It meant she had to take the humiliation skin to skin and body to body…
Would he close the bedroom door so that baby girl Keisha couldn’t see her mother writhing in pain?
Would he fall asleep after a few strokes and not wake up to do it all over again?
Every night was just as bad as the night before,
And every night she expected to die from all the hard pounding….
But there was an ease; the only thing that made it easier,
The only thing that made it shorter,
Was for her not to fight; to just give in,
To accept it,
To simply bend over and take it the best way she could;
Bite the bullet and offer up her ass
Because the best way to please him was to give it to him the way he always wanted it…
Doggie style…
And this is not what you think.
Because if sex was all it was then all she would’ve needed was a tube of lube,
Or an inspirational porn video playing in the background.
But when your man insists on pounding you with fists
His knuckles connecting to your chest like a hammer to your tits,
His knee gorging out your stomach while he screams:
“Take that bitch!”
Then you’re in a very similar predicament to the dogs that roam Market Street.
You know, the one’s you kick away when they come too close;
The one’s that are only accepted by vagrants and amused tourists;
The ones with mange that hang their head low and make you wonder,
How on Earth do they survive?
This, ladies and gentlemen, is a whole different type of doggie style.
This is not the one you see on the X rated channels,
This is not the one that’s the bona fide way to make some women cum.
This is the one that makes 911 calls to Mount Saint John at three o’clock in the morning,
This is the one that will lead a body to a body bag.
This doggie style describes an even more painful level of penetration;
The kind that rapes a woman’s soul and scars her children…
And she takes it every night,
And he’s always rough.
From a man who bragged about how hard he was,
About how powerful he was,
About how powerless he left all the other girls…
I guess she shouldn’t have expected anything else.

Monday, 16 January 2012

Viking of Obsession

I came, I saw and I am ready to plunder!
I take what's not mine; I rip what I want from the palms of others.
Remorse is not my forte; I'm concerned only with satisfying my hunger,
So you can tell that hopeless female that you are no longer her lover.

I came, I saw and I am ready to plunder!

I was creeping up on you from miles away;
I drove by your residence just yesterday.
I saw you washing your car and I was mesmerised by the way
Your biceps flexed and your back muscles stretched...
I took a quick video, and I keep it on replay.

I came, I saw and I am ready to plunder!

My plan of action is set, I'm already giving chase,
Tell that girl to step aside or she will be disgraced,
'Cause I'm a go-getter and I intend to make haste
As I play like a pirate and usurp her place;
Obliterate her existence as I erase
Your memories of her and seal your fate...
With me.

I came, I saw and I am ready to plunder!

"No" is an unacceptable word for me,
It's a meaningless addition to the English vocabulary,
And if you don't fight me, it will be easier to see
That my approach is logistical and my fantasy
Can be our mutually beneficial reality
'Cause I've seen the prophecy and I foresee
That we will only work if you give in to me
And let me make you into what I want you to be.

I came, I saw and I am ready to plunder!

I don't like repetition, tell that chick to step aside!
I have no patience with her relentless pride,
I'm not asking for her co-operation, this isn't something she needs to decide
All that's required is that she step away and simply say goodbye...
I came for you, I came to make you into a man of my design.
I came, I saw and I will have what's mine.

Naked Among the Thorns

She spends most of her time undressed, passed from sweaty hand to sweaty hand in the land that belongs to men.
Long ago she gave up the right to call her body her own,
Trading it to the merchants in exchange for paid bills and filled bellies at the dining table.
Uneducated, she takes her daily lessons from the unsheathed shafts of many men
Who have better use for her femininity than she does.
Exposed among the thorns, she opens up,
Unfurling her delicate petals, parting her soft lips wide,
Permitting the thrusting; the pricking and digging of her depths.
She is a mine and they are searching for gold,
Relentless in their pursuit of her wetness
As they do to her what they aren't allowed to do to other roses.
Other roses that are nurtured and left to bloom in peace.
And what is sown eventually becomes what she reaps;
The thorns leaving thorns inside of her after they have withdrawn themselves from her.
She becomes bitter and her heart becomes encased in that prickly thing,
Until she convinces herself that this is what God put her on the Earth to do;
To open her legs and feed the hungry men who knock on her sepulchre,
Offering them the death that her vagina has become.

Saturday, 7 January 2012

The Welcome

Palms clammy, my eyelids lowered and trembling.
His molten gaze caresses my breasts
Saying: come here, let me look at you.
My lips dry and parched from wanting.
His smile curls against me
Saying: come here, let me wet your mouth.
Tiny hairs stiff on my neck, as erect as my nipples.
His nose inhales and exhales
Saying: come here, let me bury my face at your nape and smell you.
Slippery dew between my legs.
His tapered fingers reach out in tantalizing welcome
Saying: come here, let me touch you.
Body naked, completely exposed.
His manhood throbbing
Saying: come here, let me bury myself deep inside you.

Page Turn

It is that juicy moment between reading one page and moving onto the next.
It is the feeling of your fingers, warm and wet and slick with the anticipation of touching the next sheet of paper;
The expectation of continuing on to the next facet of that adventurous chapter.
Your eyes are riveted on the words engraved on the present page
And your heart beats passionately at the ferocity of the tale,
And although you can faintly hear the voice of someone calling your name in the nearby distance;
Although you’re aware that there are other things in need of your attention,
You just cannot move;
Cannot bear to drag yourself even an inch away from the refined sheet of cellulose pulp that is gripped between your eager digits.
You can barely wait to find out what the protagonist does next.
It is the promise of the next that has your attention focused so religiously on the author’s mythical use of vocabulary,
It is this magical display of the printed word that ignites your obsession.
Your divine reason for living in this very moment is this story
And you are blissfully trapped and wrapped in this orgasmic experience of living inside someone else’s creativity.
You are caught in the next of the story;
The what happens next; the who, the where, the when, the why
That will be revealed on the subsequent page…
And in that tiny break of time you take to watch the page finally turn; this sacred ceremony executed by the priest that is your fingertips,
You wonder: Could there be anything more thrilling than reading a book?

(Submission to dVerse's M:/P MAG competition)

Thursday, 29 December 2011

Tide Apologies

Oceans of words stretch out in front of you;
Liquid forms of expression, fluid movements of conversation.
You can have your pick of sentence structure;
It's up to you alone what your mouth will drink from oceans of words...
And the best you could choose were 'I'm sorry'.

Oceans of words left unsaid, drifting lonely along tides of apologies.
Words more meaningful, words more welcomed,
Words more poetically waxed than tide apologies you continually whisper.

Oceans of them, floating uselessly across the vast sea of your vocabularied brain,
Locked away, memorized by your catatonic state of mind.
Words, millions of them, stacked like stagnant sand at the bottom of the Atlantic
So that all you could come up with was 'I'm sorry'.

Tide apologies turn into tired sorries,
And Madam Sorry is weary of you
As you cart around her name like dead weight;
As though her name is the prerequisite appendage to all your conversations.

Oceans of words and this is the one you've chosen to gift to me,
And so this is the one I choose to remember you by.
You are sorry.
A sorry excuse of a person and a sorry excuse for my tears.
Oceans of words and it's my turn to take my pick...
I choose 'goodbye'.