fucking tactile

There are no rules, no obligations. All we have are choices and feelings, whispers and the inevitable moon looking at us through open windows.

Work is hilarious, it chimes in my ear sweet nothings regarding deadlines and comps that must be sent to Doctor’s.

I’m lazy, but I manage.

I wear sandals because the Apocalypse will wait for me to put my boots on when it comes.

I’m going back to the hometown this Thursday.

That fucking town…well, not the literal town, but a taint of a town.

Pomona.

A ghost town.

A town where I spent many nights smoking hookah and pissing on its corners. A town that provided shelter on my 30th birthday with its eccentric bookstores and good food. A town where I stole an Eva-O poster and got caught.

I’m gonna be reading fuck poetry. My old specialty. A subject I enjoy because I know it well.

Not because I’m a whore, no, not because of that.

well…on paper I am

My legs don’t spread for just anyone.

My cunt is special see….

 

There is a cadence I carry in my hips that I don’t compromise for the sake of good cock. Good cock comes attached to a good man, even if his cock is small, but, admittedly I am size Queen, so it must match the size of his love for me.

Enormous. Colossal. Astronomic.

It must match, or else, I have no use for it, or for his heart.

Fuck poetry is funny because it gives me a chance to worship, to idolize the object of my affection. To show off.

To make wax out of him and watch him melt. To satiate the filth that usually lives in his pineal gland and bring it to his frontal lobe. To send lightning down his spine and feel his lava burn my tongue.

Fuck poetry is a dance of words meant to titillate.

A song you masticate.

Blood you activate.

 

As I wait for Thursday, work calls and Doctor’s are performing surgeries and lovers are reconciling and I am looking at the moon looking back at me.

his hands poem picture.jpg

 

 

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