Fruit of my flesh




Eroticism became a favored religion. With each man I become exalted,
with his flesh and drinking of his blood.
Every man I ever loved, my visualization of Christ.
Descending into my fingertips, anointing me and preying over my body.
I guaranteed that I would take them all to my lips and breathe life into
them. And as they rise I’d submit to them, and feed them the fruit of my flesh.
When the sons of Him are acquainting themselves with my taste, I fall into
my ways. The black-haired heathen with thick thighs and the sweetest tongue.
I am the sinner they cling to the most. The Eve of my paradise, wasted on
wine and freed from shame. I become everything I am meant to be.



I must’ve masturbated for an hour. Until i felt the shiver of my womb three or four times. Until i felt… something realistic to what i felt with him.
I wanted to experience firsthand, the warmth I embodied. To have a taste of my own femininity.
I moaned silently and pressed my face in the sheets just as he’d make me.
Caressed my own breasts and massage my thighs while I placed tiny kisses on my shoulders.
I even changed positions at moments i felt he would’ve
All on my own, I’m coming!
I actually loved this part more than i imagined.
A moment of solidarity, a moment of frenzied electricity all to myself,
undistracted by having to return the favor…

After, I must’ve laid there for some more hours, floating in absolute darkness,
stretching out my toes, tracing my finger along the lining of my body, and
holding my breath as I tried to recall how would you hold me after we finished.
I eventually opened my eyes, and could feel
my heartbeat throbbing under my left breast and a numbness in my legs.
I could feel everything that I missed
and things I may can do without.

damn those vices

how revolutionary it is to let
something you love kill you

to let something indecent
your existence,
or what ever is left of it


let it claim you


all of your private thoughts,
your dangling arms,
and calloused feet


letting it fill your lungs
and spill from your lips


how sweet to be possessed and then transformed,


evolved into something more warm
and smoother around the edges.


You become nothing more than a catalyst,
the only thing mattering now
is the throbbing goodness of pleasing
the very thing we’ve become a slave to.

Naked among wolves

Her body promised such sensuality. It seemed polished with a shiny wax as she laid in the dark-blue stitch of midnight. She was a priestess in her own tiny castle. A mother to all his demons and the one to keep his bed warm. She roamed the room like a lioness, purring, marking territory that was rightfully hers. A woman, so filled with catty femininity, a fiery sex kitten.  That would snatch the sun from the sky and swallow it whole. Who knew she would meet her match in a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Taking on the image of man but a wild mess. By coincidence, they were both greater proofs of wildness together. They would lull each other into dreamy embrace. Just for a moment, take possession of each other until, with pleasurable amounts of begging, return their souls to one another. She would offer her mouth to him, and he would give her life in small acts. They would kiss for momentary lifetimes and fill each others’ space with excitement. Nothing was ever planned. It all was discovered. Their sex would catch the light that streamed through from the street. Beautiful pliable sex.

The Hermit

After awhile it gets hard to sort through the heap of accumulated personae, those external selves as backup generators in use more than our True self. We are many things in one, a legion of inherited traits and moods  and defense mechanisms. Always conflicted by love, dependence and anger. We are nothing but our phobias, obsessions, impulses, fantasies and compulsions.  And what of our repression?  Our unresolved conflicts, like terrible thorns on a blacken rose that cannot be ignored.  We hide those thorns that need to be tended to, because we are too proud of our misfortunes, feeling as if no one deserves the weight of it all as much as ourselves.  We are all hiding.  Blue

The Lower Zones: vile men with hearts of gold

How you know who are here is when God closes a door and in rage, creatures begin to dig holes with their fingertips into the ground, burrowing themselves into another mistaken Heaven. The creatures here are vile men with hearts of gold, heavy spirits who were once at your door offering you salvation with their weary love.
These men who would follow you to the water’s edge, out to sea, even in the currents of your dreams. That man who would move slow like honey;  that could make sweet of his own name. He is here along with the one who smelled of Jameson and cigarettes, who as a child would sneakily touch on your thigh when your mother was in the kitchen. Each and every enchanting man with their wicked incantations and uncommitted nature are stuck here to be those nothing in particulars.

The Lower Zones: a wife’s manifesta

You see a home where there is no bread but ‘lots of wine.
Invisible wives connected to disincarnated entities of kitchen appliances.
Every wife, wherever she may be, comes here after death. They are all a nucleus of radiating submissiveness, vibrating hues that are Clorox-bleach white or freshly squeezed, and sugary lemonade yellow.

This is one of three realms that Earth science cannot yet understand, a shadowy zone for those who have been forgotten in the homes of men who’ve exploited, stood over, and hated.
These are the women who the world turned a deaf ear to. How their marital duties became chains they so horribly dragged behind them.
These are the women who knew reticence, knowing what can be said and what can’t,
fearing the word ‘respect’ and accompanied unkept feelings with ‘upkept’ homes.

Here cleans the forgetful women who long to  begin again,
making nice of their homely imprisonment.