The Holy Ones


I want to shove socks in my pants, so it looks like I have one of those Italian-line painting dicks. I want to do it when I go to the grocery store so fourteen-year olds and thirty-year olds alike stare at my junk as it fills the stitches of my pelvic arena, I want to make eye contact with mothers and grandmothers, brothers and dads as they shift uncomfortably in those handicap battery powered carts that are reserved for the handicapped but are often only used by the near-morbidly obese, near because they’re not quite dead yet, morbid because they can’t help but imagining my dick sliding past their tongue and what it feels like as the tip pushes past their uvula and they gasp for air through their nose because they’ve never had a dick like this in their mouth before. This would be my porn dick. This would have me making lists of adult film star names for film star jobs I’d never take because I’d be busy making lists of phone numbers, the college girls I’d have my pick of fucking, and the mothers and grandmothers who I’d be happily turning away from while I select my own organic radishes from the produce department at the specialty market on Vine. This dick is better than a rolled up wrapped stack of hundreds or the leather jacket I had in high school, it’d be better than when I walked down Michigan Ave in Umbro Valentino donning a Parisian accent, I can see me having to buy new briefs just to make room for this dick. And my own dick getting jealous of the girth I’d be faking it’d swell up, and in the middle of ordering my four-pump Vanilla Almond milk Latte from Starbucks my gray wool socks would fall to the floor, and up from the band of my Acne Jeans would bulge the tip, just the tip, like she said when I was in college, or just the tip like I said when I just needed to feel something other than how emotionally wrecked you made me feel when you told me not to touch you anymore. You fucked me up righteously. And still, 380 women later, I’m fucked up and I don’t have a single pair of socks to wear

Your presence is comforting,
but I can't help but feel guilty,
when my mind destroys a moment between us
to flashback to memories of him.

He's been gone for so long,
I don't even think of him.
Yet, the wrong stroke or too long without a breath,
and I am trembling, shaking, crying.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

And immediately you do.
You're nothing like the ones before,
so why do their ghosts remain?
My body is haunted by their ethereal touch.

Your light kisses remove the cobwebs from my soul;
your hands stroking my back as you murmur calming words removes their stolen claims to my body.

I look into your eyes when I finish crying, I tell you I'm sorry,
but there's no need.

You see me when nobody else can.

You stay when nobody else would.

You saved me from demons I did not know exist.

What else is there to say but thank you?

This poem deals with rape  & sexual assault. Every so often, I get flashbacks out of nowhere. Panic attacks during sex. I hate it, but my love pulls me back to where I need to be & for that I am eternally grateful.
Carl Velasco Jan 4

I’m tired of the polite
virgin boy. Sick of the agreeable,
pristine, nonburping, nonfarting
carnival setpiece toy. Fuck the
manic-depressive psychopathic
angel. The timid, submissive
sleepover homeboy, the blow-up-doll
for rent, the 3am booty call
cum-dumpster hyphenate.

Imagine me, a child.
The gayboy anyperson
willing to go the extra mile.
I assure you,
this wasn’t the dream.
How you push my buttons
like a vending machine.

I jack off to you
because you’re sad.
I come lick you
because we’re okay.
Always okay. The word.
The sound of the word.
The utterance of the word.
The utter lie of the word.
Okay?
Maybe to you I’m
a toilet-trained twentysomething
who’ll receive and dispense
on command.

Maybe we are done.
Maybe I can cry in peace.
Maybe you still have a way
of curdling the milk
in my stomach from far away.

I pray one day
to shit you out.

yúyīn Dec 2017

She hears master's footsteps becoming louder on the ground
I wanna take a peek, quick!
You'll get punished, Don't turn around!

As if he can almost hear her thoughts,
Sensing her want to disobey
Only to feel, no sound she makes
Crack! Against his fist, her jaw bone breaks

Pain is master's pleasure, so pain she must feel
From below, looking up, he seems almost ethereal

He grabs her face, putting his cock in it's place

The pain is so great, and her being oxygen deprived
"Will I cum too?" She thinks, "before I die?"
But only master can decide

How hard he is now, master will want to cum
"Slut, you look so pretty, but we aren't done"

She never allows herself to quite heal,
For pain is master's pleasure, so pain she must feel

Just broadening my horizons with writing, so I'm writing from a wide range of topics
baby angel Dec 2017

my master kisses me with his bullets,
and he licks me with the blade of his knife.
he makes art of my flesh and carves a letter for his name.
he spanks me with his chain;
he takes me to the back like he spoons me,
and he tastes the metal from my mouth when he bites me.
he’s about to add to the body count of this city,
with the blackness of his heart and the blue of my body.
my daddy is a killer with a cigarette hanging from his mouth,
and tattoos on his back, sliding around his arm, and choking his throat.
he spits on me and rubs my face before he slaps me.

i locked my doors and the windows
while he turned out the light.
he made me get into his favorite position on the floor.
he walks up to me and rubs my bare bottom,
from this angle his eyes are narrowed and his skin is olive and dewy.
his beard makes me tingle, he makes the world disappear
with each bite and whip.
he makes me say sorry and he makes me really really sorry.

master moves from one piece to the next,
and he’s planted his garden in me.
tearing inside of me, with love and tugging.
he pulls on my hair, he licks my ears.
i’m alive because he brought me here,
i’ll die when he says i must.
his string ropes me at the neck, and it cuts deep into me
but i am okay with this because it’s how he shows his love.
i want to be the one to be apart of his main story,
and i want to be the one to cool his fever.
i want to soothe his soul, i want to keep his heart --
i don’t want mine back.

just getting out some images and thoughts. labeling this as NSFW just for safety.
Sun Drop Dec 2017

I am the King of Maggots.
Discarded remains are my domain.
I open my mouth to lead my Children,
and Flies erupt from my lungs.
There is nothing for me in this world.
Nothing but contempt.
Let it come, let it dribble down
the chin of disdain as it swallows.
My Spawn hatch beneath my skin,
squirming, thriving on my lifeblood.
At last, it is time to leave the nest,
and Maggots burrow out through my pores.

Outside, I am empty.
Inside, I am fulfilled.

Chloe Dec 2017

They say that suicide survivors are usually relieved when they don't succeed their attempt.
Some are even happy.
I am not one of those survivors.
I don't like having to explain why I have such deep scars on my wrist;
Or apologize when I slur and stumble over my words when I'm sober because all of the pills that I overdosed on effected my brain.
I don't like having to live with the realization that I'm even a failure at killing myself.
I have to live not seeing a future.
When people ask me where I see myself in ten years, I have to lie.
I make up some stupid, cliché response like "married with kids." or "super rich with my shit together."
When really I'm actually thinking to myself, "I don't see myself anywhere in ten years because I plan to be dead before then."
I may of made it 18, and to 21, and to 23 but I will be damned if I make it 30.
There is no future for me.

Some slam poetry that might be triggering for some.

his words are black and red and vomit green
his train of thought's route's picturesque --
but utterly obscene
i know nothing's drawn him to me
beyond pairs of scarlet cheeks and 34Ds

the opportunist strikes; sniffing out and scouting
the internal court case of "when the moment's right"
vs "who else could possibly want me?"

innocence and uncharted thighs
the rarity of a body that might not say 'no'
and maybe i'm a cock-tease for leaping to my senses
but quite frankly, he'll always be a toad

shoutout to Those Dudes™ whose come-ons i almost can't reject because it simultaneously makes my skin crawl and is mildly gratifying. welcome to adolescence and not being used to sexual attention because you grew up unattractive and bordering on obese
baby angel Nov 2017

“is it on?”
your lips striked mine.
they felt boiling hot against mine, and i’ve only felt this way about your kisses,
about any kisses, once.
the kiss was velvety, the kiss left my brain fried.
i don’t know how else to describe this kiss except with these words:
scorching, soft, and electrifying.

your hands were skinny and bony,
your fingers were long and thin.
perfect for reaching out and grabbing mine.
yet, your hands didn’t reach for my hands.
one reached for my throat and the other for my ears.

you break away to breathe. i’m staring at your eyes.
my mouth gapes, you kiss me on my open mouth, and break away again.
you say, “i hope this makes you feel less overwhelmed,”
caressing my ears, squishing my hair. staring at me with the most desperate look
i’ve ever seen anyone give.
you take both of your hands off and grip my shoulders instead,
rubbing and squeezing them. “because i know you’ve been feeling things a lot more recently.”

you lean in and kiss my forehead.
“i know you’ve been lonely and i know i haven’t been here,”
i’m falling to pieces, to my knees. your hands fall from my shoulders,
gliding down to your trousers. you unbuckle your belt, you unzip, you shuffle.
you say, “without you, my lips have been lonely. i’ve been lonely, too.”
there's a camera in my face. “you can talk to me, you know?”
i look up, and your face -- oh god, what a pretty face. your lashes
are so long, they hit your cheeks. your cheeks are full of color; your head is in my mouth.
you whisper, with shallow breaths, “yeah, when you’re feeling lonely you can talk to me.”

Leo Nov 2017

I knew this kid who would acid wash catastrophes.

He flipped his fiddle to diddle fiends in tweaky scenes.

I rolled up once, to show him that my hands were clean.

He tucked his junk up and copped a couple fingers from me.

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