"blowjob" poems
A rainy dreary Halloween from 2006.
Candlelit late night
bedroom phone calls.
Your dream about a train ride and mushroom farmers.
My dream about hidden cities.
"I want to feed you ****** and a muscle relaxer and **** the **** out of you"
How long has it been Now?
Too long maybe, some lines are stretched too thin, through waiting and longing, love and lust and the once closest of friendships,
Stretched like Taffy till nearly gossamer strands wound meandering miles of complex life events and other unshared memories.
A too familiar voice.
Echoes of "I want you to have the perfect blow job"
Spaces in conversations that would have been empty if not for the most contagious laugh I've ever heard.
One not matched before or since.
Can you live in the past and long for the future? Is it greedy to desire more of something that was already so sweet? I don't tell anyone about my dreams now. Candles sit on.the shelf primarily unlit.
There are no more secret cities.
No mushroom farmers or train rides
But there are still threads
Stretched like Taffy but woven like a tapestry.
Across time and distance.
Made of memories.
All you'd have to do Is tug on a thread.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
Excuse me, sir, your pants are on fire.
Yes, i am talking to you, sir.
This is quite a mess you have made,
you starry-eyed dreamer.
Not that it was perfect in the beginning.
Nothing is.
When my grandfather got old,
he made sure to dress well.
If he was to die on any
given day, he intended to
do it in his Sunday best.
My grandfather died in a
unisex hospital gown.
When i was growing up,
Mom always made sure
i wore clean underwear.
It would be shameful
to die in ***** ones.
Speaking of growing up,
i was raised on Reaganomics.
It doesn't matter which side of
the aisle you stand on these days,
because Reagan defeated communism
through the clever use of money.
When my grandmother was set to pass,
she faced the changing seasons with
poise and dignity. She was
ready to move on, to reunite with
loved ones lost.
My grandmother died in a
unisex hospital gown.
My best friend, Peter, didn't
put much stock in appearances.
He was funny and sarcastic.
We all loved him like a
brother. Peter's mom buried
him in brand new Ecko
gear. He died in boxer
shorts on the floor of a
ramshackle apartment
blue in the face from a
****** overdose.
Thank god none of these
people will ever need healthcare.
Mr. President, sir, i am no
Republican.
i am an American.
You do remember us, don't you?
How silly of me...of course you don't.
You were busy watching your legacy.
i would have watched it better, if
it had been my name
at risk.
My name is all i have.
When Bill Clinton was president,
he lied about getting a
*******
But we forgave him.
It was just a *******
It's not like it was our
privacy or healthcare at stake.
Or our economy.
Have you dreamed about any
of those things, sir?
Or just your legacy?
Who knows?
How well do we ever know anyone?
Christmas is right around
the corner, and i and
others have made you
a fine gift, a lovely suit.
It's invisible.
You probably won't notice.
No matter...
one day you will have to
remove your flaming pants.
To try on your new suit.
Or, god forbid, to put on a
unisex hospital gown.
And then you will finally
see your legacy.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
The last kiss from you
Lasted like a huddle in
The snow blitz
Rocking my anatomy
In the frosty glitz
The last words from you
That barged in my eardrum
You were in a hurry
To smell a new leaf
Draped in a diamond dew
The last gifts from you
Was an instrument
Which still I use
To recognize people
Or to refuse!
The last time
You said I love you
I remember I was laughing
Hysterically as if I was watching
Jared Leto’s jaded mimicry of Joker in YouTube
Intriguingly, when the last time I saw you ****
It felt like pretty Ivanka’s embarrassment
Noticing her dad is a lewd
The last time I was chatting
With you on Facebook
I was wondering why
I shouldn't hack your account?
To check your inbox
Yea, it was filled with the message of *******
F- Bombs, **** shaming and tagging you as harlot
All they were asking was your service of escort
Either in full discount or in hefty cash drops!
The last time I wrote
A letter of love to you
I discovered my Keyboard
Began to blurt out
No more, No more, No more…
The last time I had a chit-chat
With you in the Burger King or Pizza Hut
I listened to your hissing clack-clack
That someone else has become your puppy cat…
The last time I became sick
When I was with you
I heard you threw a party
Where you were whispering
To your besties, how
I become your double whammy!
The last time I was
With you in the bed
I felt like I was indentured
To **** a dummy toy
Sans spirit and flesh!
Loving you was like
Santa Claus gifted me
With a Pandora’s Box
As soon as I opened it
You decided to release
Our *** tape of your having ******
In pornhub’s forum of interracial!
The last time I heard of you
Is that you were giving an interview
To The Cosmopolitan’s board of review
Facing the barrage of inquisitions
You calmly joked, the series
Of latest uproar about you
In the social media or Internet
Is because certain people always
Love to rave about Women’s body
Shoving in and out of their pigeonhole
With their one night stand queen trophy
To flavor your form in their fantasmic mouth
You also smirked in a raspy voice
Defiantly declaring “we (women)
Have been locked indoors
With no air, no food, no water”
My last boyfriend is also no exception
He certainly thinks I came this far
Through ******* and deception
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
jumped off the bridge, hung out with bros, floated a log down the river chilled in the back of a van, skated, bombed a hill with a guy playing the acoustic guitar...coconut icecream and a ******* would be a great ender but either way im happy
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
Upon a morning dreary
I took a **** which left my ******* weary
I wiped
I flushed
I exited the bathroom blushed
Twelve hours passed
Since that horrid **** left my ***
And low and behold
A smell flowed to my nose
Just as a burning arose
Underneath my *******
I knew too late the **** had stained
The flesh, my taint tucked under my ******** train
ONE WIPE WAS NOT ENOUGH...
Pretty soon around six o'clock
There came upon my door a knock knock knock
And who was there?
Who did I hear calling to my ears?
It was the *** positive, gonarreah infested, scabies encrusted, syphilis ridden, transexual sex-kitten I had started a relationship with over Craig's List
Now, listen children carefully to this...
***** tucked hisher's lips around hisher's teeth
And began a ******* that could make the Hulk weak
But it was over in a jif
When ***** caught a wiff
And that little sneak
Took a pervy peak
At the feces widely spread underneath
***** RAN AWAY CRYING
I was laughing so hard I thought I was dying
That pesky little poo
Left on hisher bottom lip
Made that entire bathroom trip
FULLFILLING
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
he spends his time
rowing through the
rugged, blockaded channels
of my catharsis,
the bitter staccato
of ****** habit.
his love
can be as jagged
as gashes in an
Elvis Costello record
thrown against the wall--
the frayed words of the last love song
Billie Holiday ever uttered.
he is two
exclamation points lit on
fire, kerosene pumping through
tautly wound muscles and
caressing our funny bones with
sandpaper.
he is
dulcit woodwind melodies
and jilted viola strings,
epic poetry and grindhouse theaters,
McQueen gowns and thrift store bargains,
the kiss on the forehead
and the nudge for a *******
he is a double helix.
he is the beginning
and end of every sentence.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC
She told him to put it in a hot dog bun
"Kinky he thought,
Licking It up and down she grinned seductively
"Do you like my meat baby,
"No I'm a Vegan so I'll never swallow meat juices,
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 6:24 AM UTC
don't remind me
that the rent's due on tuesday
when i'm ***** deep
inside your sister.
don't expect me
to text you right back
if you call when
i'm getting a *******
don't worry me
about getting groceries
if i'm busy
******* the earrings
off of your sister.
don't remind me
about the dishes in the sink
when i'm obviously
out of your reach.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 1:05 PM UTC
I remember walking up
to the Fiddler on the Roof audition
when I was fourteen years old
alone, feeling very unstoppable and confident
and then hiding behind the big trashcan
in the foyer of the auditorium
As they repeatedly called my name.
If you want something
throw it away.
I remember getting a *******
from a purring cat
in the dark
in a dumpster
behind a ***** bar.
If you love something
throw it away.
I remember buying you lingerie
and ripping it off of you
not even two hours later.
If you love someone
throw them away.
I remember seeing you
wear my shirts after ***
and how undescribably gorgeous
you looked then, glowing
and I thought about callling you
the other day to ask for them back
but then I realized:
If you loved in something
throw it away.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 3:59 PM UTC
He's found himself in the closet
After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe
And tied his lobster bib tightly
Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come
It's curtains for her
She let the cat out of the bag
And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with
Right in the birth canal
Then we'll auction off the ******
We'll pass them off as European defibrillators
Maybe some extremist will want them
If we spew out enough mindless dribble
The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin
We have
The Chronic Masturbater
The Hypochondriac
And The Pathological Liar
It was either sometime yesterday
Or sometime tomorrow
Or was it sometime today?
That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat?
Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb
I can tell he was the runt of the litter
Who always bites off more than he can chew
I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema
He rattles off all his symptoms
Inordinate filibustering
Now there's the Chronic Masturbater
He looks like he's over the hill
He's only twenty one
But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging
I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive
And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers
My billfold his happily filled
So I must go do some reconnaissance
Spy on those who have quit their day jobs
The fish out of water
You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it
******
*******
*******
*******
No...
Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool
Indentured servants we're just an after thought
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
The falling stars in this ironic night
make majesties
out of those cubicle-ridden New Yorkers'
routine Tuesday night daydreams,
where they make macabre escape routes
out of every perfectly-placed window
piercing the concrete sentences
that escalate from Ground Zero.
Your law offices,
corporate ******* headquarters,
are all bursting at the seams
with these drones,
the falling stars of the human race,
all composed of 14 different shades
of grayscale;
could've been
should've been
could've been shootin' stars
that year they were promised
lives of upper middle class incomes
and Lexus dealerships
bought to dent their status
on the neighborhood,
but that sparkle's been emaciated
by the truth,
the underwhelming spectacle of realization
accentuated by the clicking
and the clacking of company keyboards,
each little click
gnawing more at their patience
than the next;
the faceless brush strokes
gawk through that window,
their plans less hypothetical
over the calendar years.
"I can hear it calling me
from miles away,"
says Copy #90045280,
"see, they
SPEAK
to me, man,
tell me to transcend
the hurdle of the windowsill
and make my rendezvous
with an asphalt avenue,
to join the other casualties
of this rut-infested nation
in a life with the real stars,
falling and shooting
and jettisoning alike,
throbbing lights through dark sky silk
and into the hearts of even the most
robotic of this catalog culture,
and I frightfully,
excitedly,
must listen."
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
setting myself down on an anvil pillow. sleep is an anvil pillow. anvil and stone are a suicide dressed in 8 hours of mini-Godheads.. you become a repeat offender in the ever expanding realm of emerging fractal patterns sewn upon the quilt you lay across your sleepy bones like rushing water in an underground cave miles below the Yucatan Peninsula..
by electronic firelight they lay on my leather couch with the scraps of bedding I could afford to share, as if for some reason I can't escape the money analogy and see this, too, as a transaction.. buying.. a transaction.. as transfat is to nutrition.. money is tao.. my hate for money is tao.. I'm a love-and-lost buddhist like every other dreamer before me.
I'm tired of giving myself a *******
All I ever give myself is a *******
I refuse to bend over and at least try to give me a ******* or go to the next level in love and **** myself.
I keep telling me to do it. Keep grabbing my own *** during passionate tongue-twisters but I keep on insisting that I just CAN'T go any further.. rationally I may be right, but irrationally I still get shrieks of jealousy because I see that ******* sneaking out to kiss girls all the ******* time* as if I didn't exist. As if I wasn't always watching.
I stalk myself. It's a terrifying state of affairs. No matter where I go, there I am.
Watching.
One night, I invited me over, and as usual, I gave myself a ******* yet refused to go any further.
This was the straw that cracked the camels back.. and come 4 AM I kissed myself softly on the forehead as I slept and slipped into the night, hailing the first taxi to sail past me on the concrete river.
I awoke slowly the next morning and.. still dazed.. noticed I was nowhere to be found.
A great grief flooded my solar plexus and moved into my hopeless bones.
I had not even left a note. What a ******* I am!
I had not even left a note.
The rest of the day was spent in sordid grievance. I shivered, lonely, under my ever expanding realm of emerging fractal patterns sewn upon the quilt I lay across my sleepy bones like rushing water in an underground cave miles below the Yucatan Peninsula..
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
rich people blame poor
people for living off the
state & poor people blame
rich people for living off
them; & the state blames
everybody for living off it;
the rich pay the state
to let them skate; the state
kills a generation of the poor
when it goes to war; the poor
only riot when there's
already too much violence;
it's been said the true
revolution starts w/in
it's also been said, it's
not what comes out, it's
what goes in; we came
out of she who he went into
but who went into him?
it's said that Abraham
wrestled god's angel til dawn;
demanding a ******* instead
God gave Abe a painful STD;
passing down through his line
until the coming Messiah; he who
is born w/out the hereditary STD
of Adam & Eve's Original Sin
if sin is the knowledge of good
& evil & Jesus was born w/out
sin, wouldn't that men Jesus didn't
know right from wrong? he only
knew the Jewish law; he wasn't
guilty of anything but he was a
trouble-maker; a poor carpenter
who said he was the king of the Jews
& didn't have any STDs, but he never
got laid so how would anyone know;
the disciple whom he loved felt an ache
in the thigh & going to see Luke, was
given a spongy bit of mold to take until
the ache went away;
since the Lord had gone around clearing
up all the sudden zoster infections there
was no outbreak except among the Pharisees
& Saducees who frequented the local temples
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
"So...how is it?" (looking up at him)
"The wallpaper? or the *******
"...both."
"Well, one's kind of sloppy. The other's kind of perfect."
"My thoughts exactly."
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
i wrote about last night's dream on a torn page from my notebook in the middle of spanish class, then you called me for 3 hours and i read it aloud for you, it was hilarious the crude rushed way i'd written about taking you in my hands and kissing your body parts, putting them in my mouth, how can i make it sound pretty, a ******* is always a *******
and your friend accidentally saw the ***** things i'd said to you in italian in the history of your google translate and
you and i we laughed about that for hours
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
somehow
I managed to cram my ***
into these fashion pants
so I can make it to the days sales meeting
to check my fleeting self esteem
somehow
this all got out of hand
I misunderstand what I misunderstood
this sick trip down
becoming Johnny Hollywood
champagne glasses and next years denim
learning to look just right like them
just to get tight with em
learn right now
that you are small and you can never be like them
so learn to eat everything they're feeding
and pick your teeth clean
with the bones of those you're cheating
this is Hollywood
red carpets and models' stares
This is Hollywood
designer drugs on designer rugs up spiral stairs
this is Hollywood
rich ***** kids with tempers flared
this is the top of the world in your dreams
and no one else really cares
somehow
I managed to fight this depression
looking for a job in a recession
my hair lines recession
partying like it's an obsession
somehow
this rip off called growing up
has me over a toilet throwing up
gagging on everything I misunderstood
becoming Johnny Hollywood
model chicks posing and poser friends
learning to look at them both with the same fake grin
learning right now
that you will live to lie and do it again
you'll bite your tounge to the powers
and when your dream fails
you'll buy new friends
this is Hollywood
******* business cards and winks
this is Hollywood
everyone talks but nobody thinks
this is Hollywood
hit top but beware if you sink
when you're number one everyone loves you and stares
but when you're Johnny Hollywood
nobody else really ******* cares
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 12:51 PM UTC
She left me on a Tuesday and I was drunk for 18 days straight. I couldn’t differ from morning, day or night. The night was young I’d had spent my last 100 bucks on a ******* from a ****** down on Hollywood boulevard. God **** it was the best I had ever had.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
as graphic as yours
a slowly lifted skirt
a hand on her thigh
gliding up to her bare heaven
bare ******* with tense ***** *******
gasping sounds cries of yes yes yes
her hands on my man pride
stiffening in the limelight
a little more risque a spank on a bare
cute well formed ***
a ******* in the backseat
a tongue teasing a small cute slit
two girls and a ******
or two midgets and one twelve inch ****
the words loud raw pelvic **** me
yes yes yes
or is it more ***** to show the latest massacre
in a school 26 dead, or
a misguided american "Smart" bomb wiping out six doctors without
borders and 50 Syrians
or the lies of our politicians promising us the world so
we may vote for them , or a young girl who is naturally
getting experimental getting pregnant and giving up her baby for adoption because she did not get education or protection. And then she gets HPV and dies at fourteen from cervical cancer
or is it just me that thinks the nightly
news and the stumping of a bunch of lying hypocrites is more ******
than a bare ******
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
You just keep on carving back my smiles,
elastic vowels you blanket me in,
drowning me, again, with smoke from your belly.
Gargle all the chunky bits
that remain in this blended relationship.
Strain them out through the cheesecloth
which splits apart,
like the split between your legs
The split of an insect’s back when it
bends, arches, reaches too far.
And I’m sick of that bird-shit-yellow
oozing out from that crack there;
held in your scarecrow arms.
I don’t want to be your headache
in this migraine *******
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
(stopping here to tell you about my first
******* because it was terrible &
the one thing I remember most vividly,
a pock under her left eye
marking my shame & confusion &
this portion of the poem is a lie)
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
writing is simple.
it's like popping a pimple.
one of those nasty ones that
makes a certain clicking noise when it fractures
and another certain splatter when the indulgent ooze lands on the mirror.
writing is as easy as this.
just like taking a ****
i could try to hold it in as long as possible
but eventually
something will leak out, the dam will burst.
writing is like getting a *******
i'll do it where other people can see me
if i have to but
if some guy walks up and tries to strike up a conversation
i will not shake his hand.
writing is a *****
just like that ever-present itch
in the back of your throat
when you have to cough.
writing is like getting off.
you start out slow, exploring her trenches
then quicken the pace, begin hurdling benches.
then, an hour and a half later
you're smoking a cigarette and
trying to remember what just happened.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 10:33 AM UTC
*I told him I've never enjoyed *** before him*
parts of that are true
but parts still remind me of *** in my hair
and ***** pictures
and feeling his smile inside me at 14.
The taste of his mouth eludes me
I remember it was sweet.
Everything was sweet then.
but parts still remind me
Of a ******* after that wedding
of me sneaking to the bathroom afterwards
Pressing my face against the cold tiles.
That is where I cried at 16.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
Boring and rude?
That's a rich call, coming from you!
But rude I'll concede,
Given the circumstances -
You pester me with calls and texts,
And invade my private domain,
And won't listen when I say, "No" -
What would you expect?
That I'd be grateful towards
A drunken lush intruding my peace?
That I'd be receptive to a needy egoism
More entrenched than Catholic Dogma?
No, that is not my way - No!
You can get f**ked! And I told you -
I had to spend an hour
Convincing you I wasn't interested;
That your infatuation wasn't reciprocated;
That, when you're drunk, you're not worth knowing;
That I've heard of your glory days
And your present travails a million times;
That you can't offer me what I need -
A decent conversation, nor a decent *******
And I told you - I didn't pull punches;
I didn't lie - I wasn't playing games.
I told you in no uncertain terms
And you didn't like my Truths -
Perhaps they touched a nerve?
Rude? Sure, maybe I was,
But there was no other way
To sink these facts through your alcoholic haze.
As for boring - I'll not concede boring.
I may not lead an exciting life,
But boring? No - anything ****
You've a hide, when every conversation
Begins with an "I", "Me" or "My";
Anyone would think the World revolves around you!
You take egocentricism to a new level;
So self-involved and hard-done-by,
You feel the need to inflict yourself on others.
Adios, me amiga!
And, Hola, me Amigos!
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC