But that's not his name.
He really doesn't have a name.
For starters no name could even hint at what he means to me.
No name could get anywhere near his sheer visceral naked beauty.
No name could delineate the slim ripple of his muscles.
His beautiful stiff ****--oh so suckable and lickable.
No name could hint at the smell of the dried **** on his *****.
No name could begin to describe the taste of his warm fresh ***.
No name would fit the feel of the shaft of his perfect stiff **** in my fingers.
No name could describe the shade of lavender of his exposed **** head.
The way his **** head fits in my mouth.
The feeling on my tongue as I slide it along the full length of the shaft of his stiff ****.
I call him Ben.
Weve travelled the world together for nigh on 29 years now.
Ive ****** his **** in ,my imagination on most continents,as ive laid in the same room tossing myself off imagining being ****** by him every night and during every day..
Ive licked his *** filled ***** in Bangkok and Delhi and London and Amsterdam and Barcelona and Deia and Kathmandu and Bodh Gaya and York and Paris and Dharamsala and Amravati and oh so many other places.
Ive swallowed litres of his warm fresh ***.
Ive rained typhoons of kisses on his upturned face.
Ive tossed him off to ******* too many times to count.
Ive loved him endlessly.
I call him Ben .
His diamond sharp intellect.
His smirky smile that lights up his face.
His oh so tasty tongue flickering in and out of my mouth.
Licking my lips--wrestling my tongue to a standstill.
The taste of his saliva --like the sharpest sweetest nectar.
His arms that wrap themselves around my nakedness.
His hands that never fail to connect to my *****
no matter how dark the room.
His fingers that tease and ****** my throbbing testicles.
My lovely boyman--my lovely lover.
I call him Ben.
His fingers wrapped around the shaft of my stiff ****
like ivy on an ancient wall.
they seem to grasp my ***** member so deeply
its as if they live below my skin.
I call him Ben.
When I kneel in submission to him and lick his *** filled *****
I am elevated into the land of adjectives and superlatives.
When I cringe servilely at his feet licking the full length
of the shaft of his oh so stiff and perfectly shaped *****
I become just a tongue tasting his dried ****.
I call him Ben.
Oh I so love and adore the taste of his dried ****
coating the lavender helmet of his bell end.
When I slide the whole of the head of his hard *****
between my lips filling my mouth completely
I am turned into a human shaped jelly quivering
with the anticipation of swallowing the cream of his pre ***
flowing out of that divine slit.
I call him Ben
When his naked hips ****** his stiff **** down my throat
I feel divinely graced with unconditional love
and I realise he owns me.
I am his ****.
I am his Slave.
I await the whip.
I long for the sharp sting of the lash.
I need the tender chastisement that only Ben can give me.
I call him Ben and he is  my Master.
He tells me stand with my hands on my head
and I immediately comply with his order for I am his Slave.
His very own *******.
There to give him the pleasure he gets from whipping me.
There to offer all parts of my nakedness to the whip in his hand.
Why is Sado-Masochistic love with Ben so lovely?
Why is the pain of his whipping so soft and gentle and tender and stinging?
Why do I stand with stiff **** jutting out and ***** dangling
begging him--beseeching him to take advantage and whip it as he does?
Each stroke of his whip making my **** **** and bounce and sway
turning it red and so mildly painfull?.
I call him Ben and I love him.
Ive loved him for 29 years.
But alas he does not love me unconditionally..
When we are together he humiliates me and I love him more--for his weakness in being the Slave of the Mind and Conditioned Identity.
I love feeling inadequate when I am near to him.
I want him to humiliate me.
To be humiliated is to be humble.
I do not care what people say.
I love him.
I call him Ben.
But oh how I wish wish wish that he were like me.
Mindless and Conditioned Identityless.
He could be such a nice guy if he weren't such an *******.

Miryam meets you at the bar
of the base camp in Madrid.
She has an orange juice
and cereals
and a coffee chaser.

Did you sleep o.k?
you ask, sitting beside her,
with a coffee
and toast and cigarette.

Sure,
she says,
afterwards.  

Her eyes light up
like lights
on a pinball machine
when it's played well.

You? she asks,
you sleep all right?
Sure, but the ex-army guy
wasn't too pleased,
me getting back in the tent
at that hour,
you say.

**** him,
she says.
No thanks,
you reply.

She sips the juice,
her lips hold the glass
as she drinks,
her mouth is fish-like
as she swallows.

You talk about
the ex-army guy's moans
about his mother's boyfriend,
how they don't
get along(he
and the boyfriend),
and how he feels
left out and how
he got thrown out
the army because
he was suicidal.

She sips,
and you watched
her eyes feasting on you
as they did
the night before,
and you recall her
******* in
the small space
of her tent,
the girl she shared with
off ******* some guy
she'd met on the coach,
the tall guy
with an Australian accent.

You watched her,
as you disrobed yourself,
the space throwing
you together,
each touching each,
kissing and *******
and kissing.

He still feel suicidal?
she asks.
Guess so,
you say,
tried to talk him
through it all,
laying there
in my sleeping bag,
half asleep,
listening
and talking to him,
eyes closing,
and his voice
becoming a drone.

Anyway,
he seemed happier after,
snoring not long after,
as I was laying there
thinking of you.

She eats the cereal,
talks about the girl
coming back
just after you left,
well ******
and happy,
glassy eyed,
giggling
and stinking of *****.

You sip the coffee,
take in her small ****,
pressing against
her coloured top,
flowers and balloons,
patterns, eye catching.

She begs a smoke
from your packet
and you nod,
and she takes one out
and lights up
from the red
plastic lighter,
the cigarette,
held between her lips,  
kissable lips,
lickable.

Yes, it had been
a good night,
you and she
and someone
strumming a guitar
from the bar,
nearby,
loudly singing,
not far.

mornings are better
when wrapped up
in strawberry kiwi
paper and burned.
-
like gene wilder
and roald dahl
with lickable wallpaper
cut up into skins.
-
a mile took more
effort than i thought,
and i'd rather replace
the tar in my lungs
with love,
but no one
likes to shotgun anymore,
and the man i've written
so much about
has pulled a move
more fitting me
than him,
-

Sonya in the moments free
of serving the customers
leaning on the serving bench
dark brown eyes

on you
her dark hair
pinned back
said she liked

Mahler’s 4th best
O so exciting
so full of the life
you preferred

the 5th or 2nd
but she said
no no too deep
too long

life is for living
not dozing
to long symphonies
she preferred Kierkegaard

to your Nietzsche
liked his leap of faith
his books on God
and such

you liked her mouth
small
like rose petals
stuck together

her ears visible
and so lickable
(if ever permitted
to do so)

that Nietzsche
she said
went mad
think it

was the pox
stuck his *****
in some *****'s hole
she stopped to serve

a customer
all smiles
and politeness
that butter

wouldn't melt
in her mouth
kind of thing
you carried paint

up from the basement
and shelved it
in colour order
thinking of her

laying in some bed
Mahler's 4th
blaring out
she putting chocolates

one by one
into her small mouth
and licking
her fingers

afterwards
so sexily
one leg
slightly lifted

the other flat
and you imagined her
yakking off
about the Kiergegaard guy

her other hand
not stuffing chocolates
in her mouth
resting over

her ***** hairs
you read Dante?
she asked
having served

the customer
with a smile
and politeness
yes the Purgatory

you said
that is where men belong
she said
unless they take

the leap of faith
she leaned
on the serving bench
eyeing you deeply

what you thinking about?
she asked  
how well you serve
the customers

you lied
thinking of her lips
pressing against yours
her tongue meeting yours

in her mouth
of her body
her hair
her eyes

that is why
I am here
to serve
she said

but she was serving you
differently
inside
your young man's head.

Me names Jane, they say I’m insane,
I’m insane Jane, yep, that’s me name,
I’m chatty, batty sometimes catty,
Predictable, despicable I find everythin lickable,
I’m mad and bad and sometimes glad, to be called insane,
Me name is Jane, insane Jane,
I’m ecstatic erratic, quite diplomatic, so why lock me in the attic and watch me acrobatic off the walls the halls in me under smalls, I will have a ball and you’ll hear me call.
I’m insane Jane coz that’s me name,
I’m a poet I know it but I don’t always show it,
I write I bite I like a good fight,
I can talk and walk I like to squawk, like a bird…..  its absurd,
I’m crackers, run round in me under knackers, but I’ve got NO mental backers,
I’m on the street, bare feet no -where to eat, I’m full of deceit,
Got me life in a bag, I wear a tag and I don’t like to brag,
It’s a shame coz I’m insane,
It’s the government, their document, not my intent they overspent,
No room for me, they set me free to live and be a refugee,
I get frantic, I’m pedantic always apologetic,
I need some aid, and lemonade,
Someone to care, brush me hair, tell me what to wear,
They want me to work, but I’m berserk, I fit, I ****, I’m like a firework,
I scream, turn green be very obscene,
I’m psychotic neurotic; I go of like a rocket,
I’m a danger, deranger not a campaigner,
I’ve lost all me hair when I lost me care, I live no-where, it’s just not fair,
I need support not court, give me a thought, I’ve not been taught,
I’m not like you its true, it’s nothing new,
I’m Jane, far from plain, and I’m insane,
BUT I’M NOT TO BLAME

By Christina Ford

eminently lickable
possibly crunchable
with a tootsie roll center
mayhaps
you my friend are slim
with let's be honest
kind of a big head
you are unhealthy
if only to a minor degree
you make me think
of Dr Freud.

Do you have a coat named Cassandra?
Are we the dead swordfish cripples?
Are we postponing the end of reality?

Is one man perched on a cloud
of skunkweed aromas and spiral lights?

Are you trying to sharpen your pencil
with fingernails submerged
in lethargic gardens?

God is decrepit.
Can’t even stand up straight
or walk inside the lines.

Kick out the sky like a drum
A strange blind man with yellow teeth
evolves through a pearl necklace
in a cloud of birds and helium
as soft as a paper serpent,
as simplistic as the underlying echo
of raindrops beside an
apocalyptic train tunnel.

Go ahead,
try and be a woman.

Flamingo!
Or was it Flemenco?

Everyone’s looking for a Mormon groin
To pat on the toilet.
Everyone wants lap-teasers;
bursts of energy
contained in porcelain urns.

You realize anything you write down that rhymes
is mystified, temporarily,
the real nothing curving back into the landscape.

You look fine,
figuring out the label.

Before the swollen eyes burn,
***** wanders and remodels.
It reminds her of the cavern that remained
in the side of her head
and the stain its warm good-byes left
on the open half
of the flower sun
on the Indian tapestry.

I want to share
the broken cores of the walls
with the rippled blue label
on the ******* clad bottle.
They will meet,
marry
and view death as friends
watching each other deteriorate
into puddles meant to be wheatfields.

No vines,  no veins

they pace only to summon the light.
This speech is spellbound
and holds no boundaries to our power.

Don’t follow my path
to indignant extinction.

Breath likes resurrection
Death likes restitution.

It was the stare I remember
and he was the one who lost
the lickable paper
I vaguely
(and foolishly)
recall with pride
for playing anything less than psychotic

I am the psychotic
I’m the last of the crass;
a head I can brush her hair with.

The crash of a familiar tongue
distances itself from the ivory face of a December midnight,
standing in shadows of crimson silence.

We see no need to thank, but do it anyway,
by necessity.
It’s a fear that wakes you in the night.
You turn on the light
and there’s nothing there.

Where is the lifestyle I want?

Flying
flying
flying
flown, as a vision through the light,
a vision beyond that vision I saw
Death and the echo of raindrops
remain boxed together in a stool sample.

Optimization that negates authenticity,
moronic, trust me.
Feed the machine what it wants.
Find out its favorite flavors,
bitter? sweet?
Make sure to provide a constant stream
of goodies,
savory? saucy?
make the links buttery, c-lickable.