"wigged" poems
She lives in a cage, in the shed, at the bottom of a garden
Her master comes, twice daily, with food and water
She lives for him, a servant to his psyche
She has no power, slave on her knees in chains
Its simple pleasure for leisure, to serve him is to be free
Minutes in the sunshine, phallus in furs
- and a collar as a symbol of respect
Music for ******* Performance in the house
She lays down and tastes the whip on bare cheek
Obedience is taught through willing submission
Gorean affectations, willing desire and the natural order
One's journey into identity, a thrilling concept at first munch
- God will speak in good time
To dismantle social construct in a kingdom of one
Liberation at the hands of a master in leather
- and whips outstretched
Through drear smokescreens, transformation and feminisation
Slave-girl, man-child, longing for acceptance and protection
Early morn, teary-eyed sunshine creeps through a crack
Blonde wigged, bearded man wipes mascara clean away
Only two more months, every day she will be beat,
- and the sissification of the master's slave will then be complete
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
I will make a fangle of mechanisms,
a creature with iron snouts
and concrete aortas.
Its fevered howl will wake the duplexes
perched on sloped land,
built from collected tins and bottle caps.
Boys sooted in grief will balk like ravens,
chew sweet dip, and spit,
but never reach the foreman’s gate.
They’ll crave a tavern with antlers as chandeliers
where a black flame burns
on the brim of a zinfandel.
But tonight they’ll gristle through streets
to a stale room
where fluorescent lights blanch a young widow’s skin.
Basic cable ministries will flick and dim
in the homes of the wigged ladies who wait for them—
the howl keeps them
breathless, each of them fearing
the slow swallow from a snake’s mouth
to its furnace.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
my moat wet eyes
focus free
with the manner of a poisoned animal
those feedy gemini apertures
fidget inward
upon an open wounded view
unclothing a filmy slick
so very faithful to the dead
ripples cross my bed of sails
i set pale
in my atrophy
each signal blunted
i am greatly wilted
sat planted
lazily hazed
a vehicle scuppered
riddles prate at my bed of veils
i set sail
in atrophy
each signal bloated
fully unloaded
a barrow at your feet
i truly wither
what power may you beam my form ?
i'm frail in heart
atrophy
between stars and the sea
a failed flicker of no pity curses
a matrimony
all signals mar
and spar out blotting
a missile
misguided ?
; it preys on my trail
misdeeds played a trophy
a lit penalty
i am most deletable
piteous
i pray for the guff
to raise my head
filled to the tax of my atrophy
dissipated
oh mother of pigment
lovingly wigged murderer of woes
why can't we abstain from human directive ?
forever foaming something criminal
flunked corrective of the species rudder
idle by into an atrophy
a perishing menace
pungent
- fade out
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 10:32 PM UTC
The pulpit is a lonely place,
at a height just below
the nosebleed level.
It's very similar to the bench,
where white-wigged
robed-people
hand out sentences
to the so-called vermin.
I love them,
the stereo-typed
lowlifes of the world
who struggle with conformity,
who know about scraped knees
& broken hearts,
who are forever tainted,
scribbling.
You see, a life
sheltered by power
is way too antiseptic
for a lowly person like me.
I'd rather be a human contaminant,
than a holder of the clean tissue,
they understand nothing,
while we bleed out love
through our noses.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
An open door
Green of day steeps into a grassy aroma
A familial air whizzing through shared city streets
The papers greet a house down the block and
I can't help but wonder if the news
Has reached them yet:
--The earth is wilting and
It will rain today--
I board the 91
Coffee buzzing in my lungs
--The house we've built is wilting and
Wigged men are lining us up--
A workingwoman sits behind me
A toddler bumbling about her lap
She looks past me, but I answer anyway:
"The people are wilting and
Time is sitting still"
--
c
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
Eighteen hours
On a southbound train
Neath' the storming clouds
And petty thieves.
Midnight moon howls as
The conductor reels this thoughts
To the ticket takers who bought
A one way down.
A river passes,
The coal lashes.
Passengers sip their drinks,
Thinking there is no better way
To travel.
Ten coins on the banister
Rattle silver metallic, echoing into
The coated mans quarters.
After this ride, there is no need
To go any further.
The barman pours the red wigged lady
A drink of peppermint and green.
"Tis' the season for love," he says, "And tranquility."
She grins, thinking on her past sins effortlessly.
Bending through the colossal mountains,
Whizzing by naked children playing in fountains,
The conductor feels for once like a sea captain,
Torrents of earth his waves, his tide, his foes.
Not many more hours till we get there.
Not many more minutes till we arrive.
I don't know how much longer I can ride,
Until I'm gonna' have to choose a side.
The coal is painted black silver.
He watches the sliver of life pass by,
Like light through the crack of a doorway.
"You had to leave," I say, "Because
You needed to start doing things your way."
Lace and croissants is all she's got.
White wine and a chicken in a ***
Not much compassion in these hills.
Little love when one's got so little to give.
A bright star directs us to deaths gate.
Two silhouetted scythes buzz if electric.
Doves sit perched along the top of gravestones,
As senorita cries out, "Mi amor! Yo quiero mi amor!"
Nod to the stars. They will nod back.
Escape to the night. He will take you.
Forfeit the day. She will let you win.
See the horizon. There is no illusion,
Unless you wish it.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
Drove through the wasteland with purpose.
Pulled up and parked at the compound.
The lonely building felt lifeless,
I stepped inside lookin around.
This lady gave me a number,
stone faced, she pointed said, "sit down."
Wandered there with the others,
who looked so hopeless and wigged out.
Another number said, "First time?
This is prolly my sixth now."
Heard number nineteen uttered.
Followed the voice to my fate.
Solemnly sweared on my mother,
to tell the truth to his face.
But before I had one word,
the Judges mind had been made.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
One positive thing
About being underslept
In your normal life
And being so wigged out that
Your body doesn't
Know what a mealtime is
Is that jet lag has
A far weaker grip on you
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 5:55 AM UTC
Plastic shards burst from
tightropes
high above our eyes
Clanging trumpets played in the pit
by three dead children.
The conductor tries to lead an escape, but trips on dry ice.
Not everyone is trying to escape.
We paid for a show.
No one notices the smoke at first,
til it shapes itself a dragon
It gulps a wigged lady, in the circle,
and lands to finish the meal.
The strings lead the orchestra, making the tigers cry and carry on.
But death is a frequent guest at our parties,
so we're not phased.
A bunch of clowns handle a fire hose,
a pretend baby in a building
And the dragon performs a gust of fire
that they can put out.
The performers are as surprised as any and some have hidden.
But perhaps the brave, or the drunk,
still make the show go on.
No one is stupid or heartless enough
to attack the dragon, but
The small winged demons are fair game,
and have a taste for eyeballs.
We stab one with an umbrella and club one with a bag of canned stuff.
Better to be prepared, we thought,
and were proven right again.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
there's a fire in this madhouse of Venus
where unattainable romance gives birth
to cunty darkness and pleading clawish fingers
to obsessions of strange mental constructs
something about blood and tears
birthing black ******* and vampires
with vermillion mouths shaped in circles
that gorge themselves on violent thrusting *****
and ***** resembling mushed faced pugs
just asking for it
a woman's eyes burn like cigarettes
and tongues snake into esophageal
swoon revivals of glorious deliverance
flashing souls flit like street lights
and flames of wraith hair
she begs to be strangled with a black chord
and kissed till her brain blurs fizz
she dances
wigwam wiggle and clutches
like a sliding oyster
licking my *******
**** ***** and ruby *****
gagging repeatedly onto the hilting root
falling into submission
for her dark ******* god Faustian thing
a little doll with mythic eyes
a ******* wraparound mouthy wigged *****
with a baloney-pony disco stick orifice
will you **** me with your **** sir
a dark hunger gnaws deep within
so bleed me merciless
like a gushing artery
make me red dead in love in bed
butter **** and properly spread
pound me like a hell ***** ******
in a burning five alarm
emergency suicide ****
-
i corkscrew her
into a writhing
murderous wreckage
as she dissolves under me
like a sugar cube in hot tea and blood
christened by a magic wand
that forces her round belly
up and down like a toilet plunger
her ***** drools like runny yolks
a deep homework
the shamanic decent
an illusive weighing of the heart
the sweet meat priestess
who resuscitates abandoned legends
making my ***** click like castanets
a Mr. Winkey party
spewing Icelandic yogurt
her teeth rattle
as her brains and one eyeball
hang off my ****
like pig trough slobber
her face smiles
and vomits peaches
there's moon glitter
in your beautiful hair
my darling
God save the kink
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 2:35 PM UTC