she had to admit
playing dead with
scummed ****
and a mouth full
that also glued her eyelids shut
brought her to ******

a good slap across the mouth made her **** wet

maybe her strewn flogged body
and *** filled with
tampons, butter knives, and mushed chocolate bunnies
would be discovered
by some gawking men
who would of course be horrified
yet feel some inexplicable romantic impulse
towards her

a study in male humiliation

dressed in a nightmarish logic
and broken heels
her eyes glared askance
with a mouth like smudged ketchup
and a note

hello, I'm dead, you can **** me now, no ones looking

common little man
timorous mouse
with a dead end job
your belligerence
belies your self self pity

she wore sunglasses to cover the bruises he inflicted

*****, noose, twine for a proper strangle
and ghastly potions
to inspire the tears and vomiting
in nurturing waves
that always helped the snuffling up
for a sicko *** massacre
with an all you could **** buffet beating
that made her long hair
fly around like a legendary Bollywood dancer

she spit in his face

they just shared a strange shadowy phantasmagoria
with her bare naked
on her knees
*** upturned and swollen
like a piqued daisy
while her hips moved
from side to side
as if weaving a samba
where at his whim she died repeatedly
a humming *** slave
straddled on a the heavy bladed guillotine
while getting backdoored
in a way
that
they both just couldn't live without

What I don't like about poetry is how the poet often hides like a starved bleeding child under the skirt of civility.

blood on a sugar cube

Too often a kind of Zen of saying something without saying something. Do you think that's subtlety?
Anyway let's face it we are all rather ****** up and some of us try to hide it and a few, very few, of us own it, and some of us have the audacity to celebrate it.  If you're that brave you may be a Satanist.

pants off dance off

We'd write our guts out. Force our readers to gobble up our penned intestines and rub their genitals in them and if they didn't we wouldn't give a flying ****.

a woman who writes feels to much

We might study the art of the spell and the curse. We might **** our sisters girlfriends, as many as we could, or our mothers, or our fathers unless you were given to ****** and then know what it is to be a sick **** and laugh our butts off about it, knowing thats how god actually made you in his divine infallibility.

a man who writes knows to much

We might know our own shadows and bring that dark harvest to light so it doesn't trip us up when we think we've persuaded the so-called good people with those among us who are  good too in an exchange of lies.

flowers from hell

To acknowledge the shadow doesn't at all mean we are devoid of decency, kindness and love, but may I suggest that those virtues are so much more potent when they are part of an integrated whole.

Just sayin, if you died tomorrow I would eat your corpse but why wait?

Seeing someone every day
is not seeing them,
not in the way of knowing
ourselves, marked by a milestone on a rocky trail
or a spring growing back with azaleas and pollen
and a canopy of elms.

Instead the confetti of moments we’ve traveled together
whirl into the patternless vortex of now
and we don’t know where we find ourselves.
  
Yet I thought of you the other day
and a painting you gave to me when we first loved.
It showed a man diving into the ocean toward mermaids
Who sat on an island, watching.

Next to the image were words from a Jerry Butler song,
“Isle of the Sirens,” about a ship’s crewman lured by temptation.  
"The voices got louder
They sing beautiful things in my ear
I must go to that island of women
I must see these creatures I hear
Love is blind and desires have no fear."
The captain warns him that surrendering
to the siren song is a betrayal.
"Keep course, cried the Captain
Ignore them and let them be
Straight ahead, cried the Captain
Set on by and stay free
Remember laws of mutiny"
The man jumps anyway.
"'Old man, you know nothing
Of temptation
And desires are heaven to me.'
And off he leaped into the sea."

When you showed this to me, at first I thought I
was the man, giving in to temptation.
Only later did I understand that you were the man,
A black woman hearing a siren song
from a white man who lured her with desire and love.
We know the fate of those who leap at the sirens’ lure.
You broke the laws of mutiny.  

Something in my daily cogito has kept this memory close,
reminds me that you leapt
And you’re still here.

Here we are now, in the time of COVID-19,
alone together, shut out of the world,
sleeping in each other’s shadow
bored by each other’s demons,
walking past the blank of each other’s  mirrors.
But I still hear that song.  
Can you still hear it, love?  
Would you still make the leap?