Truth titillates the imagination far less than fiction.
Marquis de Sade
....
I'm a lady killer
sending her through the mirror of life
like a kissing syringe
in a ******* blood ritual
with a long waiting list
of arched glittering masochists
eagerly she presents instruments of dispatch
as she wanders into my mind
like a drugged eyeball
excited to be comforted by death
im making her wait
not meaning to be rude
stranded momentarily
with so much filing, faxing, emailing,
and calling in this cathedral
of the taboo
as i play with myself
fascinated by a soap opera suicide
primping ready to lose herself
in dizzying emancipation
from a wrapped throat
in sparkling battery cables
and a tormented red mouth gasping
tear glazed for the apocalypse of her depraved lust
she caresses boa constrictor extremities
that turn her brain to froth
and lips numb
stroking her hair
she dampens at the sight
of rust tarnished daggers
and a black fanged skull
enticing swinging hips
and open legs
in the mood to bleed
a tantalizing appetite wetter
****** hors d'oeuvre served up
like a crimson scar through snow
she whispers how wet you make me
a sponge drenched moon
while we have another coffee
and tippy toe leg show
flaunting her nails painted a different color
like xylophone chromes
she *****-ishly fingers
the inside of her mouth
and between moistened thighs
while i finish the therapy reports
of blow by blow depravities
after watching Dark Corners Crazy ***** Films
she says"Stupid girl.
The moment the zip tie would tighten around my neck
i would take my shirt and ******* off
and go ******* in front of a mirror
so i can enjoy the final moments"
i dress her
in a fashionista silver skeleton bra
stained ******* silk stockings
and the body bag she so lovingly sewed together
between finger *****
as if having already climbed inside
let me know your favorite room
"bathrooms are hot"
toilet head first please
and leave my *** out to be admired
for a state funeral *******
she was enveloped
a blood stained **** dummy
in reverie
with a vacant grace, and red oozy kisses
for a mob of *****
at the Gates of *****
begging for savage death rites
knowing how pretty her pose
with outstretched toes
on a black palanquin
she floats on tropical hemic Vaseline
mesmerized
whispering do you like me like this
like that
**** up banana split
with a blood cherry yoni
and a spoon of gruyere
lick butter
look into my peepers
kiss me tenderly
lose control of your
wet viscous
whipping saliva tongue
then perforate the ******
pierce the ****
open the intestine
she quivers
and spreads like Peking duck
ransacking the brain
editing the history
from grave to spirit box
she thundered like the burning bush
cuming raw,
jeweled
and glowing roses
*** is a nexus of all things and not just the public version of it but those aspects of it that are beyond the language of the concrete
*** plays out in all aspects of life to include history, epistemology, cultural norms and taboos, racism, politics, religion, social engineering, art, issues of gender, and all human relations
We are all watching ****.
Why should poetry be exempt, why shouldn't it shock and usurp the charade? Why shouldn't poetry bomb and smash the temples of normalcy, when so few of us are in actuality normal and finally catch up to the irreducible paraphiliac myriad of ecstatic distortions and erotomania
What has shaped human history more than the power of lust and death?