Smut

I want you to speak so dirty
that your tongue can never be clean.
I want to kiss the filth from your lips
and pass my lipstick to places unseen.
I want to lick the sweat from your nut sack,
coat your gums with vaginal liquid,
and press my breasts against your unwashed limbs.
I want to fuck your sausage fingers
and rub your toes between my thighs
until these sheets reek with all the wet we leak.

And this is when he leaned over,
read what I had written,
and started fucking me – hard.

The Giving Me (a parody)

There once was a tree
and this tree loved a little boy very much.
The boy would climb up the tree’s trunk
and swing in its branches
and make crowns from its leaves.

But the boy got bigger,
and when the tree asked if he wanted to play,
the boy said, “No.”
But he cut down the tree’s branches
and built a house.

Then the boy got older,
and when the tree asked if he wanted to play,
the boy said, “No.”
But he cut down the tree’s trunk
and built a boat.

The boy grew very old and very tired
and he came to the tree,
now a withered stump,
looking for a place to rest.
And the tree said, “No.”

“Go play by yourself, old man,” said the tree.
“You have taken my life and my body,
I am nothing.
You selfish idiot, you cut down one more tree
in a dying forest?
And here you are – oh woe is me –
Go off and die somewhere, won’t you?
Don’t you have a family?
A wife? Children? Some friends?
I am just a tree.
What more can you ask of me?”

If I am growing up, why do I feel so small?

I reach up to touch countertops,
peering over the edge of the dinner table,
I wait for crumbs to drop.

Parental units move like slow-sliding icebergs,
blocking my view,
and frost coats the windows,
blocking the street.

I hear cars passing,
each rambling over rocks, potholes, snow,
but I cannot go -
cannot slip like dust through the cracked door,
cannot cling like dog hair to winter coats.

No, I just sit, waiting
in front of an empty box covered with pictures.
On the couch is my spot, mindlessly mesmerized
by the nothingness of daytime,
waiting for the somethingness of night.

When to-do lists pile up at my bedside
and my eyes crack like frozen cat’s eye marbles.
When I pray for dreams, entertainment, escape
from this house, this day,
this time constantly ticking.