New Poetry with Audio!
She never meant:
tied to the bed,
begging for the whip.
If she knows the back
of his head well, cigarette smoke
His dick drags
the sheet when he turns to
burn her thigh,
twist her breast.
And though she is silent,
he unknots silk, says
'Come again tomorrow.'
She slides away,
steps into her dress.
He's too available –
there won't be
He didn't push a knife
into her throat,
was what she really wanted.
You see it as Anaconda,
of dressing to the right and
left, wrapping it around a cable reel,
I see it as something more
P Y T H O N or c et sn
arp ake eating
the nibble mice that foul the BREAD.
an Alabama black snake,
resting s l e e k along my thigh, or
wrapped glittering 'round my e-
Masai style, warning off STRANGERS.
Perhaps it's more like
twisted into a Celtic knot betwee
my breasts, ornament
on my c l l r.
Of course, some see it
as a rubber hose, counterfeit Green Mamba
in the g r A S s
hooked to the spout and sHOVED into
c r A a c K s, FLUSHING and
spurting, but mostly
rolled up and locked in the shed
with the other tools.
Really, we all know it's only
the CHESHIRE CAT
a bush, except for
At six AM while I breast stroke, he
comes to the shore, slips something
through his zipper and strokes,
fantasizes licking my skin, my cunt
freshly sea, a fish returned home.
I decide on a gift: give my
undivided attention, admire his
mini-pier halting escape. He tires
of approval, spurts into the sand.
Eight PM, I am
shrill with wine, slink inside my red dress,
lament a lack of LUV to women I know.
They move off, and a Crested Cockatoo
man sidles in, tells my breasts, 'I've
been watching you.' They react
against my intention, contract, conspire. I
elbow him to the tiles, hiss 'Arsehole!', but
want to sit across his pelvis.
Twelve AM, another club, another man,
I watch as he stands on stage, a
familiar smoky perspective, this comedy
routine. His Bikie hair, large bones
shifting uncertainly, eyes as he looks
down on me, burn phosphorous
on my skin. I go out into the wind.
Lightning cleaves the air, ozone.
Two AM back at his place, he wakes
with an erection, blood on his
hands, broken glass on the carpet,
melted wax down the windowsill.
I sit barefoot on the fire escape
wrapped in his stained shirt. Thirty
feet below, the wet streets are blank.
Four AM, he watches me from
the familiar perspective of his bed –
captive moon face looking back
through the window. I know
this is what I intended – a two-
way view – but suck at my heart.
It's the only way to stop the flow.
Hara Kiri in the West
Every night, this sexual claustrophobia:
bean tendrils tied back; resurrected Black Birds
baked in a pie. He slips under her bed, listens to
the sucking sound of lovers, inches to a sheet
line, lips too dry to push farther.
Once his pointed fingertips, sanded for touch
softer than a whisper pad, graze her toes as she
stands a moment on one foot. Scarlet French
knickers pooled around an ankle, disappear from
the weekly wash – sacrifice to some lesser god.
Three days before the police find him,
he grasps her smoothly sacrificial calf, strokes
as high as the thigh. Opened like a mango
profound to the stone, he sucks her juices –
deeply cut rain, not vaginal but close enough.
His thoughts telescope into a lipsticked slap
against a mirror.
Spiked collar, she chains him
to the wall, concrete scraping
the harness. His skin quivers,
raw as a dog's dick, craves
the toe of her boot ground
on his fingers – never enough to
fracture, but enough
when the whip slashes
his juicy fruit
spurts blood. He sniffs –
body decay, sweats