kissing her with my eyes,
fucking her with my eyes,
caressing her tight ass, lifting her long legs
with my eyes

dreaming of a college freshman
wrapped in black latex,
kneeling in black pumps,
young face and eyelashes
trembling, vulnerable
(the sexiest nudity of all),
wanting the security of a soft caress to her chin,
a reassuring look in the eyes
and a dick down the throat.

Forget the humping dogs
and predictable pistons: let sex be
like a jump from one skyscraper to the next,
like a fight for survival,
like the tiger taking his prey's nape in his teeth,
a ritual sacrifice and mad partaking,
a joyous impaling,
crucifixion,

pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy,
so soft, astoundingly soft, moist and giving,
incapable of hurting yet giving the greatest pleasure at the slightest touch,
getting fucked, spread, torn open with the slightest effort,
transformed, wrapped around its lover in tight embrace,
so easily enjoyed, willing even its roughest use,
returning even abuse with pleasure,
hairless slits, beautiful gills between the legs,
explosions of rippled pink flesh, lips moist and caressing the cock,
existing to be penetrated, violated, exploited,
a slave to men resting between each woman's legs,
needing only a touch or slide to be activated,
fucked, fucked, fucked,
a massive cock in silhouette, separating her sex,
bearing into her heart,
overruling her person by her biology.
The gates of paradise. [1 | 2]

a woman's ass, waiting to be grasped,
waiting to be torqued by a hand pressed against the ravine of the spine,
offered up to her lord for partaking

Spread your legs and shut the fuck up:
I'll move your body how I want it.

shaving b(r)ush

my gentle come
pouring forth
all over you

It occurs to me that poetry
is uniquely suited to sex:
ephemeral, incapturable,
dancing in the mind
like the delicious phrases
thought and spoken
in ecstasy.

her nipples protruding,
sensors on gliding surface,
hovering between the teeth

I've probably had lovers sexier than you, dear girl,
and I'll probably have them again.
Stop worrying and feel wanted.
There's no more need for jealousy than to hate God for arbitrariness.
If you want to look sexier, I'll tell you how.
If you want to be a better lover, you can be a better
personal whore, you can care
for my pleasure more than the others. If you want
to be loved more than them,
care more for me than petty pride,
for my pleasure than who gives it.
Dear girl, with your youthful insecurities,
those limber legs and lithe tight youth
will fade, this peak of beauty that makes
so easy my ecstasy is crumbling even now.
Enjoy it knowing its temporality.
Your will-to-please, in strength and longevity,
counts for more than this:
though your sex appeal will ebb and flow,
slowly retreating from the shore;
the willingness that pleases [2 | 3]
in your tongue crawling up my cock,
your lips bulging around with your face so immediate,
this too pleases now, and alone may preserve.

If you're going to take a cock in your mouth,
at least do it with some passion.
At least seem like you want, really want, to do it:
after all, it's the antithesis of involuntary.

b(r)ushstroke

bushwhacked

notes for a coherent sexual fantasy

the caprice and avarice of your loins

that moment when she drops to her knees
before your naked cock, bulging towards her
at the prospect,
a religious ritual of supplication and ecstasy
worship my cock and my pleasure

there's something so erotic about a woman crying,
confiding in you alone,
so vulnerable, so trusting
many men have observed this
you may be the nicest guy in the world
but pressed close, her tears on your shoulder,
her breathless gasps raise your cock
until it's hard and wire enough to have its own gravity

blond in large collar: portrait of eroticism
licking milk from a soup bowl
on all fours, a delicious pet
nice tail

there's no depression in a man that a fine piece
of willing pussy can't cure

hike up her skirt, brush her
panties to the side,
and fuck nothing but the cunt

strip her, leaving thigh-highs and gloves
blonde hair and black gloves on pale skin,
nude on the floor [3 | 4]

you know it's love when
she's hysterical, mad, upset
and your words catch her mind and shift her will
and she makes compliance of furor,
hikes her skirt, leans across the table,
and spreads her legs, just as you asked

"He'd rather rape than have a normal sexual encounter"
the psychiatrist testifies about the rapist,
as if the same wasn't true of most men,
as if civilization, fear of others, wasn't what kept men from raping,
as if taking sex wasn't in some way implicit in the act, in penetration,
as if the male body wasn't contoured for invasion,
as if the problem with rape was the common fantasy to do so
instead of the act.

... driving through Paris
at night, her soft lips, the throat
a delicious surprise, veering,
one hand tight in her hair, the other
loosely on the wheel, ah! this could make
a good ending to life, her nude tits dangling,
brushing, my moans and the music over
the engine and her saliva, roaring.
We drive in circles for hours and
I think, as I she caresses my balls,
I never want to see her again, and
know she's content when she
swallows number five.

b(r)ushing aside the misery

What is it, in this coming?
An existential transcendence? or
some crude bodily chemical effect?
Or, rather, the recog. of each in other,
to detriment of none
and enhancement of both?

I do not have lovers; I have worshippers.
"Cheating"? Is this a game? What you call swindling I call apostasy.

She spreads her legs
and there's a heaven between them.
God's eye, cyclopean, in all its sliminess. [4 | 5]

sex, red in tooth and claw

I want you
(to spread your legs)

I want to make you mine
(by which I mean that I wish to possess you,
to make you an object which I own
and can therefore use, alter, or dispose of as I want;
by which I endorse slavery and the commodification of humans
and point out, ironically, the fallacies of materialism,
that death and circumstance separate owners from possessions,
that all ownership is illusory, inscribed by civilization)

... the vagaries of my bed ...

... and, shackled to you,
I dream of your limbs around me
as I sublimate with coffee,
as I sublimate with cigarettes.

... and the joys of flirtation,
of teasing another into sexual thoughts of you.
I don't even want to fuck her and I want to fuck her.
I suspect, even know we're incompatible
and still I want to get her consent,
to win her desire, and watch it ebb and flow as I
think of wet pussy as we
talk of politics and literature,
even on the phone half a world away.
This constant sexual procurement even of the undesirable.
"She may be fat but I'm glad that she likes me";
her willingness turns me on as her body never could.

Gods, how I envy and detest those who can just fuck,
for whom it's as easy as a body and a hole and an orgasm,
a ménage á trois as simple as a G&T.
It's obviously detestable, even disgusting,
this pollution of sacred ritual,
this use of the temple for sideshow carnival.
It's like taking communion from a Cracker Jack box;
it cannot do more than distract from the emptiness,
though the aftermath bathes that void in a million spotlights.
And yet, loving wine and unable to find a classic vintage,
one thinks longingly of lesser bottles
while one knows they'll taste hauntingly, poisonously [5 | 6]
of the form in which they partake.
There's some pleasure, some release just in the orgasm,
in the mass-market pill of a chemical response,
but if that's all a person really wanted,
he would do better to hump a mule or sheep.
No, there's a pretension of love
that keeps the humpers going back to humans:
a mask, required but too easily forgotten.
How simply satisfied the humpers -- what an envious state!
And how sad!:
the vintage they confuse for wine.

no, it's the soft lying in bed and the tongue licking for love that I miss ...

Is this the tyranny of Petrarchanism?
the substitution of good sex, tantic, soul-mingling sex,
bondage and domination as lily pure and beautiful as the most Oriental flower
for ascertainment of God?
And is there a difference?
or does the fact that we'd ask that question beg another
and make disparaging suggestions of our frac age of cture?
Or was Ovid never so Ovidian?
was his verse in its beauty a(n appropriately) middle way,
the other side of the dichotomy being the copulationists,
the gutters, the dogs with genitals they don't deserve
or dare to understand, if they could.

Man fucks to penetrate;
man reads to penetrate.
He who is adept at reading gains ecstasy;
He who is adept at fucking gains knowledge.

... diagnosis or divination ... from what one masterbates to -- and how.
I ... lying down, reach ...
the fantasy of this, of ...
blissful state, of love, or seeing so apparent on my lover's face
her love for me and the love it stirs within me. It's the fantasy
that makes me come. Now, others ...
or so I hear. This image ... most ridiculous,
as if it's the sensation alone, stroking away ...
milking it like it's some ...
... disgusting. Unimaginable, really, how that
can be satisfying. We talk all too much of our sexual encounters,
... by which I mean ... mutual ...
assuming someone else is there ... but it seems
more useful, from a diagnostic standpoint, how we masterbate. [6 | 7]
... gossip, but ... precisely because we don't
gossip about it, that it reveals too much of us ...
... more personal and idiosyncratic than when ...
... but ... other person involved, a collaboration ... Of
course, we may be doing harm to ourselves," he concluded,
and I did not know if he spoke of the act or the inquiry. I ...
... certainly course ...

Shut the fuck up and get to the good stuff!
Stop this fucking overanalysis; we're never going to figure it out.
Let's just fuck and enjoy it.
Are you writing about sex because you're denying yourself it?
Do you fuck the page and spill your semen all over it,
rub your passionate madness all over the page
do you fuck me, dear writer, and do I receive you, dear writer
in this elaborate courtship ritual
or are you just spreading me open and tearing into me
Or maybe you should put down your quill and use your quill.
Shut up.
Shut up.
Stop making sense of it.
No.
I'll fuck it out of you.
Let go.
Of you? You're not even here.
Oh, you're here as I am. We exist on the page,
in the union of twat and phallus
never apart are we, dear reader
dear writer
Now
shut the fuck up.
Just shut the fuck up and lick the sweat from my body.
That's more like it.
That's not sexy.
Really? Then why say so?
Liar.
Do you always talk this way with a dick in your mouth?
Look, you're a pussy. At least be a good pussy.
You can't be anything else.
Where am I?
I don't think I'm keeping track of time well ...
You've been inside me almost constantly for fifteen hours.
Are you counting?
Only inches.
It's not the size that counts, but that applies only to novels.
My, what a big book you have.
Thank you, thank you. Do you like my peacock feathers too? [7 | 8]
Whip out that pen and inscribe your will on the page.
Write a little note to me with your phallus.
I thought that was what I was doing.
Oh, shut up. You're so clever. Just fuck me.
Just fuck.
Fuck justly.
No, no, not the same. Nice tits.
You're not supposed to say that.
No, you're not supposed to say that. Now shut up.
Just shut up.
Shut the fuck up!
[he says, hand over her mouth, thirty pounds of pressure pushing head into pillow]
Do you talk during sex?
What's the relation between sex and silence?
Is there Adamic language here, in those grunts?
The sigh of pure pleasure breathed into an ear ...

... the sigh of slight pain heard above the sliding and grasping and forcing and fucking and hair and legs and neck and pounding hands twisting and taking and taking and fucking and fucking and

Shut up.

The beauty of dick, sliding in and out of pussy
so hard, so hard, so soft, so soft,
immovable unyielding deep and tight but light as air
that feeling of hovering in space inside a vagina,
so tight in its caressing and so infinitely insubstantial
thank the gods for lubrication
that feeling of being taken, so deeply penetrated, utterly used
so helpless and yet so happy
subsumed within something bigger, greater, stronger, man
the bliss of pleasing, the joy of the whispered sigh
fucking like lotus in handcuffs
and the rhythm
and the soul proved and penetrated and stirred by this wand
channeled like electricity though that lubrication
when your each others heartbeat is intuited by you each other
and orgasm is a place to live a lifetime in an hour
a way of life and not a point to hit before moving on
everything moment so simple
accepting your own pleasure, finding yourself through fucking
fucking your way to yourself
fucking your way to accepting your own gender,
the utter difference of each part
and the utter beauty of that difference
and
it's [8 | 9]
okay
and you are never more a man than then
and you are never more a woman than then
and it's okay that you want another's pleasure more than your own
more than you want to live
okay despite all the world out there that doesn't exist anymore
and it's okay that you feel pleasure at just fucking, just penetrating,
and you're not horrible for having a dick, for being hot-wired for violation
and it's ecstatic to violate and have her enjoy it and love you and want you to enjoy violating her
now that's love
mutual, male and female
love in the caring carelessness of fucking a pussy and a soul
yes
and love in the subsumption of self in love of other as he's fucking you
yes
now that's love

stupid bitch,
you're not worth the orgasm

Suck, taste, swallow,
take your time, lick it, caress it with your tongue,
get that last eighth of an inch,
make of your mouth and your face and your soul a pussy.

fucking like you're coming up for air
for hours
like your life depends upon every inch
frenetic, mad, nothing else
abandon as orgasm piles upon orgasm

The woman is not the pussy
So many men love the second but not the first
So many women comfortably confuse the two to believe it's them men desire
Even when there's on a night, a small soothing self-deception and a morning forgetting
My body loves the second, I the former.
You have to be pretty high on women to complain of them so much.

I want to break you
And I remember those times of good sex
and this idea of breaking
breaking her physically, leaving her unable to walk,
burning inside and loving every second of it. [9 | 10]
and breaking her emotionally, molding her in my image,
the real joy, fucking her old self out of her
as she's pinned around you against the wall
loving you, satisfying you
yours
by virtue of the most inner, unspeakable desires impressed upon her flesh
pounding her into the wall like a painting
a beautiful trophy as you come for the sixth time in a half hour
and the desperate kisses between strokes
the closeness of the torturer
the intimacy of the kidnapper
and you feel her soul blissfully break

be loving. do not strike first in love
out of your own vulnerability; no,
spell out each party's obligations,
argue for renegotiation later if you must,
and strike last: make it clear
that violation will be met with the annihilation
wrought coldly and completely by a lover betrayed.

Shut the fuck up
Spread your legs
Hike up your dress and
off with the panties fast fast fast
I don't want to analyze
I just want to fuck
This mind bends back against itself
But the cock meets no resistance
Smooth embrace
I'll part your red sea
The black windmill of the mind

drown on it
choke on it
gag on it
die on it

holding the back of your hair
so fine in my fingers
as I slide your face pressed against my pubic hair
your universe the unlit skin around my cock
and this hardness wide and deep in your throat
I feel you swallow awkwardly as I flatten your nose
and grip your skull like you're already dead
When you pull back for air your features are distorted [10 | 11]
as you suck
and you look up for my reaction like a child
Your head is my second favorite toy

pussy, spread so wide
torn
your whole body an extension
as I press down upon you
pushing your sideways head until it's imbedded in the bed
pressing myself against you
into you
pushing down on you as if to break you
as I tear you open
as use you
and nearly kill you as I come in your soft ragged flesh
the force of my orgasm nearly breaking your bones

a knife over your soft tits

The Archipelago of Desire

let language stop

... who give away their sex
so cavalier, such abandon
Overheard conversation

She has a pussy.
Look at that tight skirt,
those precious tiny curves of the hips,
that tight ass begging for penetration,
those thin, rounded, lithe legs,
those soft tits to be felt and squeezed,
a pillow for the chest while her body's contorted
and her deepest being is offered as pure enjoyment.
Look at that young, soft face,
those lips, plush and ready to stoke over a cock,
those angled features, tight as her twat,
youthful, youth-giving,
surrounding your sex with youthful pleasure,
pure hedonism, pure pussy.
That face, distorted by its penetration,
that brain, breathing as its body's used,
lose legs so easily lifted,
that body so easily slammed against a wall and fucked.
That pussy, just beneath those tight clothes, [13 | 14]
all but displayed, waiting to be transubstantiated
into heaven itself, however transient.

If I saw you again,
I'd run and embrace you
as if there'd been no intermission
or bad times at all.
Then again,
I'm as likely to shoot you.
What is this madness love wrought?
The fondest love and the purest urge-to-obliterate.
To hold and cherish forever and to kill and toss away as annoyance well rid.

everything

With his erection caressed against her insides
custom-made to please,
he worries over her pleasure,
wants the pussy to enjoy being fucked, spread wide,
used, come in, fucked, fucked, made a disposable pleasure;
he asks if it was good for her,
wants her to orgasm despite her equipment:
ah, this man's guilt we feel,
those of us fortunate enough to possess a phallus
and sensitive enough to care in the slightest --
noblesse oblige.

If you saw what man wants from woman,
wants to do to woman, at his most carnal,
you'd run in terror at that polymorphous beast
or you'd come so intense it felt like you shattered your soul
and
just
melt.

... and her mother said before she died:
"He was fine, up until the end there.
He said, ‘I'm too tired'
and I knew he was slipping away."
And the daughter recognized
that this was her mother's way of saying she was wanted,
that he had wanted her, that she was a wanted woman even when they were in their sixties. And
the daughter saw how deep this desire goes
in woman: to be wanted. The simple reward
of having a cock erect for you. [14 | 15]
So deep her own mother had felt the need to assert this
to her own daughter, at this stage of the game;
amidst the grief of his loss, her insecurity.
And the daughter thought,
"I've had one too many one night stands,
all too many cocks that rose not knowing me.
Gods, to have a cock rise after forty years together,
after forty years, rising for me despite all of me,
all those disgusting and repulsive things no one knows,
when he's seen me up close. Forty years.
He still wants to fuck me.
He can still get use out of this old corpse.
He can still get that from me."

"Let's go out to the car,"
I said, and let her out of our house,
then led her, confused, into the car,
our empty house sitting before us,
then kissed her,
felt her soft tits beneath her shirt,
felt her body slacken at my touch,
watched the darkness around us as she leaned over,
unbuttoned my fly mere inches from her face,
and felt like we were schoolchildren as she awkwardly
licked, caressed, took me down her throat,
watched the windows fog so quickly
as her tits rubbed against my leg
with the motion of her lips' caresses
and mine of her hair and nape and tits,
then, with all the world's calm and nervous excitement,
pulled her head up and pressed her throat back,
leaned her bucket seat back
as she frantically pulled down her pants and underwear
and I mine,
lifted her legs high above her head
and slid into paradise,
my pants around my ankles,
and came and licked and bit her neck, her nipples,
and came and breathed upon her ear,
and came and lifted her by her ass,
and just came
with all the nostalgic simplicity of a lusty teenager
finding his home in his girlfriend's thighs
as he looked around for cops,
his hand over her mouth to quiet her,
the windows giving it all away
as was she. [15 | 16]
Walking back inside would have been a let-down
if she hadn't kneeled and blown me as soon as I closed the door,
unzipping my fly all over again like some silent secret ritual,
and taken my full erection, in a fit of madness,
spiked downward through her head,
my balls tight on her chin,
my pubic hair pressed with my whole body's exertion
against her soft lips,
before I pushed her to the ground
and stripped her on the floor,
throwing her, penetrated, all about the adjacent room,
pounding fiercely as I held her tight,
lifted and threw her with my erection still inside,
to slam through her as we slowly moved about the house,
as I turned her over, sideways, backwards,
fucking, fucking, fucking,
pulling out and fucking her face,
hearing and feeling her taste my come
in brief intermissions
before I wanted the richness of her pussy again
and molded her and fucked her,
and tore her open,
position by position,
room by room,
wall by wall,
floor by floor,
in scratching, lifting, biting, throwing, holding,
caressing, joyous, mind-warping sex,
until I felt constant orgasm
and nothing but her soul beneath me,
instantly obliging, her whole body a pussy,
changing shape instantly to suit my whim,
her body too tired to resist,
her soul too loving to not enjoy,
my body running entirely on pinpoint-focused will,
my soul in absolute unstopping ecstasy,
amazed her pussy could hold what felt like gallons,
certainly cups,
until she, feeling seriously drained to a point near death,
needed me to stop despite my ever-growing invigoration,
and I noticed the sun had risen unannounced,
and she wished she could offer me another pussy,
as I thought I'd love to do it all over again right then,
my will so focused my body's exhaustion barely registered,
a younger pussy, she said,
because she wasn't enough for me,
I needed more than any one could offer, [16 | 17]
and I smiled, laughing, sitting, petting her unmoving,
mumbling form,
kissed her,
then ran naked and erect to get her water,
ran back to get some energy out,
and, my mind buzzing, my body nude and erect,
sat as she slept nearby,
and read intently and happily,
myself,
self-conquering, self-controlling,
at peace,
blissfully myself,
at my best, my smartest, perfectly focused,
perfectly erect, perfectly calm,
invigorated by such total conquest as few have ever known,
accepting it with a smile, the simple acknowledgment of accomplishment,
of divine will and man soothed in the effortless knowledge
of what he can be,
blissfully myself,
my cock still feeling her as I read stilly in the morning sun,
enjoying the words and my crystal dissection thereof
intensely capable, intensely unconcerned,
blissfully myself,
at home again.

... that a woman is like a toilet, wet and
all the more sexy for its dirtiness,
in which we relieve ourselves, spraying and
departing, a perfect relationship,
I would hope that you would reply
that I was confusing the woman with the pussy,
though I had accurately described the one.

silent, silent penetration
(squish squish
squish squish)
in the dark,
all feeling of flesh on flesh
flesh in flesh,
the moans of utter anonymity,
in which she is identified by the curve of her breast
felt arced against the hand
and not her name
and of utter intimacy,
of the utter directness of this closeness. [17 | 18]

If you be worthy of me,
most men are orangutans to you.
Understand me and you'll find the prospect
of sex with them as appealing as sex with chimps.
You can try to forget, but your mind will never
get all the full out, nor will mine.
Getting fucked feels forever dirty
when you remember a primate spreading that same pussy.
You know you're a semen ashtray and nothing else
when you know that pussy's been used by ape-dick.

A woman must be stronger not to cheat than a man.
The penis craves pussy, new pussy, any pussy;
a man's lust clouds the mind and confounds the sense.
And both are curious,
wondrous of new experiences, of other.
But a woman need only spread her legs,
yield passively to one of a hundred lusting penises.
If man trumps woman on the desire to cheat, woman trumps man on the ease.
He has more motive, she more opportunity.
A man's temptation is great, like heaven itself
offered up before you.
But a woman's temptation is constant, like a credit card
waiting for a gesture of approval.
Her honor's lost with a downward glace,
all the encouragement a predator needs,
and though some foul beast spreading her open,
making rough use of her body, her sex, her heart, her soul,
penetrating her, infecting her, impregnating her,
staining her soul with his base ejaculate --
though this be horror, it be easily got.
A woman only has to say yes, or simply smile and follow,
to be so devalued, so deflowered, so utterly destroyed:
A moment of weakness, of curiosity, of idleness
is all it takes.
Men rape, and when they don't they coerce.
They always have and always will.
It's a shame we've sexually integrated,
that women leave their homes without escorts:
This is dating, this strange historically phenomenon;
This is inter-office romance, that pit of incestuousness;
This is your wife getting picked up at some bar.
Lock them up, lock them up if you love them as women.
A woman in the public world is either a slut,
valuing the adventure of the male over her chastity,
her sex, her soul, her womanhood, [18 | 19]
or a man within, despite her organs.
Men, do not trust your women to such a world.
You cannot beat a woman at infidelities.
Women, be assured, you'll regret it the next morning
if not at the time, and you'll continue to do so for all eternity;
Know that these women who claim not to regret do so desperately,
deceiving themselves to justify what can never be undone;
If you get a man worth loving, he'll never get over your past --
and you'll have stabbed him, even years before you met him.
Do not cheat on your idea of love.
If you believe you'll find that person,
do not cheat on him and ensure you'll break his heart,
make some part of him keep distant no matter what,
devalue that love yet to come.
Do not hide behind time's seeming one-sidedness.
If you want to be an athlete when you're grown,
you don't shoot yourself in the foot when young,
thinking it's okay because you haven't started training,
haven't decided on the sport,
haven't made the commitment.
You may still run fast, in such a case, but it'll never be the same.
It will never, ever be okay. It can never be taken back.
A man will always be resentful that you've slept with another man.
He has to block it out consciously just to deal with it;
he'll get upset if he sees the man, if it becomes anything but abstract
and he can imagine this guy-before-him's dick in the woman he loves:
it breaks hearts, this does, and he'll never be as close again;
and all your justifications, contemporary arguments assuming equity
of expectations between the genders
won't change the fact that you're a whore to him, forever and unalterably,
however much he loves you. However much you love him,
however much sex with him means to you,
you've demonstrated that it didn't always
or that you've made such a mistake
that anything you say or feel is not to be trusted so entirely.
If you give as a token of deepest love
what you once threw away, or gave in haste and error,
one cannot take such a token so seriously.
"But they don't mean anything to me;
you do. This means something to me now,"
she says, to which he replies, if honest:
"I believe you mean that, but you meant it before,
with someone else, or it meant less to you before.
In either case, you've established you can change your mind
about this, either your sex or its meaning. And that means,
no matter how much I believe you feel the words you're saying, [19 | 20]
I can't trust that they won't change tomorrow
And I'll never be as close to you as I might have been."
Your pussy is not an experience but a thing;
it changes, loses its cherry, loosens, droops, ages.
An experience happens and happens again;
A thing is singular, decaying, and irreplacable.
Virginity lost can never be recovered;
innocence lost can never be regained.
Your maidenhead will not be restored through any rhetoric or alchemy.
Your mind, the experience of sex impressed upon it,
can never be restored to its pristine form.
A book unwrapped, opened, is no longer mint,
all surgeries to the contrary never making it the same but in appearance.
Share that mental impressing with that future love,
choose well and never abandon him, nor let him you,
and give him the joy of cracking that book.
Else is marriage of convenience, of lonely old embittered people,
not of love. Love is fragile and rare.
Be honest with your man.
Be honest with yourself.
Don't dent your only book; you shall not get another.
Your youth may fade, your only book may yellow,
but if he who cracks and first reads you
does not have your unbreakable devotion,
following readers will note the crack, the break,
and, whether written in the margins or not,
know this was once someone else's. There's a way
in which a book is never yours when you get it used,
when you see that idiosyncrasy of its personality, that folded corner
or somesuch, and you wonder if you put that there.
The stains of another's semen are all too visible
on those pages, in that personality, in her sexplay;
her every motion reinforces the notion
of another man's semen left within her,
of another man splitting her pussy for his cavalier pleasure.
With a woman this destroys you
and makes you keep your love away,
present more in show than in feeling.
If your book is yellowing, search that man out
but use your sense, your logic, in choosing -- for there is no second chance.
Your biology, our souls' memory, does not allow us a second chance.
This is simple fact. Our society is kinder, but cannot overwrite;
we cover up these facts like make-up over moles.
Better to jump a bit later than in error
and find there's no going back. [20 | 21]
Humpty dumpty does not go back together,
nor can your soul be untarnished in this life.
Blood on your hands does not wash off.
A torn pussy can never be untorn.
There is ... no cosmetic ... there is ... no prosthetic for that.
A woman with a past is a joy for mens' loins
and maybe a great friend. And most men get
no more than this. But a virgin is that and more;
what you share with her none other will ever.
If he leaves or dies,
or your choice has been in utmost error,
then you can be a slut and a joy for mens' loins
and maybe a great friend. They'll be time enough
for that. But you might as well take the shot
at something more.
And, by the way, there no sex better than a first lay
if you're both in love with one another;
you form each others' expectations of sex,
know each other better than anyone else will,
have watched each other form sexually;
when you penetrate, it's someone yours;
when you're penetrated, it's the one.
Curiosity ruins this eventually, in almost all cases,
but it's good while it lasts
-- and, as I've already written,
there's always time to be a slut,
but you're only a virgin once.
It's not to be cast off because it will be eventually:
"I'm sure I'll spill something on this priceless rug eventually,
so I might as well get it over with."
Don't let yourself be as ugly as to make yourself that ugly.
A core of you may be lovable as virgin or whore,
but there's no need to hurt him by your infidelity,
past, present, or future,
just to prove his love by still taking you.
Some wounds leave scars.
Your pussy's is also his heart's, I assure you.
Give yourself a chance to love.
And none of this bullshit either:
virginity isn't restored by long pauses,
nor is oral or anal penetration not penetration,
nor does touching a dick not count as intimate contact.
Be more mature than that.

And her all pussy and me all phallus
cognizant supremely, consuming this little soul beneath me,
in total, infinitely godlike control,
so moist and easy and yielding and incredible,
feeling her joy, her fragile soul resonating with pure will-to-please,
taken,
never more woman, never more man.

... a red-hot poker buried deep within her soul,
her every feeling instantly known, this carnal knowledge
of her inside and out, this pure pleasure,
all physical sensation lost
in the pussy of her open, utterly malleable, utterly available, known, soft yielding soul ...
my body and hers responding immediately to my slightest thought,
her soul and mine in my utter superconscious control,
aware of every tiniest detail, sensation, so simply, so effortlessly,
all effort, my total will achieved with the greatest of ease,
as simply as parting her cunt ...
gaze upon this ye mighty and despair

I object to making sex comedic.
Woody Allen could get away with it -- sometimes. [22 | 23]
Sex is Tragic. "SEX: A Tragedie"
is the title of Romeo and Juliet
and, all too often, of
our lives. We kill ourselves for sex. Go mad for it.
It drives us crazy, this pressure in our balls,
this morality that keeps us from fucking,
from fucking everything, anything
("show me a pussy and I'll fuck it")
but that we don't want to be rid of.
Ah, the dogs have it better; fucking in the streets, the woods,
at will, no great social institutions to spread the word:
no need for humiliation, this dick, this pussy.
This is suicide. To die
or yearn thereof. This craving of fame,
this imagination of celebrity as magnet for pussy,
this craving in some form, whatever form,
for rock star groupies, spreading at will, abundant,
pick and choose. We pick and choose our poisons,
our sublimations. We shoot ourselves when she leaves,
when she cheats, when we're impotent in whatever way we measure it.
Shoot ourselves with guns or with heroin,
and women shoot themselves, kill themselves,
try to kill the pain inside, with men:
assisted suicide, only the come is, like heroin, at beast a temporary
anesthetic. We loose our jobs, we loose our status as men:
we shoot ourselves. We long, we mourn, we yearn, we crave death.
Shakespeare can do it, satirists can do it,
but the flavor of the humor, like all good humor, is bittersweet:
we see ourselves in this and laugh with pained faces,
pained hearts, strained brains. Sex is too big to take in;
it tears our souls like some virgin cunt. And when
we think our cunty souls too well-used, too split and broken
to hurt more, some love, some yearning for some painful beauty,
some youth recaptured, comes
along, strange and new, and finds us an anal virgin:
we bleed. Joking about sex?
‘Tis like joking about the holocaust.

SHADOWS ON THE WALL	TRANSLATION
A man and woman bump into each other.	Subconscious desire to merge bodies.
Man: Excuse me.	Want to fuck?
Woman: Oh, uh ... sorry.	Huh? (evaluates) Sorry, but no.
Man: Hello.	I'm wondering what you'd look like on you back.
or
Man: Hi.	I'm wondering [23 | 24] what you'd look like with my dick in your mouth.
Woman: Do I know you?	I think you're sexy.
	Have I thought of sex with you before?
Man: I don't think so.	You'd know if you had.
	I'll rock your little pussy.
Woman: I believe in living life.	I'm no virgin.
Man: I think I've lived pretty well.	I hope I've fucked enough cunts.
Woman: Did you want to talk?	You want me, don't you?
Man: How are you?	In need of a dick?
Woman: Do you want to go out to eat?	Show me off;
	make me proud to be your whore.
A man looks at a woman.	Is she fuckable?
A woman looks at a man.	Does he want to fuck me?
Woman: Nice shirt.	You can take my shirt off if you try.
Man: Nice shirt.	I want you to feel wanted by me.
Woman: I like you.	I think I trust you enough to let you use my body.
Man: I like you.	I want to fuck you.
Woman: You remind me of my father.	I want you to fuck me whether I know it or not.
Man: I bought something for you.	I want to feel you're indebted to me and I have a right to your sex.
Woman: Tell me about yourself.	Are you safe?
Man: Tell me about yourself.	Spread your legs here and now.

The Poet is extremely sensitive,
finely attuned to the world around him,
the slightest observation causing trembling emotions
and associative memories in which he becomes lost.
His head is filled with such evocative dreams
that a leaf or a mouse, the tiniest thing,
causes in him and outpouring of verse.
This inspiration comes generally without asking.
His sensitive souls swings wildly, diving into each experience.
The slightest prospect of verse causes him
to be enlarged, puffed up with the confidence to write.
Once so inflated, he cannot be dissuaded;
his pen has a mind of its own and loves to spill ink.
Many are predisposed to frolic outside in early morn
and will run their hands along the grass
until they get wet with dew.
Some write in quiet isolation, retreating to the comfort
of nearby caves. Very sensitive and thus easily hurt,
the slightest touch of life arouses in them mighty passions
and curiosities, such that they want to pry themselves
into the world and enjoy it thoroughly, leaving for us
their verse -- which, at best, leaves its mark. Bad verse can
alter society for the worse and is like unto a sore [24 | 25]
on its face, making it look bad to all; and a fad for bad verse
can be a cantankerous disease to a culture. But
good verse can change us too, leaving us happier
or altering our thoughts -- yea, even altering the body of society itself,
so that, in time and with the pains associated thereto,
something New may come of it, born unto the world.
Such is the potency of a True Poet,
who we tend to measure more by their longevity
than by their breadth. A long poem may ebb and flow
in intensity, but the good ones have multiple high points
(by which I mean moments of tension and release,
with the accompanying glory and pleasure of beauty).
Some move slowly, entrancing us,
while others pound their points home,
even to the point of hurting us (though it is often
exactly this style we enjoy the most). A poet may,
inflamed by his sensitive response to nature,
reach his poem quickly, leaving us a small but enjoyable thing,
or he may write and create a fair time,
leaving us tired and ragged, our souls torn with emotions,
by the experience of reading, so much so that we
wish for a break, some water before continuing.
A good poet varies between the two, as surprise
and rhythm are so productive of our delight.
Some poets are enormous figures, so much so
that they cause us anxiety and fear of tackling:
Pope, Milton, Shakespeare, Joyce; Homer, Dante, Proust.
They seem to big for us at times
and intimidate us with their stature; by their reputation,
we imagine our encountering them will hurt.
We have anxiety about getting intimate with such giants.
The great ones get under our skin and into our souls.
They split asunder our expectations, painfully and pleasurably.
With some we come to them as virgins
and they treat us as whores,
expecting us to catch all the references, allusions,
a lifetime of intellectual promiscuity brings.
Some treat us delicately, trying not to offend
like trepidatious virgins themselves;
others seem to maul us, possess us,
ravage us and convert us to their will,
bending us to their designs while making us love it
and them
for the beauty of their work.
To the few who do so
from experience and wisdom,
whose masterful use of their form [25 | 26]
can only leave us in awe,
we must bare our souls.
Tear off these rags of expectation!
Rub their ejaculated books on our breasts!
Pull these forms tight against our hearts,
for we are all female when reading
and there are so few males,
perhaps one in ten thousand,
who truly satisfy. Enjoy the honesty of their possession;
deny it not or you deny yourselves.
Take in their come; no, take it all.
Gobble it up, for it is the food of life.
Revel in it, replay it in your mind.
Find the strength to let yourself go.
Relax and just come.
It's okay.
You're pleasing to me.
Feel this rhythm.
Swallow me whole.
I metamorphose each poem.
I change shape, grow harder.
Take me deep.
Feel this rhythm, it is bigger than yourself.
Surrender to this sensation you feel.
(I love it when you do this.)
Just let yourself go.
Feel it.
Let yourself have this joy.
(I love it.)
Relax.
Breathe.
There is the rhythm of these words and nothing else.
Now.
Feel this passion of mine,
this frenzy.
You are all in it.
Let yourself go, just you and me.
These words a universe
and you in your perfect place,
enjoyed, receiving this passion, this madness.
You're mine now:
by virtue of reading these words,
you are mine --
now and forever, mine.
None other will compare to this, can compare to this.
You can never undo this:
you know it to be so. [26 | 27]
Now shut up your mind
and let yourself go.
Enjoy my passion, as I'm enjoying you.
You're mine, utterly, now and forever.
And I'm -- gods -- I'm everything
and you feel so good to me, right now,
so perfect, so pleasurable, never more you.
Let go of yourself.
That's an order.
Now touch yourself.
And come.
Do it: this is not a joke.
This is deadly serious.
Caress yourself, love yourself as I do,
feel the pleasure I get from this,
now and forever.
Try this.
Put this book on your body,
feel it on you, pleased by you, possessing you,
and give yourself this one pleasure
for me: you're allowed to.
Relax.
Feel my intensity.
Put this book on your body.
Feel its touch.
Feel the words inside you.
And give yourself this one pleasure in this moment,
let me allow you one fraction of the pleasure you've brought me.
Now, now,
do it now.

Come.

[end page 27]