down in me

and when i told him to go and be a good dad
he said you weren’t pregnant anymore
yeah, that’s right
he’d kill your baby
just to fuck me
one
more
time   

you should let me interview you
haha
yes
i mean,
yes?
(but also, ‘yesss!’)

you should let me blow you
i’ll probably
make a
poem
about it

clearly you
have missed
the point
of my poetry

Here is something I sweated over pretty disgracefully:

IN WHICH WE WRITE ABOUT SEX AND OUR INTENTIONS ARE UNCLEAR

And here is a poem I wrote about a second ago and didn’t edit:

just racking up a couple of sad sorry states of affairs
decided i didn’t feel like much of anything
no sugar rat poison
no boys swimming
decided i felt like a much more hungry child
decided your talk bubbles blow my ass in water
decided to become a free agent
disgusted with what’s left of my
oh i don’t know
i racked up a few lines of indiscretion
and decided to take your comments all too seriously
decided to live dispassionately
like a humbug hungry for the harbor
what do i know
the poetry of my repetition is indiscriminate
and i’m inseminated

we can talk about death and that’s final
like why do you assume i must protect this little hole
little girls obsessed by unicorns why do you suppose
i am so obvious
candy-coated trash swag
no respect for masculinity and no respect for blush sincerity
or how stupid we must seem with our sex so unprotected
we must be stupid we must be
because is it fucking worth it with twenty or fifty years to live
i think we must be

in my lifetime now people will stop fucking to procreate
people that are sodden, some are trod

how to iron out this mass jumble of ideas
to start with get yourself an awkward social engagement
to ripple the swaths of giant lake-like calm in
put yourself completely open and then suffer

taste the salty soil cock remnant on your lips and remember

I know I recite too quickly
but have a look between the covers
at our special women’s section
we have aardvarks and mars bars
and ativan and percodan and
perky cans (of course) but you’ve
no need to look there
you’re special, I mean
I think you’re really something
stop pawing me up and down now
I don’t give a fuck if you’re Italian
just keep your eyes peeled
for that secret move
watch it: I can poke
just like you

I’m somebody’s fun-time girl
Somebody’s knick-knack
Somebody’s cake
Hi, I’m the boss’s girlfriend
I’m curved like the inside of a bowl looking outwards
I’m hanging on a rack
Laden with ornaments
A pussy float for rotting garb
Pleased to meet you, my style
Inside I’m tepid like a runny Sunday
Ever present in glossy tint
I am a steel spike glinting

a lot of people want to have things done to them
manipulated in specific by the hands of others

a lot of willing people means a lot of ready hands
if not skillful

a lot of people want to mash you like potatoes lovingly
without kitchen instruments or clothes

a lot of people want your skin on skin, your dirty rashes
a lot of people probing rarely ever hissing no

stupid in self-portrait came
haughty, ripe with asking
rocked an illiterate disorder
ideas flew
said I’m a pink piano
an orgasm, I mean organ
cocked an anemic wink
dried out in stupid clothes
battled the wicker
waved hi to the nomads
smiled, set traps
thought about the afternoons
cut things in quarters
noses
déjalo quieto que no es tuyo

I crush on this boy like mad
like my laden ovaries expand to fill my feet
like my swollen fingers expand to fill the air
between me and him, like I grab him
between lips
and swallow him until his mother
forgets she had a son

Gonna show you what you’re doing to us, Maria. Maria mewls like a rotten child and bucks. All slow flesh, all pliant oooh, discarded self. A tangle of limbs and bends and sleepy night rollover push back and rub. A slappy shake, a quiver, a quake. The urgency of one hundred and forty-seven sirens. What are you doing to us, Maria. A grip, a grasp. A grab, a squeeze, a dig, a bite. A bit, a bind. A bidden slap.