Virtual S/M

At Martha's Vineyard love lives in trees. Come let us go

We are making sense of shocking realities of middle-age sex

With strange behavior we seduce literary bimbos in S/M cafes

Virtual sadism where ghost like funk captures our imagination

This is Ibiza by the sea navigating news feeds and timelines posts

Where imago suicidal Dorothy Parkers cut blow as poetic verses

Oringina sun-night scintillating luminescence lifts my conscience

Amorous sensuously disciplined. God is country I claim citizenship

Inside blue rooms I house tattooed tantric fantasy girls meditating

I was projectionist of these NC-17 brain wave art documentaries

Colors of Vermeer paintings brought to life becoming faux nudism

Narcissistic up and over I sensed cataclysmic voyeuristic terrorism

Her caterpillar cat eyes under black hair ferociously piercing screen

Catch and catapult I made muse-sense of her Warholian profile pic

Fleshed out her Freudian body within mental pornographic celluloid

Hunger for carnal knowledge envisioning us approximating intimacy

Like Grade B movie actress modeling for a photograph by Weegee

Come alive during sex scene of a Margaret Thatcher era British film

She posed an American Anais Nin looking into me province of He

Aromatic essence beauty captured by the face lamenting desire

Red hues encompass each frame brilliantly and painterly evocative

"Who would be magistrate of our mutual harassment kinky torture"?

Potentially psycho in its inception we met death one shot at a time

Celibate Celebrant's Diary of Worship, Song and Pornographic JPEGS

Dune lover - of this desert I navigate improprieties, a failed quest. That you were born incarnate plum picked, the female narcissus, be forgiven. Let not your origin perverted by Blue Irises give wake to your dying concupiscence

Malaria tint in the sky, dry sinuses - blood drip. With parched throats lungs quake to polluted air. Consequence diagnosable, weed's loom, white paper, no pipe. A breath's pull brings sensation, cancerous, cancellable

Hours programmed, detailed as vice - Magnum pistol hangs by cord. Bottled prescription pills, insular thug empties tank. Walls' white cracks, mildew gathers under sink, an inefficacious livelihood. Virtual sex, starvation

Numbing conscience - subjected to torture, he feels leather belt on skin, watches peripheral knife. Looped messages emit from answering machine. He prepares for lone shark's indeterminate arrival. Gangsta dialogue, muffled words presuppose agoraphobia

Melophobia - after months celebrating street samba, rock and roll dissonance, the chanteur, an alcoholic experiences marijuana smells, sex as drug, jpegs of inexorably schizoaffective sluts, conducts a conversation alone, panicks

This desert, street malediction - counselors' conference bargaining. For what merits death is a toboggan careening out of control, a client off medication threatening the silence, a boy pornographically diseased

Erotic Asphyxiation of a First Born


You killed a ghost in me - I saw yourself descending, that sinning self. Bodification Sister Lorde would have made a thesis of. Black Country mothers, their sons surgically attached, black skin, a suit worn at birth, Mars Black Paint covering the face. In that suicide weather they took their own lives. Hot boys, hood hysteria burnt into them, flawless and fierce, fight-hungry, stepped to the unsuspecting and pitiful.

Africans acerbic gossip, menstruation to masturbation. With this their soils are fertilized. What land now possesses feet once rooted in sand? All God's men leave home. I have come for the fatuous meat, bodacious behinds on troublesome women. Let love live! The heart is a paradiddle!

United Nations of scandalmongering, ambassador wives with kitchen knives. The world's children coalesce. No more female genital mutilation. No more girls sold into slavery. What percentage of gold must be pocketed in the orifice? These are hearts that want liberty. These are minds that long for language, the gilded-she addressed and undressed within universities.

Mothers of faux-flavored boys becoming... Trend setters at the all-boys-school for wunderkinds. Kokoschka art genius painted nude models from pages of Playboy to studios of SVA (Svah). She loved him princess-boy, surrogate husband. He chose his lovers white shock disease, muses, literary bimbos. Oscar Micheaux soap opera. She massaged death in his bones, Fatima to King Kunta.

The Rachel Papers, white literati-wet dream. Moist music made him sleep. He dreamed clairvoyance. Killed off parents in his prose pieces. Female of which tortured him, shouting throughout his subconscience. Tete a tete. Interview with a Vampire. Bloodless, breastfeeding twins simultaneously. Sexless incest, emitting venom into his pours. He walks ghost-house, exorcising the body that died inside, deposited by a mother fleeting a narcoleptic nightmare.

Black Vampires of Cell Block 8

In the underground the black literati get drunk, do drugs, kill time telling stories about Amiri Baraka. Who is your favorite black revolutionary? Is crack your cure or do you drain blood from potential victims?

Vampiro Negra. He blows kisses at the soft boys. They hustle kitchen knives and cotton balls.

Come Casey Jones. Place your pubescent head on my chest. Let me tell you stories about Cell Block 8. Shake, Rattle and Hide when they close in for a killing. Lock arms with your battle-whipped boys. Build a wall that'll keep the goons from getting skin.

Letter to WASP. Keep it real. This ain't my deal. When I'm done I'll break out walk into your world a stronger man, catch thieves with my bare hands. Stone cold rassling. Ripped in my jeans, cut at the sides, I flex. Steroids and barbed wire. Pumping iron to the sounds of Rastas spitting rhymes.

In the heat of the day when the guards go stomping. I rise. I rise. Atilla. Nominated as 'Un. Mobbing the hard wood. Hammer and nails I build you a cupboard. We move merchandise, collect books on numerology. Your cult or mine. Cuss the great divide. We are animals among men. Make this into a covenant.

We worked the wars from Hosanna til Good Friday. Called up the gangs and woke the name Jesus. Resurrected ghosts from these walls. All God's men are numbered from one to the end. No shepherds walk these halls. The no name wolves make murder of the minds of those who refuse to sleep with their eyes closed.

Awaken. Awaken to the sounds of death. There's a new line a'coming. Fresh faces from fortunate lives having gotten a dangerous deal. We are all innocent then. Who's to tell me these hands are mine? It has folded bed sheets. Hung colorful shirts on a clothes line. How then could it suffocate, bludgeon, beat down the bones of a ne'er-do-well? I have worn gloves then, left no imprints as I do, made minced meat of the haves and have-nots.

Wise men know enough to keep away from here. If for some God-forsaken reason you find yourself among the incarcerated give up the weapons with which you fight. Let the Lord handle your pistol grip pump. Pull at the wounded souls with your eyes. Learn to watch and heal. Hold each moment as if it were a lesson, a way into life walking backwards. But with your eyes closed you can see. You can breathe breath into this, this dark world of broken souls.

But beware. It is not a life you are living. It is death. Be good at not wanting to die. Much like the world you came from march don't walk. Wish the pain of others away from your soul. Meet your enemy at the door. Don't let him enter. If he does, let wisdom carry you to the many hills you have yet to climb. Fall back gracefully.

This is your fight. Don't ever surrender.