Forced Rhymes: An Ode to Fist-Fucking [what the subtitle said]

Forced Rhymes: An Ode to Fist-Fucking

On the concrete we made soft as a bed,
your fingers feathering and my clutching
rips your shirt. Sorry I’m not, but I said
I was sorry. The sound like your touching

unmaking me each stitch by stitch by stitch.
Your fingers in time, my frayed jerking hips.
I tell you that I could tell we would fit
From the first kiss you stole with flagrant lips.

And I hate to rhyme, and that last one sucked,
Forced punctuation, the high makes me blunt.
You and your sugar fist, with which you fucked
up so many faces, and now my cunt.

Call & Response: A Conversation [a sexy poem]

Call & Response: A Conversation

She:
My mouth
Shape it in your mind
Like an audio jack
The place where you make so much music come out of me
Put it in your veins.
Mainline me.

He:
My cock
Make it with your mouth
Like a taut drum
The place where you make me beat such rhythms
Put it on your ear drums
Hear me.

She:
My eyes
Take them in your hands
Like an electric leash
The place where I am so open
glistening cornea coming clean
Put them in your pockets.
Quell me.

He:
My hands
Read them with your eyes
Like a map in a novel of
The places we’ll go together, our
Rising action, climaxes, the falling.
Put them in your plot holes. Use them to
Write me.

She:
My back
Trace it with your breath
Like a medicine walk
The bridge where you travel
The undulating vertebrate snake of my spine
Put it on your dinner table.
Dig in.

He:
My breath
Stop it with your inner thigh
Like a breathalyzer
The curvy road of your hips
Catching exhaling stutters
Collect me like a gutter.
Let me in.