Blistering Hot and Humid

Not worth the effort

brinkmanship — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 23:35:31 +0000

Single drop of rain, an orb suspended
At the serated edge of birch leaf
Hovering there, a falling world up-ended
With its sudden plunge to still silent grief
Or manicured suburban yard if you
Prefer that view of neat monotony
Where trashcans are wheeled promptly out of view
Behind bright shrubs, products of botony
And well-compensed genetic mutation.
No one here wastes his scarce time to amend
Harsh soil, though with feeble alteration
Some non-hybrid rose could perhaps contend.
Those rare small blooms, short-seasoned sweet and plain:
Not worth the effort required to maintain.

Pouring me into the gutter

brinkmanship — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 04:56:50 +0000

I mattered once; my inbox held the proof
Before you mailed your last dismissive thought:
Casting me off like rain from a slate roof.
I overflow the gutters. I am fraught
With downpouring plenty, living and wet,
Prodigal before the impending drought.
Bright blooms drip fecund, unaware of threat,
Or coming inward creep of shriv’ling doubt
That I ever counted, that there was rain
Enough for verdant lawns, azaleas sprung,
Green leaves in shades too brilliant to remain
Once dull dry dust blew in and silence stung.
Your sun bright indifference hurts me more
Than they ever could when I was their whore.

Empty Inbox

brinkmanship — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 21:38:16 +0000

Not okay? When did that become a choice?
I don’t recall being asked what I need.
Empty in-box, no one writes, silent voice.
No one listens, reads, hears, knows if I plead
For time or love or quick touss’ling of hair,
Light touch or affectionate glance my way.
I don’t dare dream love will be written there:
No love, just a shared song or phrase, just play.
Love’s too large, too much to risk, too much pain
To endure with just this dim lighted screen
And its reproachful “No new mail!” refrain
Twice or thrice or more an hour as I lean,
Still hoping someone’s now written to me –
A note or mere few words that read kindly.

Please don’t

brinkmanship — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 23:21:43 +0000

Please-don’t-please-don’t-please-don’t. I’m begging here,
Please-stop-please-stop, heart beating faster till
The edges blur, then darken, disappear
To black where “I don’t care,” and “All is well,”
Are one comingled fount of empty thought
He hits again, he chokes. I’m going to die
In this hotel, hit hard, fucked harder, caught
By stupid wish to count, for him to see
More than three holes where he can stick his dick
Or bag to beat until I cry the tears
He likes with final breath-swept prayer, come quick
On me. At last he’s spent, which feeds my fears
That fuck is all I am or ever was
And even that depends on what he does.

Cheap Carpet

brinkmanship — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 22:27:22 +0000

First shiver as he discards my black dress
On cheap carpet dark enough to conceal
Brown rings melted, plastic burned more or less
To petrochemical mires that congeal
And form each strand of hourly rented room.
The wonder of ardent chemist’s desire,
Lies flat and maybe stained as I assume
The pose he demands and await the fire
Of his belt or hand, hard until I’ll suck
His cock on my knees and dream of cyber
Sex where he could be content just to fuck
Mouth as knees get brusied by crunchy fiber.
This chemical carpet reminds that I
Exist to please, to serve, to suck, to cry.

Apostles Creed

brinkmanship — Tue, 18 May 2010 13:02:51 +0000

…Believe in God the Father, but I don’t.
There is no God, just sex and lots of men
Who push me to do whatever I won’t
Because they get off on that sort of sin.
In Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord,
Who once must have existed anyway,
Was nailed to a cross; run through with a sword,
Or a spear, whatever those verses say.
He shall come to judge the quick and the dead.
We know the sun shines on evil and good,
That there’s no judgment, whatever he said.
His belt hits my legs and I know I should
Seek forgiveness; instead I always block
Surrender to anything but hard cock.

Anxious

brinkmanship — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 20:05:31 +0000

Have mercy on me and cleanse me from sin.
I mouth through shadowed sanctuary gloom,
Yet want anonymous sex with strange men,
Crave hotel bed, cigarette scented room,
That anxious moment when he shuts the door,
And might just murder me instead of fuck.
My heart beats hard and fast and I deplore
Myself for being here again, still stuck
In endless, earnest play, as he maketh
Me to lie down on the bleached bottom sheet,
Tied or gagged or whipped blue as he taketh
Me hard, and I disappear while we cheat.
Once I find a murderer or a saint,
I’m done, and either will remove the taint.

Prayer

brinkmanship — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 22:55:12 +0000

You think I need to pray to God although
He’s not just dead but fictional as well?
And pray to him or her or it as though
I could believe in heaven, God or hell?
What’s real is sex and sweat between clean sheets
And guilty souls, as he and I pretend
It’s play when he takes up his belt and beats
My back, and then I pray for this to end.
No more. I don’t care. Whatever you want.
I wish God did exist and could rescue
The wanton whores who don’t believe and flaunt
That unbelief with sex they should eschew.
How can one say, “Help thou my unbelief,”
Expecting nothing, yet receive relief?

Rear View Mirror

brinkmanship — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 01:21:00 +0000

The imprint left by his sweaty hand
Against my wrists marked me indelibly
As that kind of girl; easy one-night stand
Dumb fucking whore, though it was always he
Who left a handprint on unwilling flesh
Which, despite false hopes, will never spring back
Like mattress foam to erase and refresh
My darkened wrist or thigh or soul as black
As rubber floor mats and space in my head
Where I could hide as he came up the aisle
Of the bus and savored my futile dread
Of his cock flying like a flag, all guile,
“You know you want this,” but I only know,
The driver anticipated our show.

Rich Kid

brinkmanship — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 02:35:44 +0000

Eyes shut, head down, a please-unsee-me ball,
Forehead to knees in jeans, arms wrapped around.
She’s humming, rocking till anger all
Disappears. Soft peach rug, and yet the sound
Of muted thuds serves almost to decry
The silk Tabriz and custom covered chair,
As ukiyo-e heroes calmly spy
Geisha from floating worlds framed neatly there.
In my mind, I counted steps to the door
And calculated odds of getting out,
As slim or none, but what bothers me more
Is that out there, no one would ever doubt
That the horses were a little too green,
Or ever see the things that stayed unseen.