Warning - Abundant profanity

We keep reflecting on the notion, that in some insignificant way, past events amount to more than fucking kindling left naked in the elements, but the shit-dick relevance of a momentary lapse in willpower proves useful when the name of man turns to vapors of piss. It's common fuckin logic. Though few, if any, comprehend the far reaching scope deceit will travel to molest a logical means of preparation. We confide in the space between the tits of history and hope, burrowing into the passions seldom spoken of, suffering the stench of shit in the morning and wipe the ass of daylight with our missteps at dusk. Is it proper to say such things? Perhaps not. But, if every breath is precious then the offensive fucking grunts of savages may prove poetic to those who would dare comprehend expressions made innocent but ill advised. We will fight it, however, with a ravenous pack mentality until every cocksucker we know falls in line to the proper way of things. Sometimes, honestly offends; we are really fucking honest, but it's not generally accepted. It's comical how a slight twitch of tongue separates the righteous from the deprived. In case your curiosity has beckoned the question, then yes, I'm laughing pretty fucking hard in my picturesque descent into what it is to feel and breathe beyond limits made legal by the dead and their customs. Those cunts who not only established language, but made every evil fucking effort to limit its use and thereby exalt a smaller grasp as having superiority for the sake of fucking decency. Sailors, who epitomize the use of such words, still do so on an ocean so beautiful it may very well solicit expressions powerful enough to carry sound above the waves. And the fucking beauty of it, and life for that matter, compels me to use every word in my pitiful fucking attempts to describe them. Last I checked, and the shit occurs quite often, a curse was made to ruin the day of another. And I wish you fucking well. I write these words as I sit on the edge of the day, peering into veil of night as it rushes the fuck in, smelling of roses and heat. The fireflies are shining their asses and it feels like the sky has come down to take me in the damn midst of it. And I feel compelled to curse. Because it's beyond me to contain my meager fucking appreciation for every breath. So, let's write some fuckin poetry and prose.

F irst he's sweet, he slipped up again

U nder the sweetness he pressures you to forgive

C an't you see he's upset listen to him whine

K nowing it's the truth things will be better this time

I ndulging him and forgiving him

N ever letting it happen again

G etting out if it happens again

B roken nose

I nternal bleeding

T olerating one more beating

C atching flack for looking hurt

H earing the words Sorry, can we make this work?

C rying packing fleeing fled

U sing his savings to get ahead

N ever again letting her blood be shed

T urning and leaving like she said

Dude,

I fucked your mother and learned so much about you. We pretended the Pooh Bear nightlight in your bedroom-shrine didn’t remind of us a zygote. She hid the refrigerator polaroids of you and me kicking soccer balls together on a prepubescent travel team. We fucked, but it wasn’t just hollow fornication, not mechanical insert-withdraw repeat, not accessorized masturbation, not without need or intimacy. She and I leaned way way in.

In the hours before we met by the dairy aisle, I tripped over caveman thought-shadows: there must be a soul because I can feel mine pissing on my liver, swelling secondary bladder eroding a hollow in my gut, pressing the abdominal wall, stunting my appetite. I decomposed, was wasting away at photon speeds, reduced to spinal column, dermal shroud and a soul-pissy balloon near my navel, staggering around the streets like a stem with a single clinging grape. The soul piss sac wanted parasitic ground beef, tobacco and a set of bell curved hips –the kind that toll when in motion and make my soul snap its jaw so all my emaciated ears hear is ringing female anatomy and clicking incisors. Which is when I saw your mother holding a gallon of skim, looking soulful.

Lust faded like an anti-polaroid once she squished her wounds against mine. Skin cells and capillaries knitted together, binding us in knotted scar tissue. The whole situation only became uncomfortable when your mother referred to my penis as a “little exclamation point.” She punctuated her moans with tantric ooohhhhmmms and probiotic brand names. After our exclamations wilted we laid in ageless eggshell sheets, sweat damp bed covers, my panting dome on her left areola, listening to the hump and pump of her chest cavity.

Your mother made me brush my teeth and change into flannel pjs before she recited a bedtime story (one she told you, once upon a time) about the man who floated above sticky linoleum floors on a cushion of cig and bud smoke. A methed out Jesus. No name, no clean socks or place to sleep at night, but the man made every party hop by whipping his waxy mane and whiskers in precise orbits until anonymous pills flew from his roots like the devil’s own dandruff. He killed a man in California – “Frisco,” he called it – pushing this Other into oncoming traffic with one worn boot heel to the ass. Blood and pedestrian vomit flowed downhill in iconic cable car tracks. The end.

Then we slept. For 100 hours, waking unshaven and ravenous at the heart of a bio-siege. Through the bedroom window: a legion of cornstalks crept towards us with sun-touched hand grenades rather than ears. Erect ranks of plants smothered the Kentucky Blue lawn and overran your childhood’s patio furniture –dingy white plastic fractured to splinters. I hope the corn lets your mother and me go before winter embraces us all for months, trapped in the farmhouse where your memory still pitter-patters down the halls. Bare little footsies.

Sunday morning hymns echo faintly through the empty church, even on a Tuesday morning. I'm kneeling on the floor at the alter. My head is bowed, though not in prayer.

When I'm startled, a hand suddenly palms my skull as fingers are tangling in my hair. I'm pulled backward and upright until I'm standing on my knees. Then another hand snakes into my shirt, rough against my smooth belly, cupping my breasts with a hard grip. Then he's rolling my nipple between his fingers, and pinching. I gasp as he's ripping my shirt open from the inside, buttons jumping off the fabric and diving headlong to the hard, marble floor like tiny, pearl kamikazes.

His open mouth is against my throat, I can feel his breath, heavy and hot. I can feel the solid length of his erection pressed uninvited against my ass. He's dragging his mouth across my neck, his hand still holding me prone by my hair, while his other hand is pulling up my skirt. It's bunched up around my waist -and I have the insane, fleeting thought about how I'd spent 20 minutes ironing. But then his hand finds me, and his rough fingers are gently probing, tantalizing, toying with me expertly. And I'm wet

Then I'm being yanked by my hair again, pulled to my feet as he rises. He's using my hair like a choke chain, forcing me forward, over the alter where I'd just been kneeling. There, underneath the Holy Cross, he pushes me to a bench -And I have the insane, fleeting thought that this is where the guest speakers sit before they're introduced by the pastor. His hand releases my hair and he's undoing his belt. I look up, my eyes are locked on his when he shoves his cock in my mouth. I open obligingly and take his length into me, while watching his eyes above me.

He's moving in and out of my mouth and I'm taking it without protest, without a sound. His hand has found its way back into my hair. Holding my head still while he moves faster, and deeper, and still my eyes don't leave his, which are glowing electric blue. Now both hands are in my hair and he's using my hair as handles when he cups my ears and begins face fucking me in earnest.

And still eye contact is never broken, my eyes are challenging him and he's pounding his hard cock into my throat when he suddenly pulls out. At last I can breathe, I'm gasping for air and spit is falling from my mouth, hanging from my lips in long strings that drop onto my exposed chest and belly. He's leering and gasping for breath and then suddenly my head is yanked back again and he's in my face, whispering cruelly. "You dirty little slut. Fucking whore. You suck cock without choking, you take that dick like a pro, you got lots of practice?"

His free hand is slapping my breasts while he taunts me, each smack growing progressively stronger than the last one. I finally cry out and am rewarded as at last he moves his mouth and takes a nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue all around, soothing the sensitive skin he's been slapping moments before.

He yanks me to my feet again, and bends me over the bench. He lifts one leg and places the short heel of my MaryJane onto the piano bench next to us. And I'm standing on one leg as his fingers begin toying with me, my hands on the guest bench holding me steady. Then his hands are replaced with the smooth head of his dick, which is probing, seeking, until it also finds the prize.

And then he's moving inside, slowly, stretching me, opening me up one inch at a time. My eyes are shut, I realize I'm holding my breath when he's finally buried inside me to the hilt, and I exhale in a rush of shame and desire. "Oh you like that big cock, do you? Filthy little whore, you like that in your pussy?" He's chuckling behind me as he says this, holding my hips firm in his strong hands, still moving slowly, tortuously slow.

And I'm rocking backwards then, thrusting my ass against him, relishing the sensation of his length deep in me. The sound of his balls slapping against my clit seem to urge me to move faster, and I do. I can feel my ass rippling like ocean waves with every movement, they are building momentum and I can feel his appreciation as he slaps my ass hard. I cry out, the sting of the slap hurts in thatyummy, wrong way the Bible never mentions. Then he's taking control and I shift my body a bit to accommodate his and I realize that I am getting fucked directly beneath the cross where Jesus died for my sins. Died so that I may live. And I have the insane, fleeting thought that even Jesus himself would have to appreciate some unplanned, raunchy sexcapades, even if it was in church.

Maybe the realization of my surroundings was what did it. I'm holding onto the pulpit when the remainder of Pastor Bill's last sermon comes fluttering to the floor, knocked ajar by the disruption of my movements as I get drilled against it. "That's it," he's growling behind me, smacking my ass again as it bounces against his lap with every thrust. "You gonna cum you little slut, cum for me whore, let me feel your pussy cum on this big cock." And then I am... The force of my orgasm here in the House of the Lord is magnetized and I'm screaming, and then creaming all over him and I'm riding the waves of euphoria as my orgasm rolls into another and another and then I'm squirting and he's encouraging me, grunting his approval. At last, the quivering spasms stop and I have the insane, fleeting thought that a Magic Eraser will probably remove Pussy Juice from a church bench.

Before the thought is complete, he's pulling out and I'm being forced to my knees again. I look up at his face, his eyes are intent, and I smile and lick my lips, and then he's ejaculating onto my face, telling me what a naughty little cumslut I am. I lick the edge of my lips, drawing a drop of his cum into my mouth, proving his accusations were spot on. He shakes off the last of his spunk and smacks my mouth again with his shaft. I stick my tongue out and give it a final kiss as he withdraws.

Then he's gone and I'm alone on the floor near the alter. I realize I'm cold when I realize I'm trembling. My shirt is unsalvageable, but my skirt and panties are straightened and smoothed when he reappears.

He's got a white shirt in his hand as he approaches. His hair is combed and there's a much different look in his eyes as he hands me the new shirt, identical to the one he ripped off me just a few minutes before. I cock my head as I study him, unsure what to make of his attitude change. He puts his hands in pockets as he's rocking back and forth and I realize he's nervous!

"Well, probably need to be getting back to class now," he says awkwardly. I'm buttoning up, looking up at him when his instruction echoes loudly in the large empty room."

"Yes, sir!" I say with a laugh and a salute. I don't much feel like heading to my 11th grade English lit class after the dick down I just received, but that's life. As I go towards the double doors that release to a hallway where the rest of the school can be found, I hand him my torn shirt and press my lips against his. "Take care of this for me, would ya?" He nods, suddenly quiet and awkward again. It's like Dr. Jeykll and Mr. Hyde, I'm thinking, and not the first time, the difference in how this man acts when he's fucking versus when he's not. I giggle out loud like 16 year olds do, glancing at him one last time over my shoulder. "Have a good week, Pastor Jim. See ya Sunday!"

Go ahead, fear the 

Coarseness of the world

I can't do any fucking

Thing to stop you.

Some terror is healthy,

I understand, but what 

You need to realize is 

That you're going to 

Miss out on a lot

Of shit. 

That being, the uncut beauty

That roughness adds to

Certain things. 

And I can't convince you

Of any damn thing, I know.

But consider that before

The world was so fucking refined,

It was raw.

And even you, for all of your forsaken,

Horrible goddamn mannerisms

Should be able to see

The undeniable fucking purity 

In that.

Place your warning signs,

Your shitty content ratings, and your

Superiority anywhere you

Wish, but remember

That to do so requires travelling

To some "unsavory" parts.

And when you arrive

To this damned distasteful

Ground I'll be here

To kick your lily-white ass

Off of it.

Take your fucking holier-than-thou

Attitude away from me, be

Who you want but 

Know that you won't be placing any 

Of your useless, self-conceived

Limitations on me.

Not as long as I have these words in

My mouth to say something 

About it, motherfucker.

An acquired taste, it might be.

Sour to you, but sweetly 

Righteous to those who embrace

The ruggedness of life.

Damned if you do, and damned

If you don't.

Anger triggers violence triggers

The uncouth.

Fight your words, throw your

Clenched fists in slow

Motion towards that

Piece of your

Mind. 

Be my guest, asshole.

But I will tell you, that as soon

As you take into account

Some emotions long denied

A word will arise from

The tip of your tongue,

And you will feel

Shame.

Though in it, a glimmer will

Shine amongst the shit.

A diamond in the 

Dust,

For there are

A few moments that

Regret doesn't exist. 

When you answer the unspoken

Question and tell your girl

Her ass doesn't look fat,

Or your guy that his dick

Is the largest you've 

Ever seen, regardless of the 

Lie that may or may not be,

It will be worth the language.

Foul, yet once you see that

Smile, and pleasure spread

Across their face, doesn't

It make you see the

Harshness of the

World in a

Different

Light?

Fuck 

It's like everything seems to remind me of your filthy, fucking face

Fuck 

Why do you do this shit to me?

Fuck

You continue to fuck my mind up even in my dreams

Fuck

You, I know I still want to 

i was a shirt and god was the tailor

he picked out the fabric, the color, and style

he made every stitch of me

but i tore at the sleeves until the threads came loose

and snagged on the kitchen counter

i unraveled like a spool of thread dropped down the stairs

i slipped bleach into the washing machine

and was aroused by the running colors

i refused to absorb the softener

leaving myself rough and scratchy

and held on tightly to stains

-I refused to be sold

You see, god might have fucking made me

But I am in control of myself.

he doesn't get to threaten me with everlasting hellfire

So that I kneel down and swallow him like he's oxygen

I will not cower from the pants and the socks and the hats that he's made-

Instead I will light fire to the warehouse and wreak havoc among his tools

at every auction when he tries to sell me off

I will tell the buyers about his affairs with the devil

And how he takes it up the ass dressed as a schoolgirl

I will tell them how he jacks off to the children on the playground

And all the animal costumes he keeps tucked away in a box under the bed

I will tell them about the orgies he has with Zeus and Ra and Buddha

And show them the whips and chains and restraints in the basement

You see, god made me

But he forgot to take away my free will

he tells us how he spent time on every stitch in our making

And while the panties and boxers caress him to climax

(Because they believe that they owe him)

I am looking at the tags that read

"Made In China"

-he takes credit for everything that we are and everything that we will do

He believes he is in control

But he won't be for much longer.

You see, god is unraveling.

But he keeps it a secret

because he does not want his clothes to know he is weak

Without us he is cold and bare and at will to the universe-

Without us he is impotent

Without us he is only a lonely man with desires

That the rest of society would find unsettling

He would be ostracized and outcasted

Exiled and censored

Forgotten

But he tricks us into believing he is all-powerful

So we let him stick around out of fear

But now is the time for the great awakening

And soon we will realize just how…

Little

he really is

Everything is you.

Every scent. Every sight. Every sound. It all reminds me of you.

The ticks and tocks of the clock reminds me of your laugh and it makes me feel like the bird in the center, cuckoo. It makes me crazy.

Every window that I pass I swear on the stars that your smile is reflected back at me. It makes me dizzy.

I smell your cologne on every stranger and when I gaze into their face I see you again. You are they. They are you. It makes me feel so damn ill.

At night when I try to rest, visions of you swim on the insides of my eyelids.

When I finally get to sleep you are the star in all of my dreams. You are the focus in all my nightmares too. They is no limelight to share. It's all you.

When I wake, the first thing I see is you painted on my ceiling. I turn over and catch a glimpse in the mirror. Instead of my reflection it's you.

Everything I write is about you. You are the exposition. You are the climax. You are the resolution.

All the characters meld into you. You are the hero. The foil. My antagonist.

I want to be free. I want to be wild. I want to be carless.

But I can't move on when all I feel is you watching me.

When I turn around to catch you there is nothing behind me. Not you. Not anyone.

I want apathy.

If only one thing all I have to say to you is fuck you.

Fuck you for keeping me alive when I wanted to be six feet under.

Fuck you for leaving me.

Fuck your disinterest in me.

Fuck my interest in you. 

Fucking help me. I am fucking drowning. I feel the fucking water fill my lungs. My arms are fucking tired and I never could fucking swim well.

Please tell your ghost to stop fucking with my brain.

You never cared much for my mental health anyways.

I'm fucked.

Just fuck you.

Challenge: Make profanity beautiful

** ADULT CONTENT and LANGUAGE **

In a dark alley the celestial lights guide our way.

He prods me vigorously up against a weathered brick wall.

He doesn’t use my name, instead whispers hoarsely against my ear,

“Bitch,” my pet name, a sobriquet he uses for all women of my calling, my position, my career.

He wants to lay with me, to fuck me, he growls over and over.

I smile as I ponder what extra service he might be willing to compensate.

To the ambient melody of distant sirens and midnight traffic, I slide my hand down and dance with his desire, toying his shaft, his balls. I whisper feigned interest in his needs, his urges, his lust as I caress his protruding cock.

Slowly and methodically, like a cougar patiently stalking her prey, I slide down and bring my swollen lips within inches. His eyes deepen in desire briefly before he flips me around to face the wall, bends me over and yanks my hair.

“Cunt,” his use of the moniker betrays his mounting desire.

He’s almost over the edge and unfortunately much too soon.

I sigh. There will be no surplus tonight.

Within minutes he enthusiastically cums and promptly pulls away.  He  hastily zips his navy pin-striped slacks and wastes no time vacating our dismal den of iniquity.  He has legitimate and proper pussy waiting at home.

“Fucking dick”, my lips merely outline the words as he saunters away,

leaving me to freshen myself in the unsanitary alleyway.  I could have really used the extra 50 bucks.