If only I could fuck like you,

Your hair all fucked, your body too,

The bed messed up, the sheets so wet,

All cause he drove, a black Corvette,

Attracted to the green he had,

You’re fucked up mind so fucking sad,

So you jumped in as quick as fuck,

Now you’re naked, and shit out of luck,

Your make-ups running, the tears don’t help,

While he’s fucked off, you’re by yourself,

Another guy, how many’s that?

A hundred? Two? All seen your flat,

They came and went, you fucked them all,

Your phones worn out, waiting for the call,

It’s fucked how fucked you fucking are,

Look like some trash, once were a star,

But you won’t stop, you can’t, too late,

Try telling your two legs to wait,

So I’m afraid I’ll never learn,

The way you fuck, each guy in turn,

It’s just a shame you had no price,

All that money, wouldn’t it been nice?

But instead, free fucks for all,

And now you’re naked, waiting for the call.

By Ilija Sekulovski

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

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 

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.

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.

We take normal words or glue multiple words together and use them to express our emotion. Takes poems and songs to describe love, but a single words to counter it. It is a moment of pure emotion, maybe not good, noble emotions, but still strong enough to take over our body and instead of being described, require a single, fast word full of emotion.

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. 

The sundrenched sky brings in the fucking beauty of the summer day. Comparable only to the magnificent colors of your eyes. Dancing like fucking deities as you smile. Your lips still tainted with cum and euphoria. You hand me a drink and I muse at the sensual stroke of your fingers against my hand. If it weren't for this damn crowded yard filled with drunks and judging cunts. I'd take here. On the goddamn grass with the fucking sun illuminating the curve of your ass.

"My pussy dripping" you whisper and I caught the hell off guard. I take a sip of cheap ass whisky drench in generic shit cola and I'm laughing at the irony of it all.

I want my fingers inside of you. Warm and wet. More heat than this goddamn summer sun. But instead I settle for your hands resting on my shoulders and listen to these punk ass boys talk shit about drinking and drugs and made up bullshit adventures. A classic game of who's dick is bigger. You roll your eyes as your cousin gloats "I could take your preppy ass shot for shot" I shake my head and move into my thoughts. They're all consumed now with the thought of fucking you. Hard and strong. And your fingers sliding carefully up and down my neck only fuels the fucking fire. I wanna to make love to you here. Right now. I want to bend you over and make you my bitch. But instead I nod and except the challenge. And I throw this bullshit excuse for whisky to the back of goddamned throat. Shake it off and you kiss my lips. I can hear the family whisper. But I don't give a fuck. Im drinking in the taste of you and Sangria and I'm knee deep in fantasies of your clit against mine.

I pour a shot and look this fucking skinny ass punk in the eye "we're about to pick you up off of the floor you lil bitch." For a moment he looks convinced and then pissed off and the shit talking starts.

I'm well aware im too old for this but damn if it doesn't make my heart smile to hand a liquified bitch slap to a dickless little douche.

When ten deep now and you're kissing my fucking neck and this shits getting old. I need to feel you against me. Your fucking skin against my own. Your lips on my tits. But I don't god damn lose and so I pick up the tiny red solo cup from hell. Filled with piss off ten dollar libations. And I shoot it down. Too fucking lit to taste the rank ass bite. The punk hesitates. He makes a lame ass attempt to throw it back and then its over. And he's puking in his girlfriends lap and he's not getting ass tonight. But I'm pretty sure I am.