Please master can I touch your cheeck
please master can I kneel at  your feet
please master can I loosen your blue pants
please master can I gaze at your golden haired belly
please master can I have your thighs bare to my eyes
please master can I take off my clothes below your chair
please master can I can I kiss your ankles and soul
please master can I touch lips to your hard muscle hairless thigh
please master can I lay my ear pressed to your stomach
please master can I wrap my arms around your white ***
please master can I lick your groin gurled with blond soft fur
please master can I touch my tongue to your rosy *******
please master may I pass my face to your *****,
please master order me down on the floor,
please master tell me to lick your thick shaft
please master put your rough hands on my bald hairy skull
please master press my mouth to your *****-heart
please master press my face into your belly, pull me slowly strong thumbed
till your dumb hardness fills my throat to the base
till I swallow and taste your delicate flesh-hot ***** barrel veined Please
Mater push my shoulders away and stare in my eyes, & make me bend over
        the table
please master grab my thighs and lift my *** to your waist
please master your hand's rough stroke on my neck your palm down to my
        backside
please master push me, my feet on chairs, till my hole feels the breath of
        your spit and your thumb stroke
please master make my say Please Master **** me now Please
Master grease my ***** and hairmouth with sweet vaselines
please master stroke your shaft with white creams
please master touch your **** head to my wrinkled self-hole
please master push it in gently, your elbows enwrapped round my breast
your arms passing down to my belly, my ***** you touch w/ your fingers
please master shove it in me a little, a little, a little,
please master sink your droor thing down my behind
& please master make me wiggle my rear to eat up the ***** trunk
till my asshalfs cuddle your thighs, my back bent over,
till I'm alone sticking out, your sword stuck throbbing in me
please master pull out and slowly roll onto the bottom
please master lunge it again, and withdraw the tip
please please master **** me again with your self, please **** me Please
Master drive down till it hurts me the softness the
Softness please master make love to my ***, give body to center, & **** me
        for good like a girl,
tenderly clasp me please master I take me to thee,
& drive in my belly your selfsame sweet heat-rood
you fingered in solitude Denver or Brooklyn or ****** in a maiden in Paris
        carlots
please master drive me thy vehicle, body of love drops, sweat ****
body of tenderness, Give me your dogh **** faster
please master make me go moan on the table
Go moan O please master do **** me like that
in your rhythm thrill-plunge & pull-back-bounce & push down
till I loosen my ******* a dog on the table yelping with terror delight to be
        loved
Please master call me a dog, an *** beast, a wet *******,
& **** me more violent, my eyes hid with your palms round my skull
& plunge down in a brutal hard lash thru soft drip-fish
& throb thru five seconds to spurt out your ***** heat
over & over, bamming it in while I cry out your name I do love you
please Master.

                                        May 1968

A quick whip of the wrist
and I've fallen.
I see gentle fingers
and porcupine hair.
Porcupines' aren't real.
They're fantastical creatures we made up.
You're mellow
your voice is hollow as your breath can be
well-labored and painful looking.
Is see beyond your bedroom eyes
and your needs
that say you to be the big spoon
in the little spoon bunch.
The last one put down,
the first one picked up.
Turned over of lust
and anxiety.
You're mellow
your voice is hollow as your face can be.
Life-like giraffe linen curtains
beckon me to
rest in your arms.
The length of your body from ceiling to floor
is equally as fantastical as
a made up creature.
The moon cries in equal fear that
it will not see me to be with you
for we are too far
and too late.
Like an enraged teenage girl
it turns itself over for a new day.
Listen;
there is a hell of a good universe next door.
Let's
go.

Tonight we read some poetry,
and I didn’t like it,
and mine was too childish.
And then we talked.
And you were talking in poetry,
and you proved me wrong.

And I realized you’re always talking in poetry,
and that whenever you are happy,
you are proving me wrong.
And that’s a bit messed up,
isn’t it?

You choose a sepia filter
To match your timeless visage
To match the clothes you've wandered into today
But it is not a selfie.

Your eyes pierce them through their iPhone screens
Your smile is casually not directed towards anyone in particular
Your outfit is recklessly on point
And it is not a selfie.

It is a punch in the gut
to everyone who has ever
said you are not good enough.
It is not a selfie.

The wings by your eyes will go out of style.
The dye in your hair will wash down the drain.
The clothes will wear out and you will take pictures again.

But you have fabricated a moment.
You are smiling towards yourself.
Slap your image onto every social media you know
Next to the supermodels and Kardashians and words of self hatred
This is the fulcrum with which you will lever the world.
This is not a selfie.

I clean
I cook
I ****
Practicing
Domestic bliss

I hate poetry
about flowers
and springtime
or love
or the feeling of your darling's hand
or her ******* lips.

Poetry should make you really
burn
but some burn
more like sitting at a baseball game
in the sun
and you forgot to put on sunscreen
and you hate baseball.

I like poems
written late at night
with your brain blasted
on adderall
or coffee
or cheap *****.

Write
when your veins are filled with acid
when you're eating mac n cheese
made in the splattered microwave
with a broken plastic fork
and maybe even some broken dreams.

I like poems
when you're miserable
sitting in the sun
when all you want
is some ******* rain
to complement your melancholy mood
but the sun still ******* shines.

Untied shoelaces
and empty plastic water bottles
rolling down trash-filled streets
should take the pen out of your hand
and write some poetry for you.
Poetry about desperation
and drugs
and commonplace things
that drive you to the edge of a cliff.

I like poems
about that stupid pen
that won't work
so you scribble in the margin
but it still
won't
*******
work.

Maybe I don't like poems at all.
Maybe I just like
sounding pretentious
like some Bukowski wannabe
or maybe
I just like poems about
pretentious
Bukowski
wannabes.

Either way,
**** those *******
flowers.

It's a 2 am cigarette,
a late night walk,
you, alone with the moonlight.

You feel something romantic
in the self-loathing
that only seems to appear under the
brightest moon.

The ghostly cigarette smoke drifts
as the only filter
between you
and the moon.

It's the feeling of every slight stumble
you make as your foot catches
on the uneven sidewalk
and you don't know whether it's
the alcohol
or the darkness making you stumble.

The remote beauty
found only in your own
deepest version of hell,
the loneliness under the moonlight,
serves as the view in front of your
eyes,
red from tears.

Your heart
is colder than the cloudless night,
the only warmth you can feel
is through your fingertips,
gently holding the burning-down cigarette.

The red cigarette ****
lands near your feet,
the only light
besides the bright, cold moon.

The light shining down from the moon
is as pure
as the loneliness.
It's just you
and the night.

You take another drag,
and keep walking.

I always talk about how one day
I'll submit a short story to the New Yorker.

I tell people that I'm “working on a novel”
and that “I'll let you read it when I'm done.”

In reality,
I'll never finish the novel.
I'll never finish any of the ten novels
that I've started.

If I do finish,
I'll never let them read it
because it isn't good enough.

I'll never submit my short story
to the New Yorker
because they wouldn't want it.

Never mind that I've read every issue
of their magazine
dreaming of being a part of it
even a small part.
I wouldn't even need my name in it.
I just want to be in it because
everything they publish
is beautiful.

I'd love to finish a novel
but I lose hope
in my characters before they can even
breathe a single breath.

If only I believed in my characters
as much as my friends and family believed in me.
Then maybe, just maybe
I could finish something.

I guess I finished this ****** poem,
but that doesn't count because
it's more of a stream of consciousness
than a real piece of literature.