like your father you are.
hands, assured and swift
dangling meat between your thighs
cheek, your glance, the way your eyes
in an object.
cram sweets double-fisted just as
devoured your aunt, my sister.
you will find live objects for your greed.
you embraced me
dissembled to conceal a crime
couldnít know your father had committed.
could cut you open
you occupied my innards for so long.
him you were a principle, a possibility.
put the weight of you hard in his belly.
quenched the cruelty in your eyes
the hunger in your fingers.
would have been him
that taste for culpability.
do not grieve for that sweet being my innards tended.
had before me the blasted oak
which that seed inclined.
She looked so sweet, there
her titsódid you see them?
The body of a thirteen-year-old
a bundle of dry sticks, really
but with tits.
You think I didnít feel it
what I did to her?
Do you think I somehow missed her
They sprinkled my prick when I held
Crimson brimmed at her lips
poured from her mouthís corners
I dipped my cock into
the hot consequences
of my own brutality.
Sheís a fucking cunt
You can tell sheís sucked a cock
I stretched those prim lips
above and below
If you could see her glance through
you would know
I cup her skull
wind fingers in her hair
her eyes flash up at me
she works her tongue
she makes me come
I canít help it
Somethingís wrong with me
I know it
Her grip is hot
Her hands tremble
I see her choke
her face is red
I donít enjoy it
I empty this wretched self
and she can only swallow
Wide eyes are appealing
The light sweat that breaks in her
is a vintage I enjoy
I savor the collapse of her shoulders
the wild pulse between her breasts
and there, at her temple
I enter this temple
and I am a capricious god
God, it felt so good
every salty fluid mingled
everything you look for
that special friction, there
Yes, I rode her
You would have, too
to Ovid, Tereus married Procne, daughter of the Athenian king. He
then fell in love with Procneís sister, Philomela. Maddened
with desire he raped her, cut out her tongue, and imprisoned her in the forest,
telling Procne she was dead. Philomela
wove a tapestry illustrating his crime and bribed servants to take it to Procne,
who then rescued her. Together,
they slaughtered Procneís son Itys, cooked him in a stew, and fed him to his
three were changed into birds: Procne a red-breasted swallow, Philomela a
nightingale, and Tereus a hoopoe.)
tendons of your wrist flex
you press me in
the last knuckle.
my finger I wear
ring of your fragility.
© 2002 Jennifer Thompson
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