Poetry - Hyssop and Hermetics, The Absinthe Literary Review

by Jennifer Thompson

Procne to Itys

How like your father you are.

His hands, assured and swift

the dangling meat between your thighs

your cheek, your glance, the way your eyes

take in an object.

You cram sweets double-fisted just as

he devoured your aunt, my sister.

Soon you will find live objects for your greed.


When you embraced me

you dissembled to conceal a crime

you couldnít know your father had committed.


I could cut you open

gut you

because you occupied my innards for so long.

To him you were a principle, a possibility.

I put the weight of you hard in his belly.


I quenched the cruelty in your eyes

stilled the hunger in your fingers.

Do you see?

You would have been him

with that taste for culpability.


I do not grieve for that sweet being my innards tended.

I had before me the blasted oak

towards which that seed inclined.




She looked so sweet, there

so sexy

her titsódid you see them?

Perfect Sno-Cones.

The body of a thirteen-year-old

ashen, slight

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 tears?

They sprinkled my prick when I held her hair

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 before

I stretched those prim lips

above and below

If you could see her glance through those lashes

you would know

I cup her skull

wind fingers in her hair

her eyes flash up at me

the cunt

she works her tongue

she makes me come


Iím worthless

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

evolutionarily speaking

The light sweat that breaks in her groin

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

wet, tight

every salty fluid mingled

everything you look for

that special friction, there

Yes, I rode her


You would have, too


(According 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 father. All three were changed into birds: Procne a red-breasted swallow, Philomela a nightingale, and Tereus a hoopoe.)



That pitóso slick,


so muscularó

grips my finger.


Your hand clamps

on my wrist,

so frail.


The tendons of your wrist flex

as you press me in

past the last knuckle.


Your dark eyes

are radiant.


On my finger I wear

the ring of your fragility.


© 2002 Jennifer Thompson

Click here to leave a comment on these poems.
Please mention title/author when leaving comments.

  Back to The Absinthe Literary Review