Drunk Poetry II: Do not go gentle into that fine ass

Hello folks. It’s been a while since my last post. I spent this year doing a different sort of job, and it kept me more busy than I had anticipated it would. Entirely worth the time, mind you. I find myself left with a lot to think about.

I have not abandoned writing, while I’ve been quieter here. I have kept up poetry for myself and friends, and have submitted a short story for a Best Men’s Erotica anthology with Burning Book Press. But I haven’t been writing at the volume I did during and after National Poetry Month last year, and haven’t spent as much time polishing things up to share publicly.

I have two weeks vacation now, and figure I can use this time to break the silence. I wrote a villanelle this weekend to thank a friend for his gifts of booze, which I was sampling generously at the time of writing. It is based on the poem Do not go gentle into that good night, by Dylan Thomas. I would like to share it with you.

Do not go gentle into that fine ass

Do not go gentle into that fine ass,
Sphincters should burn and clench at close of night;
Thrust, thrust, against the amply mounded mass!

When one’s presented that rotund crevasse
Respond with shlicking rounds of phallic flight,
Do not go gentle into that fine ass.

That they might seem to be of higher class
Does not assure that they’d protest or fight,
Thrust, thrust against the amply mounded mass!

The screaming’s no request to end it fast,
Toss them a pillow and tell them to bite;
Do not go gentle into that fine ass.

And when their voice begins to break and rasp
Take pleasure in those hymns of anal plight,
Thrust, thrust against the amply mounded mass!

And they, catching their breath, will glare and gasp
Curse, bless you with fierce tears of pained delight–
Do not go gentle into that fine ass.
Thrust, thrust against the amply mounded mass!


NaPoWriMo 25: Savor

Take this small bit of chocolate
and hold it on your tongue.
Feel it melt without
a single drop
just yet.

Then perhaps you’ll understand
what it means to me
to kiss your inner thighs without
dipping my tongue between them.

NaPoWriMo 24: Sijo~ Beneath

Hey folks, quick note–

It’s finals time for me, and life is getting desperately busy. I will continue writing, and won’t always get to respond as much to comments, but I read and appreciate every one. Thanks for reading.



Wrapped tight in lace, she knots a mass of curls at the nape of her neck,
applies neat rouge, and smoothes her skirt with slender, polished hands.
Beneath his plug stretches her wide; wetness slicks the inner thigh.

NaPoWriMo 22: Shedding

I am upset, because I am bad at not wanting you.

I have tried, mind you–
New diverting hobbies
Coffee with other people
Sex with other people
And all these things I always
shed like a skin
and my lust for you remains
a constant thriving thing
pulsing warmth into
the new skin growing beneath

I wish I could pinpoint the exact moment
when you sunk to those places inside me
that cannot be removed
without uprooting bits of
attached flesh,
tissues of the deep kind–
not the thin, flimsy layers
I scratch off month by month
while trying to claw down to the itch beneath.

I wish I could
(during our inevitable relapse)
wrap my legs around you
fast enough,
cum around you
tight enough,
that I could hold you within me
and not release you
until you’re willing to dig around
find the wanting you left in me,
and take the goddamn thing with you.


please, please,
I want you
but not this aching thing
in between–
get it out of me

NaPoWriMo 21: Idly wanting

A warm tingle
sparks dully
in my lower abdomen
as I lie on my back,
stare at the ceiling,
and roll a memory
between my back teeth.

My limbs are magnetized by my lethargy.
The ground pulls them.

A finger rubs absently
at the inch below
my waistband.
My hips push slightly upwards,
never leaving the mattress,
hold a moment
and then collapse slow
like a sigh.

I am,
it seems,
too tired
for the vigorous frigging
of masturbation–
though not nearly too tired
to lie back
and idly want you.

NaPoWriMo 19: Morning Glory

as you’re waking
I touch you just this way–
and everything seems to

Your lips
nostril flare
and much lower, here–

All widening
all receptive

And you can’t seem to take in enough

Greedy one
the only choice you leave
for me, who views you thus
is to fill you over
and over
until you spill