Thursday, September 6, 2012

Three by A.J. Huffman


I wish I knew you or understood you when you speak to me or even when you don't speak to me when you say don't go don't stay don't talk don't think don't speak don't walk don't wait don't feel just fuck just fuck just fuck you say the words like fists strike me batter me batter my mind batter it hard until it drips with thick golden goo and drops to the steaming pavement in a bubbling ball smashed flat with an old wrought iron plate that probably belongs in my head grey and cold like the lock on my belt my chastity belt your toy you like me to wear you know so only you can fuck me or maybe so only I get fucked I never could get that right or straight as the way to hell that's where I'm going nowhere else to go but down down but only when we fuck then go down way down on a spiraling slide of darkness that spits me out regurgitates that sticky white wad of me right back into the misunderstanding of your arms.

Response to a Bittersweet Love Story

I let you fuck me.
Not because you wanted to,
but because I felt like it.
I could see the red glow of rage
consuming you when you looked at me,
the photo-negative of some cracked-out Barbie doll,
and your blinding need to punish me
for being anatomically correct.

So I let you fuck me.
Not because you wanted to,
but because I welcomed the prick of your vile needle
as it sealed me with sticky thread.
I obediently whined
when you scratched at your handiwork,
wanting the given pain back inside you,
and playfully wrapped your knuckles.
"Tomorrow . . ." I began,
and the laughter of your assumptive arrogance intercepted my words
as you dressed yourself in the pre-conceived pleasure of my fall.
"We'll see," you tease before telling me good-bye.

But I let you fuck me.
Not because you wanted to,
but because I enjoyed watching the shock of understanding
overtake your branded body
when I pulled the apple from beneath my pillow
and placed it in your trembling hands.
"Tomorrow," I began again,
shouting over the room's resounding emptiness.
"Tomorrow, I dare you to fuck me."

Temporary Orifice

You stifle my desire with your presence,
filling my mouth
to dissipate the words that lubricate
your penetration.
My voice is lost --
crushed beneath your pleasure.
It drips down my throat,
a four-letter reflection of myself
ringing through the mirror in your eyes.

I shatter beneath the inspection.
Suddenly, I am your echoing vision,
covering my ears to stop the brand overriding my conscience,
already weak from colliding with the truth.

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