Vicariousness

Rip the paper clouds

From the laden sky

A leaden catastrophe

As all my words leak

In rivulets down your face

Coat your white wings ashen

Blacken an already tarnished halo

A tongue to taste what I mean

A choke as they fill your throat

But never your heart

Grapple with these possibilities

With a singular weakness inside

You keep coming back

To my siren call

Wading into my perfect storm

Where all the shelter is destroyed

And only open fields remain

To lay and fuck

Under dark midnight skies

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Dryad’s Saddle

In a well lit wood

Stumble into fairy lights

Your feet are feather weight

Under my spell

A man from the mines

Bare chest and dirty

Filthy indeed

Hard as ore dug daylong

Hung as the horse that pulled your cart

Forget him, he grazes

You have only eyes for my slender blade

And dew wet pussy

Spread legs upon a dryad saddle

Think that I am too unsubstantial?

Perhaps you are right, come sunset

But now you can only feel my seduction

Sloan

A gallon hat

Over a desiccated shadow

Spit and cuss

But swear you know how to treat a lady

Perhaps, tonight, harvest moon

When my breasts hang full and bright

We can lazily twist wild grass into braids

Lay deep in the earth’s embrace

Naked, as though we wished it would accept us back into its womb

I’ll slap away your calloused hands

Rolling my soft curves until you can barely handle it

You want to be denied

Stroked

Add your call to the nighttime symphony of crickets

You can almost taste it

Drown in it, like whiskey, poured straight

The cruelty of my fingers a chaser

You will be grateful for the weight of the saddle

For the prick of my spurs

A rodeo circus of depravity

Eight seconds, so you can qualify

Treat a woman right

Mr. Sloan

 

*All characters are fictional

 

 

Exist

Vast enigmatic planet
Spiderweb of vibrations
So delicate
That even the ancient trees know
Something is coming for them
I exist, here on the surface
Gazing into the bowl of the sky
Divining tomorrow in the wind
A bluster of loneliness
Among a bustle of life
Teetering on the edge of not being
As we all are