Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’


 

slutboy1

artist: Unitas Quick

 

Don’t Think It’s Alright
Looking for him  in the soft belly of the night
warm creamy tight
looking for a knicker kiss
a dream
a wet slip
a hand, a softened  whisper on her thigh.
wishing for violets on the dirt roads
burying the bullets –
sharping for an angry fix
jitterbug sweat skies
praying in reverse
Jack off – the big kahuna bites
over and over
where’s your thick
conscience now ?

 


SUGAR DADDY

 

Twenty dollars for a blow job, I said.

 

He smiled, as I jumped in his car.

We drove to his place,

a plush apartment in West Hollywood.

 

After the dirty work, he sat two twenties on the couch

and went to the bathroom.

 

I picked up a single twenty

and walked out the door.

 

Naturally,

he fell in love with me.

 

 

 


 

Manna Falls

Cardinals bicker

and knock seed from the feeder.

Doves parade below.

 

 

 

Hope in Winter

Robin on the lawn.

Three hops and stops to listen.

Somewhere must be spring.

 

 

 

 

 


Beginning February, 2016

Poems/Flash/Haikus Accepted for Publication on BoySlut will now receive Payment.

Please see “Publication Payment” tab above for more Info.

 


 

Memories of Winnipeg

And Crazy Eight Bar

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

I’m drunk, isolated,

and horny,

I stumble into The Crazy Eight

Bar and it wasn’t my lucky charmed night.

Flirting with Indian women, delusional

with my white ass superiority,

I’m doing card tricks,

and end up getting my guts

and rib cage kicked out.

I’m circled by Métis Indians

no facial war paint

no Indian war bonnets,

but they fooled me.

 

I’m down eating floor dirt,

and the kicks keep coming-

thick needle toe boots, cowboy style, fast and heavy.

I crawl to my car half dead barely breathing,

collapsed lungs, head on the steering wheel

I somehow how find the hospital.

Spitting blood and Apple Jack wine,

my tan suite is ruined,

I pissed my white pants yellow-

worst of all I deserved it.

So I learn, when in a strange town

find a place where the color of your face fits,

And don’t cheat at cards.

 

-2008-

 

 

Native I Am, Cocopa

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

I am mother proud

of the greatest

events that fade before me.

I dig earthworms

and farm dirt

from my fingertips

and grab native

Baja & Southwestern

California

soil & desert sand

wedged between my

spaced teeth.

My numbers or few or is it only me

a useless decay, dentures

lost in desert sand?

I gain no respect.

I once drank a Budweiser beer

out of the keg in

St. Louis, Missouri

just to make sure I was

born on north American soil.

In my heart digs many memories

and 41 relatives left in 1937.

I see praise & prayers

from native Gods.

I am Cocopa of Yuman family

and extent into the mouth

of many Colorado rivers and mountains.

Mist is my memories.

I survive on corn, melons,

pumpkins and mesquite beans-

add a few grass seeds, a hint of red wine,

burial roots of history faded on

parchment.

 

-2008-

 

 


 

Morning Horny

You wake up so horny

You want to hump

Something

Anything

And you want the hump to go on forever

To never stop

To blow fast

To last

This great effort, this

Sexy hump

 

But your bed’s empty

And you’re all alone

And your hand looks at you

You swear it’s giving you the eye

 

 

So you smile back

 

***

 

Words In Use

I hope your

poetic is

deep wet

and wide.

 

I hope you under

stand.

 

My poetic

is

hard and

male.

 

There is

no

 

loss,

 

and

 

no love

 

***

 

I wanna come back as your tight black skirt

I wanna come back as your tight black skirt

I wanna feel your bend and

move and

sway

I wanna know your shape,

your figure,

your curves

your outline

and feel you

really feel you

your body hot and potent

your body full and ripe

your weight pushing against me

pressing down on me

ready to split and burst

at the seams

I wanna come back as your tight black skirt

and understand you

the woman in you

explained

the sex that you are

like you haven’t got a clue

 

 


 

All I Did Was Admire Her Aloud
 
“Quiet, please,” I tell her,
“I want to hear the music.”
She is sitting next to me again,
this time on a paisley couch,
a woman in a lime bikini I met
only this morning sprawled
on the Morse Avenue Beach.
All I did was admire her aloud,
not recognize her age, and an hour later
she brought me home with her.
Now she is curling into me again
and moaning at a remarkable pitch.
Finally she spits into my neck
what it’s all about
this time and every time
“Honey…I am…coming.”