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Censored Poets: Short coming

Too Much

my poem Too Much has been accepted by Shannon Peil for amphibi.us!!!

http://amphibi.us/all/too-much/#comments



1st of the year (although technically it was accepted in 2010, it was in a time zone at least  5hours ahead of me and therefore arrived when I was imbibing ridiculous amounts of wine, and therefore counts as this year)



I would celebrate but I think the two day hangover would carry on then...

Mugged

I am too weak and

you are too tempting, please

leave like a stormcloud.



Storm tossed reeds bounce back,

"you are strong, independent,

she needs me," he pleads.



My needs ploughed under

dark soil so yours can grow, forced

to my fallow time.



No coffin for this

love killed by your thoughtlessness;

naked mouldering.



Repeated goodbyes

touched to fiery sparks, puddled

blisters left to heal.



My essence pools,

slows to mirrored ice, blue sheened

to reflect you back.



also featured at The Camel Saloon

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I'm afraid that I will die spending time with someone I don't like

Yes, I am talking to you.  Look at you, you sprawl there on the sofa.  Sprawl doesn't begin to cover it, you slump, you spill, you slouch.  You are a sibilant sloven.  Your feet up on the furniture, resting on the rubbish, remains of letters, magazines, chocolate wrappers. 

You sag.  You age.

It's not langour, it's way beyond that, it's a life draining laziness beyond comprehension.  Why would anyone choose to live like that?  Why do you choose to live like that?  Oh, you don't choose it?  You just can't be bothered to change it.

Billowing flesh, pale and pasty pink.  Hide it under the throw, pretend it isn't there as you reach for the next packet of crisps, the next gulp of alcohol.

The German word for lazy is "faul" and you know you are.

Sluggish?  That doesn't sound too bad, a slow pulse but basically everything under control.  Slug-like is more like it.  Fat, seeping, sliding through life at the pace of a snail without even the excuse of your house on your shoulders.

No wonder no-one comes around.  No wonder there is no-one who wants to probe your fleshy crevices, touch your pallid swollen skin.  And you know being so fat makes those folds fleshier and deeper, the journey into your cunt a longer route to pleasure, but no-one else wants to know that now.  Hell, most of the time even you don't fucking bother.

Get up off the sofa and go look in the mirror.  Not via the fridge again!  Go see yourself.  Really see yourself, not glance and see the memory of the girl you once were.  She was 20 years ago and is lost to you now.  Look at yourself, see what you really look like.  Nice eyes, yeah, but how many chins?  Your tiny mouth looks even smaller against the expanse of your cheeks, unhealthily flushed. 

Will you do something about it this time?  Will you?  Or will you just wonder absently where the gym card is, or whether your swimming costume would still fit?  And make a half hearted resolution to go into town and buy some newer bigger clothes?

My face in the mirror, I wonder vaguely what it would be like to finish it, to put an end to it, to kill this person that I don't like, even if it means I die with her.  But I know I won't do it, too much effort...





Thanks to SSF for the great writing prompt, click here to see story at SSF

is someone else here?

Yeah got a chick lined up for tomorrow night, sure need to get my rocks off for real in a warm sweet wet cunt, my cock is red and aching from all the jacking off I been doing recently.  Couldn't help it I just got addicted to it this last week, there's this girl, no I've not met her, she's like another writer, in Europe somewhere and man she writes some hot stuff. 

-

"I'm out on a date tonight," I tell my flatmate, "You know with Martin?  The writer guy?"  I am kind of in awe of him he's published a book and he runs a magazine, how cool is that?  I'd love to write a novel you know, they say everyone's got a novel inside them and I want the world to see mine, see how creative and cool I can be!

-

Oh I love hearing from my favourite correspondant; right about now he should be checking out the mails I sent to him last time, asking in my faux naive way to tell me about how it feels when a guy is ready to come.  Time for another e-mail conversation which will end up with us both sticky and wet and satiated.  I love that he jacks it off at his work for me.  I even sent him some pictures.

-

Thing is, we have these conversations and they make me so fucking horny, and cos there's like a time difference she's playing with herself at home and I'm in the fucking cubicle and every day this week I had to get up and shuffle to the mens room to jack one out quickly but when I get home she's gone to bed but I can read the mails over again and again and I feel so fucking horny all the time at the moment.  So it'll do me good to get out there in the real world with, um, yeah Trish.

-

"We're gonna meet up at that new bar, you know, we all talked about it last week?  Apparently it's only a couple of blocks away from his apartment..."  I want to tell her not to wait up but he might not take me back there.  I'd like him to, it would be pretty cool to introduce him to people as My Boyfriend, The Writer.  I'm sure I could be creative, I mean my brother has a blog so it must run in the family.  I could be his muse!

-

I know I told him it had to be virtual only.  I think I said my head was pretty messed up with an ex and hinted that things were messy in real life.  I thought if it was only virtual, only make believe then I wouldn't be prone to all the worry, the neediness, the wondering if I had done something wrong when the beam of attention is not on me.  And writer guy did oblige with the attention, I could not complain about that.

-

It is loud in the bar, one of Andy's mates runs it and Andy had a spare couple of VIP tickets which is bound to impress, isn't it.  We drink little bitty fizzy cocktails in a raised area with squishy black leather sofas.  Trish is cute but a bit enthusiastic puppy.  The noise means conversation is difficult but she keeps at it, along with peeking up at me in a come and get it way.  Which is good.  I'm fucking dying to grab a hold of her and her all american sweetheart tits.  Push her down onto the sofa.

-

Wow, we sit in the VIP area and the bartender brings Champagne Charlies.  This is what it will be like all the time when he gets famous!  Well I will smarten his clothes up a bit, it's alright to look boho and geeky when you're just starting to get known, but nothing says success like a well dressed guy, you know?  I'm so glad I put this dress on, it makes me look sweet and sophisticated at the same time.  He isn't saying much, but he's enigmatic like that.

-

But when he told me he was going out with some chick tonight I felt a stupid pain.  I know it's really nothing to do with him and all to do with the ex, but I still felt it.  The pain of being left behind, the self-disgust at being taken again and again for a cheap fuck to be kept apart from a person's real life.  I'd been kept apart from his real life containing his marriage that was so fucking sacred that I was the third person he'd cheated with in less than a year.  Hmm, and as for writer guy, well I should be rational.

-

Gotta get out of here, I got her a load of them cocktails and she's sure enthusiastic now, couldn't manage more than three or four myself, too sweet and fizzy.  Cute dress she's got on, white and sort of lacy but more like embroidery, pretty, and fucking love the way it rode up those thighs the more she talked and drank those cocktails down.  "Hey, lets grab some fresh air and starry night," I tell her, and hand her up all gentleman like.  She wobbles a bit on her heels and clings on my arm.

-

He does like me, people are looking at us I bet they think we look really good together.  Oops, little wobble there!  Coffee at his place is such a good idea.  We'll sleep in the same bed, and kiss and cuddle and stuff but nothing full on until I'm sure he likes me in the morning.  I am a little tipsy and he can read me his poems while I fall asleep and he can stroke my hair and in the morning we'll have more coffee and the sun will shine and he'll tell me he thinks he loves me.

-

I should be rational about him going on a date but I am not.  He doesn't know that I do know him in real life and the reason I insist on it being virtual is well, complicated.  He thinks I am some girl in Berlin that he would never meet.  I love it that he thinks I am a girl, and that we can talk and meet mind to mind even though I am starting to suspect that he's only interested in the fucking talk, not in me, or any personality behind the words.  If I was a girl waiting on the end of the line for him I guess I would be disappointed.

-

Fuck this isn't going too well, I got her back to the flat and the bedroom fine even through all her "baby we'll do this when..." and "baby when you are so famous..." stuff.  And she did look so hot laid out on the bed in that white dress and the long legs but when I crawled up on the bed behind her and kissed her neck and rubbed my hand along those legs she crossed them and my cock is not even properly hard she's just too much of a good girl.  I leave her on the bed to sleep while I grab a beer, and I can't help it, I turn the computer on to see if Berlin girl has sent me anything new and if not I can read one of the old conversations and jack off and the night won't be a total failure.

-

His flat wasn't that nice really.  A bit small and cramped.  And instant coffee, how cheap was that!  And he had been a bit presumptuous, taking the coffee straight through to the bedroom but then the main living area wasn't really much more than a sofa, a dining table and a tv in the corner.  Some bookshelves, yeah.  But he got more presumptuous, sliding his hands between my legs as I lay sleepily on the bed, so I wriggled them closed and pretended to fall asleep because I didn't want to fuck him there and then, suddenly wondering what if he didn't get to be famous?

-

I needed a distraction, I turned on my computer even though I knew writer guy was out on his date, but it would pass the time.  I called my sister for a chat, even if she is a bubble-headed gossip she can be fun in small doses, but her flatmate tells me she is out on a date.  With Martin, you know, the writer guy? 

Fuck, fuckfuck, fuck fucking fuck. 

How could she have got to him?

And then a mail comes in from him, "Are you there Berlin Girl?"





with apologies to "writer guy" for taking something out of context as inspiration ;)

published at new wave vomit here

Measure for measure

She sat down at the computer to wait for his e-mail to feed the latest obsession the explicit and horny sexy e-mail conversations with a stranger she had read his writing and he hers and they had looked at and liked each others blogs and now each night for the last three nights they had exchanged flurries of mails in linear and forked conversation strands and played with words and she had played with herself as he told her about playing with himself.

While she waited she played the damn facebook games that she had been so enthusiastic about the week before in the absence of the fucking talk she robbed properties and did jobs for dons and fought yakuza and sent virtual gifts for virtual chop shops and weapons depots and when she had run out of energy and stamina and had to wait for time to refill those she went to the farm and planted tomatoes and helped virtual friends raise barns and fed their non-existent chickens.

While she waited she recalled the mails and the mood from the day before OMFG to use one of his acronyms but the words moved her beyond heat she loved the way his words made her feel and the way her words did too and in some ways she didn't really care that she would probably never meet this stranger especially as this stranger might not be the same as the picture of the stranger she had in her head from reading his blog he might be a completely different virtual stranger.

And OMFG his mail came in and the conversation started again and when he typed how much he wanted to ram his thick fat cock into her she felt herself responding and typing back that she wanted him to she wanted to feel this lust rising she wanted to feel the strangers lust wanted to feel that there really was a person at the other end who wanted to turn her onto her stomach and pull her arse cheeks apart and dip his fingers into her juices and spread her legs apart and work his enormous cock deeper into her and she slides her own fingers into her folds and feels the stringy wetness and thinks of him sat at his desk at work with his hand in his pants too.

Oh she is warm and wet now and needs more more stimulation needs to feel the push of something inside her and as she types about his thick cock stretching her walls she finds the wine bottle is empty how did that happen but its good and in a quick break from the screen she rinses the bottle and pulls her trousers and knickers down and places a towel on the chair underneath her and rejoins the one handed typing as the wine bottle takes the place of her fingers down there she tells him where she is at the conversation forks again one half still in fantasy and the other half describing what she is doing feeling and are both strands fantasy for him or is one of them real and she has to stop typing and finish herself off.

And after she is done he types that he is not yet so she asks him to tell her about his thick cock again and then the new obsession is kicked off for he believes in driving a specific bargain and tells her his cock is 6.5" in girth and at first she cannot imagine how big this is then she finds a tape measure and makes a loop with it to see how big it is but a loop isn't very easy to imagine pushing at you so she measures the wine bottle and fucking hell 6.5" is way bigger than the neck of that even though it wasn't a champagne bottle it was only 3.5" around and though there was a little room for manoeuvre she thinks double that size is really too big so she looks around for more objects to measure.

In her bathroom she finds the deodorant stick, short and stubby but at it's widest only 5" although an interesting shape she sees the travel shampoo but no don't bother with that it is no wider than the wine bottle the shower gel looks huge but it is only 5.5" it looks as big as she imagines she could take and it is nowhere near the 6.5" she can't imagine how fat the strangers cock must be there is the bath foam but that is eye wateringly big and and there is no way that would fit her.

She imagines wandering up and down the supermarket aisles with her tape measure inspecting the various bottles and jars on display looking for the perfect fit and the shop assistant watching as she wraps the tape measure around them but she measures the bath foam and that is still only 6" and she measured it even though she thought it was too big and now she is a little sad for if she did ever meet the strangers cock it would not fit her the owner of the cock with his fantasies is too big for her she has an inadequate cunt she is too small for something that size although then she thinks maybe because if she met the stranger his cock would be flesh and blood and filled with blood and therefore flexible and not the planar smooth unyielding surface of a bath foam bottle and maybe it would work.

But if even the strangers cock was flexible it was still 0.5" bigger than the bath foam bottle then she was still too tight for the strangers cock even if she was hot and wet and yes in theory she knew they were capable of expanding to the size of a babies head but how much work would that take and maybe the stranger had exaggerated his size after all men do that all the time she wondered if there was a graded scale by which men did exaggerate so that if the stranger said 6.5" then she could look at the penis girth exaggeration (PEG) scale and know that he would really be (in the norms of statistical distribution) somewhere between 4.75" and 5.5" and then having a tight wet cunt would not be so much of a disadvantage after all.

Sometimes she wished she had majored in something other than Mathematics.

Also published here

Knitting pattern man

I don't know why I suddenly remembered him; I was lying on the bed trying to reminisce about the ex, trying to recapture the last time he fucked me before going back to his pregnant wife, coming dozily awake after the last drunken embrace and holding him until he was hard enough; and then knitting pattern man suddenly came into my head.  I hate it when my fantasies start to have a mind of their own. 

Knitting pattern man was the first bloke I knew who really liked going down on me.  Can't say that I was that bothered about it at the time, but he liked it and I stupidly liked him.  Of course in hindsight it's easy to see I was naive and easy to see I was being used but at the time I was thrilled that this more experienced guy was interested in me.  He looked like a taller Tom Cruise, I couldn't believe my luck.  He wasn't married, that one, but lived with his girlfriend, hundreds of miles away in Portsmouth.  I didn't care.  She wasn't anything but a name to me.

There was this time, he'd called me in the office to ask if I was wet.  My office was a Portacabin shared with 3 other blokes that all thought they knew he was fucking me, one of them handed the phone to me.  I'd never done phone sex before and didn't know what he meant - how he must have smiled at me as I said it wasn't raining.  He asked then if my pussy was wet, and this time I twigged and I didn't tell him about my two cats.  I told him I was a little, but it was that time of the month.  He must have been exasperated with me by then, but he told me he would be at the factory the next week and that he was going to fuck me again, in my green bedroom; he'd let me know when he could get away from the meetings.

I remembered why I called him knitting pattern man. That time he knew to come to my back door.  He pulled the curtains closed as my flat looked out onto the road that went to the factory, everyone from the factory drove home past it.  My next door neighbour worked at the factory too, but he was on shift at the time.  I'd liked the thought that people could see in, catch a glimpse on the way past, but I guess he didn't. 

He'd kissed me as I closed the back door, pushing me up against the kitchen wall.   I thought his impatience was for how much he wanted me.  He'd led me into my own front room, and pulled my trousers down at the same time as pulling me down onto the armchair.  It felt odd to be bare from the waist down in my armchair.  I could feel the texture of the tapestry material pressing against my skin.  I could feel his breath over me.  Warm.  Warm breath, warm mouth.  He positioned my legs over the arms of the chair.  He kissed me down there and his tongue probed those folds.  I wondered what I tasted like.  But I thought this was something I should already know about so I didn't say anything.  I felt something nice, but most of all I felt slutty sitting in my living room half naked with my legs over the arms of the chair, almost in the middle of the day, while a fully clothed man knelt between my spread legs and pulsed his tongue against me.

He took his coat off.  He was wearing an ugly knitted jumper underneath, the kind that you are given as a present for Christmas and have to mumble "How nice," even though it isn't; but you don't usually wear them except to visit the person who gave you the jumper.  It was very early in the evening, almost daytime even though it was dark because it was winter.  It was a cold evening outside, and his fingers were still cold when he put them inside me and used his cold thumb to rub me where his warm mouth had been. 

I stopped keeping track of time.  It took me by surprise, that he made me come without getting his own release.  After that, I wrapped my legs around his back and pressed myself up against his ugly jumper.  I liked the idea he would wear the jumper with my juices soaked up in it.  He picked me up and carried me through to my green bedroom and took the jumper off with the rest of his clothes.  Not much later, he put the jumper back on and took off with the rest of his clothes.  It was still early evening.



Yippee!  Published at my favourite place here with this fantastic picture!

Struggle/Chocolate

I sat in the cubicle with my head crunching, trying to collaspe in on itself. My stomach was moving to a similar rhythmn that seems deliberately a few beats out of sync.  Knickers round my ankles, but hunched, holding my stomach to my thighs, my head to my knees.  Laying bets on which end will spurt first as I sweat and shiver at the same time as while my body decides which part is next to fall apart.  I struggle not to moan out loud.  If I puke first I have to get off the toilet, spin through 180° and aim for the toilet bowl.  Gipping at the back of my throat.  Oh god is it possible to die of a hangover?  Panic starts, no bog roll in the holder, shit shit shit; literally, I will have to walk out with shit stuck in my crack to find some, or grab the paper towels by the sink.  Oh fuck I can't get up to look.  A wave of illness washes me.  The bottom end wins, a fat solid plug is expelled first.  Black, like finest dark chocolate, and the rancid fruity smell I associate with the bears at the zoo.  I must cut back on the red wine.  Perhaps intersperse each 75cl of Merlot with a bottle of Pinot Grigio?  The solid shit passes and my arsehole contracts afterwards, a few times, a few waves of mild pleasure to counteract those of nausea, before the rest comes spurting, spattering out.  The bowl is pebble dashed in 60% fine cocoa solids.  I do groan now, my eyes are watering; and then I notice on the floor a few sheets of tissue clinging to the end of the cardboard reel.  Oh thank fuck for that.





Inspired by a ThinkingTen challenge; but decided not to post at that site due to the content so submitted it to the guys at SSF, and it's published here

The next married man...

He wants to smell my fingers

after I have dragged them from my slit,

and he wants to taste them too.

Second hand cunnilingus.



He wants me to bend my head to his

peel back the skin and push my tongue into his slit.

Suck him to the point of no return while

he is sucking at my fingers.



I think I won't do it, he is a bit too old

and set in his ways. He thinks that as long as his cock

isn't pushed up in me then it is not really

cheating. His heart won't unfold.



But, I am not a ripe fruit,

they are not juices but secretions, more sluggish

and oh I want to stay damp as I age,

I don't want to be dried out.



Whoever I take into me next will

always suffer by comparison, no, not to the wide

necked wine bottle by the bed but to

"the ex", I want him still...



The old guy texts again, "Lets meet,"

I am bored and scared of life without sex, without

an admirer, someone to flirt with and

be naughty but occasionally sweet.



 We walk on the heath and into the trees

He is tall and sturdily built, and I hope his cock is too.

He is not getting away with just being blown,

I want him to betray his life.  "Please,"



he says, groans as he lies on the ground.

Trusting me to hold him in my mouth and only do as he

wants me to do, wrinkled balls but smooth

skinned shaft, my lips slide round.



Suck, pull him towards my throat

grazing his head on the inside of my cheek, teeth slide

and suppressing gag reflex. His hips move

jerkily, I push him back on the coat.



My hand under my skirt, rubbing.

"I'm touching myself so you can taste me," I'm powerful

as I move up to kiss him, see if he likes his

taste. "God I was nearly coming!"



Move the gusset across to the side

dabble, then thrust my fingers under his nose, press my thumb

into his mouth, he likes being dominated. Then

straddling him, I slide his cock inside.



Afterwards I pretend, that

his cry was only ecstasy, it contained no loss, he

wanted it just as much as I did but,

seeping spunk, I feel flat.



Also published at SSF here

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Robbed

Still I wish for you;

The sap rising in the trees

I will not blossom.

-

Yes, it is calmer

without you close, rain clouds scud

across the grey sky.

-

Ripe for seeding, sun

falls on open eyes, legs, heart;

you push into me.

-

You pull out of me,

drive from the hotel; litter swirls

windblown vortices.

-

Your seed trickles out

a wet patch; summer is due,

sunshine flew away.

-

Your words trickle in

Why do I let you? Cut, not

clutch at memories...





Published at The Camel Saloon here

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