Thong Decision

I was out of clean underwear
and decided
borrowing one of your thongs
for the day
was somehow
a good idea,
if only to keep my boys in place.
I slipped them on
and heard you
fart across the room;
a small cannon let loose
while dreaming,        
uncovered by sheets and piety.
My grin became grimace
as thin fabric sliced butt cheeks
like floss to tender gums
and second-guessed if commando
weren’t the better option.
I shook the thought
and pulled pants up over
chafing thighs,
fighting urges
to pick my butt
on the way down to the bus.
I took a seat and opened
up the paper, scanning classifieds
and comic strips
when gravelly voice behind me spoke.
“That’s a lovely shade of pink
you’re wearing. Got any plans tonight?”
Goosebumps pimpled neck
as my fingers felt my back.
The straps had crept
and exposed themselves
putting my anal cherry
in mortal danger.
A quick exodus
at the next bus stop
had me sprinting for shelter,
tucking shirt into pants
mid-scamper and misplacing
testicles in the process.
I took the long way to work
showed up late
and fondling testes,
attempting comfort
in your tight little panties.
The first piss break I got,
3 hours later (after lunch),
I tried to rip them off with a quickness
without de-pantsing myself first.
I felt my taint scream out in anger
as the floss rubbed me raw.
My eyes teared up,
the thong wouldn’t rip,
and my balls had declared
death wishes against me.
I slumped to the floor
and unbuttoned my draws
removing the pretty pink problem.
Walking by stalls,
I massaged my balls,
and tossed the torn fabric away.
So these are your replacements,
boxed up and tied with bow.
Happy Birthday, dear,
I just wanted you to know,
the underpants gnomes don’t exist,
yours truly just lacks common sense.

December 2007
Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground
Red Pulp Underground
Insert “A” Into “B”

A passion-fucked afternoon
of sweat, satin and slippery
sent me,
shivering, home
to calm the shackles
that had risen
when my tongue found wanderlust
between
high heels and wrist cuffs.

Inhaling sin-dust,
we forget hands slow tick-tocking
in the clock, now on the floor
bathed in slacks and black stockings
and silky flavored things
I masticated off soft carapace,
incisor marks a hint
of skin to come.
Devoured until sunrise,
a taste of every mile of skin,
every crevice cared for
as I throe myself to sin.

A shower exoneration
left a halcyonic halo
upon a head still filled
to brim with Seraphim,
shampoo curtain closing
upon my lusting grin.
These steam confessions
bead in sudsy rosaries
and I thank the tiles for listening.

December 2007

I wanna read a poem
that makes me drunk
on someone’s words,
solidifying images from nothing
and nouning up verbs.
I wanna taste a poem
off the curves of thighs and skin
and then
lick it off slow enough
to really understand
the pen.
I want ink-injected veins
to fire synapses
for not working hard enough
at deciphering metaphors
meant for cracking and puzzling.
I want the written word
to be whispered to me
after slow sex and cuddling
as if fresh off the tongue,
and I want
the likeness of poets
replacing pictures once hung.
I want ink on my dermis
permanent and professing
my lust for block letters
and Verdana dressings
covering body from head to left foot
because she is the only cursive affair
I’ve never wanted to stop.

December 2007