Craig Scott

Daddy’s Little Girl

Leila was my blonde bombshell
tight, tan & horny all the time
she would wrap her legs around my waist
& tell me how she wanted to fuck her father
as I pinned her against the wall
& slammed it home
it was so wrong, but when I was
balls deep it sounded so right
she called me daddy, I called her my baby girl
I took pictures of her riding my dick
choking on it, wearing my cum
Leila posted them on a website
I read her the comments while she
rubbed her pussy with my rod
“dam gurl ur hot”
“I have some serious dick envy”
“u wanna try chocolat, slut”
“more pics please”
etc.
sometimes dreams do come true
her father passed out drunk
on the kitchen floor one night
Leila undid his pants & stroked his rager
he woke up, didn’t stop her

last I heard they moved to Arkansas

B. Diehl

Awkward/Preteen Lust at a Trailer Park Near Nazarath, PA

Lying together
on a haystack in the sun ––
when she slid her tongue
into my mouth,
I immediately started
feeling like a lost needle.
I had never made out
with someone before.
I tried writing my name
with my tongue. I tried
making triangles,
diamonds,
awkward circles.
Behind her
neighbor’s trailer,
wide-eyed and kissing,
I watched a skinny crow
land on a nearby barn.
I heard wind chimes.
I heard cornstalks caressing
each other
in the end-of-summer wind.
I couldn’t sense any romance.
She started giving
my partial boner
an over-the-pants rub, and I
thought her redneck dad
was going to run outside
and murder me with a pitchfork.
When my parents pulled up
to get me, she brushed
the hay from the sleeves
of my hoodie and whispered,
“I’m going to give you
a blowjob next time.”
I got in the car and never came back.

 

 

G. Arthur Brown

Help This Boy

Help this boy
He has just the one good arm
The other arm is an evil arm
Made out of rats and bats and weasels and sin
And AIDS and car crashes and wasps and broccoli
And burnt waffles and tar and hate and bad fathers
And sand spurs and dog whistles and little pieces of
Popcorn kernels that get stuck in your teeth
Help this boy
for this boy is you
Help this girl
She has just the one evil arm
The other arm is made of wintermint and pumpkin spice
And kosher hotdogs and baby aspirin and the smell of rain
Her dress is made out of hope and praying
And Applewood-smoked bacon
And her hair—well, her hair is
apricot orgasms mixed with a lazer beam background
and a great dance beat
Dance with this girl until she cries.

Wayne F. Burke

Head-Job

I went into a strip club
in the Combat Zone,
Boston, Massachusetts,
and sat at a long table
with a stripper I gave
30$. A blonde with great
tits, she pulled my dick
out of my pants and kept her
legs clamped as she handled
it. A middle-aged stout woman
holding a rag and a flashlight
circled the table: The blonde
smiled as I felt her up. The
woman flashed her light and
I thought, wtf? It took a long time
for me to cum: afterward, the
blonde unclenched her legs, and
then the cleaning-woman
did her stuff.

Brain Lace, By Karina Bush

A Review By Wayne F. Burke

41207425

Brain Lace, by Karina Bush
Publisher: Bareback Press. 46 pgs

The speaker of these poems comes on as machine, technological and teleological. A disembodied voice fiercely feminine, ferocious of appetite (“I am the archer/And the arrow”). A voice of sibylline quality, wise and patient: the voice of conjurer and magician who takes the reader on an eroticized journey that touches, almost incidentally, on archetypal foundations of instinctual nature (symbolized in the verse by horse, spider, and snake).

Poems emerge from an ether, like erotic narcoleptic dreams; like fecund hypnopompic reveries…Karina can tell it “slant,” through use of metaphor and indirection, like an Emily Dickinson, or tell it otherwise–like it is–without allusive language. In the poem “Disease” we get fellatio by any other name; in “Act I,” and elsewhere, the beast with two backs appears; in “Four Faces” cohabitation consists of “Bastard You/Ugly Me/Nice you/Nice me…We throb perverse/The four of us…” Conditions indistinct described in “The Tint” as “Months of/Fuck blur…” More overtly poetic lines–“This hot satin afternoon/Room evaporates into”–mix with less overt: “In my head/Fuck You/Too much…”

Both Eros and eroticism are found here. A powerful collection mesmerizing in its primal energy.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926449231

https://www.karinabush.com

http://www.barebackpress.com

Chas Ray Krider

pussy_butts_cover_text

Now Available from Goliath Books, Berlin.
A must have for every erotic library, PUSSY & BUTT, including 16 photos from one of our favorites – the phenomenal Chas Ray Krider.

Special Premium Photo Edition. Over 300 nude photos taken by several photographers on which the prettiest girls uninhibitedly and uncensored display their two most beautiful sides: the pussy and the butt.

pussy_butts_willow_kelsey

pussy_butts_isola_pillow

Isola Augustpussy_butts_erin_s

Bobbi Bamf

Chas Ray Krider’s photographs are part of a tradition of erotic art that employs exaggeration, mystery and the guilty pleasures of voyeurism. His photographs are about the forms employed in narrative based erotic art as contrasted with erotica crafted for mere lasciviousness. Chas Ray’s work concerns the art of presentation, the mystery of anticipation, and the universal human curiosity about sexuality.

Chas Ray is based in Columbus, Ohio. When asked why he lives there, his reply is “I don’t. I live in my imagination.”

Krider’s work is available for exhibtion, assignment and stock. For information on limited edtion prints contact: chasray@motelfetish.com.

For current updates on Chas Ray’s work and activities, visit his blog and Facebook page. Chas can also be found on tumblr and instagram.

An Interview with John D Robinson

Gwil James Thomas

john-d-robinson

Considering that you’re here it seems more than likely that you’ve already heard of the inimitable British poet John D Robinson – if not, then now would also be the perfect time to start. In 2018 he’s had four chapbooks published Hitting Home’ (Iron Lung Press) ‘The Pursuit of Shadows’ (Analog Submission Press) ‘Echoes of Diablo’ (Concrete Meat Press) and the forthcoming ‘Too Many Drinks Ago’ (Paper & Ink)! His work is collectible and usually limited and for that reason it tends to sell swiftly and it’s understandable why.

One of the biggest things that strike me about his poems is the rhythm – no word seems out of place. For that reason he’s a master of vignette poems – painting scenes of poetry with laugher, tragedy, revelry and hope. And like all great poets, once he gets you with his hook – the bastard will have you latched on for life. Robinson’s chapbooks are the sort of material that you want to have in your arsenal the next time you meet someone that says ‘I read poetry back in school and found it boring,’ before they get back to checking their phone. That said, if I’d have been aware of poets like Robinson when I was in school, then my interest in poetry would have stared much sooner. Above all of this though, Robinson comes across as a humble and good soul. Someone who genuinely loves and understands his craft and would be doing it whether the world, or nobody was taking note of him. In that sense he is a true artist and encapsulates everything that made me want to write in the first place.

GJT: I’ll start off with a simple question – do you write to any music? If so, what’s your preference?

JDR: Music has always been a life-long importance to me: I gave up on popular music about two and a half decades ago, occasionally, every six months or so, I will dig out some Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Ramones and listen for 10 minutes and then switch it off, reminding myself why I stopped listening: I listen to nothing but classical music these days: Sibelius, Part, Vaughn Williams: Butterworth: JS Bach: Beethoven: Mozart: Vivaldi: Mahler: Handel: Vivaldi: etc: and scribble as I listen.

GJT: I’ve noticed both cats and dogs being given an affectionate nod in your work. Deep down I think that everyone prefers one, over the other. So, I’m sure that the question on everyone’s lips is – are you a cat man, or a dog man? 

JDR: Cats : I am obsessed with cats, I have been around cats all my life and I love their company, their independence, their mystery: I am with the ancient Egyptians on this one: There is a wonderful film ‘Excavating Taylor Mead’Poet/painter/actor, a Warhol superstar who spent a great deal of his later years wandering around New York feeding the stray cats (You Tube). I have two cats at present though at times I have had four or five, but I think you can’t have too many.

GJT: If you had to name one novel, or poetry collection that had inspired you to pick up the pen, what would it be?

JDR: I could give many answers here: but I think I would have to mention  Steve Richmond: ‘Earth Rose’: an extraordinary collection and an exceptional poet who is quite often overlooked in the shadow of Bukowski: a poet that truly opened my eyes, the brutality and starkness, the beauty and lyrical of this life: he lived a truly eventful life: a poets life: buy his ‘Gagaku’poetry collection published by Dharma Books: But to hammer it down I think it would be Doug Draime: ‘More Than The Alley’: I never tire of reading his wonderful work and have many of his books: he was a poet who lived as a poet and never backed down on his journey: whose work was diverse but always captivating and very often, funny but always with a sting in it’s tail: the collection, selected poems ‘Farrago Soup’ should be on every poet’s shelf:

GJT: Arguably, drinking whilst writing can lower the inhibitions – but the line between buzzed and blotto can naturally get blurred and writing blotto is impossible. Do you typically approach the blank document with a full glass? And if so what’s your favourite bottle?

JDR: I drink whilst I write everyday: my favourite fuel is ‘Casillero del Diablo’ ‘Wine from the Devils cellar’Chardonnay: one would not work without the other: poetry and wine are just two of my demons and it took me a long time to become friends with both, a long and varied journey we’ve undertaken: friendship, love and lives have been lost along the way, but like Ferlinghetti said ‘I’m on an even keel these days’.

GJT: As I mentioned before I love the vignette style of your poems – but it made me think about how good a novel could be in this format, if not a hard fucking task too. Would you ever consider writing a novel?

JDR: I have no plans to do so at the moment: I have written short stories, but have often found prose to be challenging and very time consuming: but I wouldn’t want to rule the idea out.

GJT: I think it’s essential for writers to have hobbies, interests, or some other place to go for ‘downtime’ away from writing. Is this what painting is for you? 

JDR: Painting is something that I enjoy: particularly painting non figurative works: I like to work in acrylics on canvas or wood, I also enjoy making collages which I am doing at present, again I usually work to classical music whilst my cats walk over my materials: I love the work of Basquiat and attended the large exhibition ‘Boom For Real’ in London earlier this year, a fantastic show: Janne Karlsson and Marcel Herms are two contemporary artists whose work that I love and admire.

GJT: Would you ever consider holding an exhibition for your paintings?

JDR: I have exhibited my paintings in the past on several occasions: Coffee houses: bars: small galleries and enjoyed the experience and would be interested in doing so again if the opportunity arose.

GJT: In relation to those last two questions – I’m reluctant to call writing a hobby. I think that there’s this point when going down the road of being a writer, that you realise that it’s become more than a hobby. It’s not something that you can pick up and put down as easily as a hobby. To an outsider that probably sounds pretentious, or delusional and it’s hard to explain to people that don’t write – but if you look at the things it can cost you down the line it can be more like an addiction, or obsession. Do you think that there’s a point where writing becomes more of a way of life? Or really is it more a case that unless you can regularly pay the bills with your writing, then you’re just another full time hobbyist?

JDR: I think that you are right: for me writing poetry is an addiction and an obsession: I try and write everyday: It is something that makes my life richer in many ways: As a teenager I knew that poetry was going to be a life long love and that its passion would not fade: if I don’t write for a few days I get miserable within: but I wait for the return of the muse and she comes in many guises : reading the work of a fellow poet: some music: a conversation with a stranger on a bus: a distant memory: there is always a poem to write: Like Rauschenberg said ‘just walking around the block you will find art’ I don’t figure writing poetry to be a hobby but it’s what I do and I don’t know what else to do and there is nothing else that I would want to be doing.

GJT: What’s next for John D Robinson?

JDR: I will continue writing and sending out to small press publications and online literary journals: 450 poems in over 80 publications have appeared so far.I thoroughly enjoy creating books, formatting and editing, reading the work of quality poets and seeing this brought to life in print is a joyous thing.

I have planned split chapbooks with: Gwil James Thomas, Janne Karlsson, Joseph Ridgwell, Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Catfish McDaris. Holy&intoxicated Publications will continue to publish quality chapbooks: solo collections in the future will feature the poets – John Grochalski, Ally Malinenko, Adrian Manning: Ryan Quinn Flanagan and no doubt this will grow. The Holy&intoxicated Publications Poetry Card series will continue: Series 7 is currently at the printers – Ryan Quinn Flanagan: Dennis Gulling: Scot Young: Catfish McDaris and Arthur J Willhelm are the contributors. I select and approach the poets for a contribution to this series. Series 8 will have special guest editor, Adrian Manning taking over the controls.

This poetry life is a life I love, it has its downs just like everything else in life but making contact and talking to quality poets all over the globe is simply an honour and always inspiring.

As poet Gary Aposhian stated: ‘Buy my Books!’

And thank you Gwil for all your time and hard work.

 

https://ironlungpress.bigcartel.com/product/hitting-home-by-john-d-robinson

https://www.analogsubmission.com/product/the-pursuit-of-shadows-by-john-d-robinson

http://adrianmanning.wixsite.com/concretemeatpress/single-post/2018/08/16/New-Chapbook-by-John-D-Robinson

 

Doug Draime

The Drunk Poet And The Nun

Fame hasn’t
changed his
nasty habits
much
though
the nun is
now taking
the lord’s
name in vain

&
wearing
skin tight
jeans &
lace thongs

the drunk poet
always
jacks off
watching
her undress

&
the nun
is really
starting
to dig it

David Owain Hughes

Killing Ground

Debbie ran screaming, fearful for her life—she’d never felt such terror in all her thirty-eight years—as a balaclava-wearing, chainsaw-wielding madman chased her through the woods.

“Help! Help!”

Her breath came in ragged rips as tears cut dirty mascara tracks down her cheeks; her face and neck fully flushed. The rest of her body was ice-cold thanks to the flimsy, see-through baby doll dress she wore, which barely covered her bald pussy and ample backside. The fabric pricked at her stiff nipples, sending a tremor through her clit.

Never had she felt so alive as she did right now. Yes, she was terrified out of her mind, but exhilarated at the same time.

It’s only a game, remember? Boy, was Patrick right about this.

At the thought of her husband’s name, Debbie glanced back at the towering, shadowy figure lumbering after her through the October mist. An owl hooted from somewhere up above, and the full moon—high in the sky, its beams cutting through the naked, gnarled tree branches—drenched the leaf-scattered forest in a ghostly hue.

“Going to get you, whore!”

Debbie trembled at the thought of being captured by this maniac. Determined not to break character, she could only scream to cover her excitement.

Her dress snagged on some brush as she tore through it, the roaring of his chainsaw driving her on.

She’d watched him remove its steel teeth, before her head start, but this did little to calm her hammering heart. She’d still be at his mercy if he caught her.

***

Two nights prior, on October 29, Patrick had proposed they come to their remote cabin to try and rekindle their marriage “before it’s too late.” As far as Debbie was concerned, it had been dead in the water for quite some time already – their sex life was non-existent. Not that it had ever been earth-shattering anyway.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, stoking the fire, “that I think will help us get back on track. I’ve never been honest with you, or myself.”

“If you’ve cheated or whatever, I don’t think it matters – I’m not in love with you anymore, Patrick.”

“Please, just listen to me. I know I’ve never been attentive to your needs…”

Well, I’ve come this far, she thought. Might as well listen to what he has to say.

“I could never tell you about my own desires, what drives me, because I thought it would scare you off. But now, I’ve got nothing to lose. Are you willing to give me one last shot?”

“I don’t know, Patrick…”

It was then that he pulled the pink baby doll dress from behind his back.

“I want to play a game.”

Like a good opening sentence to a story, his pitch drew her in. She felt an involuntary twinge between her legs, blushing as he produced a balaclava.

“Will you be my victim this Halloween? My scream queen, running half-naked through the woods?”

“A chase?” she gasped, freaked out and turned on at the same time.

For the past several Halloweens, Patrick had brought her here, and not once had he ever been this naughty. Such filth and perversion! It was a side to him she hadn’t even known existed.

She loved it and he could tell.

“Wait, there’s something else…”

***

He revved his chainsaw as he drew near, thrusting it at Debbie like a macabre hard-on.

“Please. Don’t hurt me, Mr. Killer,” she pouted, lifting the hem of her dress, “I’ll do anything…”

Debbie was impressed by how hammy her acting was – like something straight out of an eighties B-movie.

“Wanna fuck me..? I could suck your cock…”

She fluttered her eyelashes, sliding a hand between her legs as she thought about gagging on his fat prick.

From a tree to her right, which was marked with a red X, Debbie knew they had reached the ‘Killing Ground’, which was where Patrick wanted it to take place.

Debbie back away slowly, his saw chugging idly between them. Oil and diesel hung heavy in the air, turning her on even further.

“I think it’s time you found out just how kinky I am, Patrick.”

She spoke loud enough to be heard over the approaching chainsaw, its proximity sending tremors through her body.

Suddenly she staggered, erupting in spontaneous orgasm as she turned to run away.

It was then that, like a good ‘Final Girl’, she tripped over and played at trying to get up.

“Oh, no!” she squealed, leaves and twigs entangled in her hair as she crawled and squirmed about. Her tits popped loose and she rolled onto her back, writing in the underbrush. Feeling the thorns against her skin, each scratch and cut pushed her closer to another climax.

“Please… No!”

The roaring chainsaw now inches from her face, she feared he actually might kill her. But no sooner did the fear pass through her, he dropped the saw on the ground beside him.

It was then that he produced a large kitchen knife from behind his back.

Dropping to his knees before her, he made short work of what remained of her ragged dress, exposing her body completely. She gasped as the cool night air danced across her nipples—hardening them further still—and she climaxed again before he could even get his cock out.

Ugh!” she cried as he forced his girth into her, fearing she wouldn’t be able to take him all the way in.

Holding the knife against her throat, he used his free hand to grope her jiggling tits, grunting like an animal as he relentlessly pounded her pussy.

“Don’t… Stop…”

A small rivulet of blood had by now begun to trickle from where the blade grazed her neck.

Yesss!” she screamed between gritted teeth as yet another orgasm enveloped her. She ground her hips against him and wailed like never before.

Suddenly he pulled back, the knife still glinting in his hand. She shuddered as the cool metal slid across her breast, menacing her nipple with its edge. He resumed slamming into her just as forcefully as before.

Her hands balled into fists, tearing at the grass beneath her as she came yet again. Juices gushed forth and she was spent, certain she couldn’t take any more.

It was then that he leaned forward, whispering in her ear, “Shall we try for another?”

His breath smelled of mint.

Debbie dug her fingernails into his back, feeling his solid muscles as he pumped away, coming soon after. She felt his spunk explode inside of her, massive dick throbbing as he collapsed with a grunt.

Over her attacker’s shoulder, she watched as Patrick rose from of the bushes, camera in hand.

Happy Halloween, Patrick, my love