Tempest Miller

Sex in Hell

Flame geysers shoot up your crack,
and tether –
hydrophobic to your colon.
You lay on your leather coat atop a rubbished stone.
Dirty Dick, bf, rubs clotted dirt over your pecs.
He licks his furnishings off you
in round and round the garden like a teddy bear circles.
He adjusts, fidgets, scuffles.
He sodomises you 1) with a roadsign and 2) with a rainbow trout.
He whips you with a flannel he bathed in fire.
He inserts olive-oil-lubricated dirt into your trachea
with a whole fist
and then goes to do the same in your colon.
He sojourns his white cock in your ass.
The white of Hell,
the white whale he is,
floating over you one-eyed, pentagonal, askew.
You shit out fire-dirt-geyser-oil onto his cock.
Your stench of fecundity overwhelms his disgust
and he cannot whiten further.
He laps at your black-haired aestheticism,
saying he’s never seen someone with so few wrinkles.
He grips your meaty handlebars –
you were razor-thin but you drank from sewers and fattened.
He puts his ass onto your face.
You feign non-reciprocity,
you push him off so that he falls into the seas of Hell,
that lap at where you lay
on your biker jacket,
diseased,
post-modern
fine art
punk
who looks like a sordid shrivelled field mouse.
You turn away from him
as he emerges charred and bloated.
You drink absinthe,
you gush to him, still turned away, in Flemish
about how you think his cock is a stinging nettle
up your shitty shitty shitty pulsing colon;
and how you adore it,
how you don’t get butterflies but whole murders of crows
and how a part of you is chomping at the bit.
But not tonight,
not for the hundredth time tonight.