A THOUSAND FUCKING POETS SANG

-after Bocage

get up off the floor, i won’t fuck you
everything between my hands turns into cum
for fear that the leather will kill him,
i could hardly contain myself.
in short, everything was love. i felt almost dead
—if only her lovers would call her bella,
so new feeling to overwhelm me? in the tender
years not tasted? i feel my rest hanging, baby—
will this be?
bad! you swallow yourself—we were alone, in
cruel quiet... but sweeter. his lap—lips
from touching. o heaven...
for the first time inside myself
i felt a sudden change taking place—
full of flesh...

THE FLESH, EVEN, THE FLESH

-after Verlaine

[scream] a ritornello,
come raise your caress. want you elsewhere
whispers between high and low
in the still fatal
i am waiting for you like the Messiah
are you in your hand?
the pearl, this anointed self. of this blessing!
and wet—infinite in this us. multiple under the
skin—this flesh that was a god to me. cum
under the table, that’s what
my ten fingers wanted.
to the slash, let’s not metaphorize.
i've been jerking off and jerking off...
when i was a little woman i used to
cradle the bitterness in café[s] crowded
with normal loves. my hands, my mouth, my ass
form of an idol.
a simple sweet,
bare-headed. let my hand under the soft, supple pulp,
the proud prey that devours. heavy with fevers, tongue—
ride on me,
countless darling—

Jannat Alam is now using her name. She edits Reap Thrill.