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reblog if ur tired and want to make out w/ a cute girl

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Big Corn Dick

I have this dildo.

It looks like an ear of corn, unhusked;

at its base, two tight testes and a suction cup.

I can slam it to a surface and fuck just the tip,

or slip

it all the way in.

I like its vegetable look.

Instead of dick veins,

many raised, round grains

for texture.

It reminds me of Demeter,

that goddess of the harvest. Which turns me on.

The problem with big corn dick

is that it doesn’t clean easy.

If I run my fingers after between its greedy

rows they ejaculate cum and K-Y Jelly.

To be honest, I find this pretty sexy.

My friend suggested I put it in the dishwasher,

but I don’t have one.

I’ll have to find another way to clean that celestial prick,

to keep hygienic my big corn dick.

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From Stephanie Valente’s chapbook, Little Fang, available at https://bottlecap.press/products/fang

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From Jessica Jemalem Ginting’s chapbook, Voyages, available at https://bottlecap.press/products/voyages

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From Alexandra Naughton’s book, My Posey Taste Like: The Paradise Lost Edition, available at https://bottlecap.press/products/my-posey-taste-like-the-paradise-lost-edition-by-alexandra-naughton

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From Stephanie Valente's chapbook, Hotel Ghost, available at https://bottlecap.press/products/hotel

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Penelope and Circe in Love

For moons I watched

you weave your grief

with steady hands.

As you wove you

wound my heart in-

to a place seen and soft.

  Immortal yet

of earth and dirt;

eyes like the sun.

Potions mixed from

bloom and leaf are

not how you claimed my love.

  Slowly like a

bud in spring our

love was formed; we

created our

tapestry of

earthly and sacred things.

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Portrait of a Cowboy

Wind whips wild

through red-gold hair, 

fired to a blaze by the sun.

Sweat drops down, 

down to the ground;

Dust rises up to meet it.

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Old Men (Part 1)

Mallow-mouthed, stuffed full of silence  

at the end,

you were one who trudged through fields soaked

with the blood of friends.

Once, you stut-stuttered your stories to me.

There were boots and blood and tanks and stink. Ball

games and birthdays. An Italian boy too.

He did odd jobs for all you older sons.

And you, you know the sins of the father

come with the heart, the lungs and the liver.

Loss is transmitted via blood.

It yellows the skin.

Ashes aren’t like dust but hard like gravel.

I poured you from the bag, watched you travel.

Some men only make middle-aged

bones. Now rest.

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.“The Man Who Sleeps” (French: Un homme qui dort) directed by Bernard Queysanne and Georges Perec, based on Perec’s 1967 novel “A Man Asleep”

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think about it: WHAT U FOCUS ON GROWS

So lets say if u were focusing on how your manifestation isnt here yet, how its taking FOREVERRRR for your manifestation to conform and you’ve been dwelling on it and using the 3D as your confirmation of your result..do u realise that is gonna grow and will soon become the reality.

now lets say you were focusing on your mindset, you focused on what you wanted, you didnt gaf about the 3D and persisted into the knowingness that your manifestation is here in all its glory, what do you think is gonna happen? your manifestation will present itself to you.

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In the first poetry workshop I ever took my professor said we could write about anything we wanted except for two things: our grandparents and our dogs. She said she had never read a good poem about a dog. I could only remember ever reading one poem about a dog before that point—a poem by Pablo Neruda, from which I only remembered the lines “We walked together on the shores of the sea/ In the lonely winter of Isla Negra.” Four years later I wrote a poem about how when I was a little girl I secretly baptized my dog in the bathtub because I was afraid she wouldn’t get into heaven. “Is this a good poem?” I wondered. The second poetry workshop, our professor made us put a bird in each one of our poems. I thought this was unbelievably stupid. This professor also hated when we wrote about hearts, she said no poet had ever written a good poem in which they mentioned a heart. I started collecting poems about hearts, first to spite her, but then because it became a habit I couldn’t break. The workshop after that, our professor would tell us the same story over and over about how his son had died during a blizzard. He would cry in front of us. He never told us we couldn’t write about anything, but I wrote a lot of poems about snow. At the end of the year he called me into his office and said, “looking at you, one wouldn’t think you’d be a very good writer” and I could feel all the pity inside of me curdling like milk. The fourth poetry workshop I ever took my professor made it clear that poets should not try to engage with popular culture. I noticed that the only poets he assigned were men. I wrote a poem about that scene in Grease 2 where a boy takes his girlfriend to a fallout shelter and tries to get her to have sex with him by tricking her into believing that nuclear war had begun. It was the first poem I ever published. The fifth poetry workshop I ever took our professor railed against the word blood. She thought that no poem should ever have the word “blood” in it, they were bloody enough already. She returned a draft of my poem with the word blood crossed out so hard the paper had torn. When I started teaching poetry workshops I promised myself I would never give my students any rules about what could or couldn’t be in their poems. They all wrote about basketball. I used to tally these poems when I’d go through the stack I had collected at the end of each class. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 poems about basketball. This was Indiana. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the class, “for the next assignment no one can write about basketball, please for the love of god choose another topic. Challenge yourselves.” Next time I collected their poems there was one student who had turned in another poem about basketball. I don’t know if he had been absent on the day I told them to choose another topic or if he had just done it to spite me. It’s the only student poem I can still really remember. At the time I wrote down the last lines of that poem in a notebook. “He threw the basketball and it came towards me like the sun”

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Diary Entry: 26/07

Sometimes I feel like I’m crying for the whole of humanity - for all our losses and sadnesses and vanities and foolish endeavours. Sometimes I feel like I can’t feel my own real pain, or differentiate between it and a sort of unspecified human misery. A family friend died yesterday. She was diagnosed with cancer seven weeks previously. I didn’t cry. I seldom do when people die. I didn’t cry when an ex-colleague I was very fond of died of Covid last year. I didn’t cry when my dad died. Or any of my grandparents. Or Seth. Anyway, I thought of her, and I felt her loss, the void left by her in the world, and I felt something like sadness. My sadness was not for her, though - or not only for her. It was like sadness for the concept of her loss. Is this a normal reaction or some kind of dissociation, an avoidance of pain or bad feelings? Am I afraid I’ll feel too much if I let myself? Or afraid I won’t feel anything? Can I truly feel for somone who is not myself? Can anyone?

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Penelope and Circe in Love

She is so dignified, so sure, this human. Despite her grief. I watch her: weaving, weaving. She is creating herself anew with each thread. She seems impenetrable. She seems to need no one, to contain all she requires in her own person, her own mind. A mind I imagine to be quick and needle sharp. I think about how much she could hate me. I see her glance up from time to time, and there are moments she has a smile for me. Not in her mouth, but a quick look in her eyes that tell me I am seen. I avert my gaze. Then I start to search for that look, to seek out her eyes during the day. They flash her smile to me and I feel it in my gut, a pain but pleasant. I learn to hold her watching. I feel a thrill of some great joy when I see my seeing bring a smile to her lips. The up of those lips, usually so aloof, I start to feel like I am alive only for.

This woman, at first I don’t really see her. I am aware of her comings and goings like one is aware of small creatures – a mouse or a bird. She is all dirt and earth. She fetches things – leaves, bark, flowers, even soil and pebbles, sometimes the carapaces of insects – and, muttering, transforms them into poultices, ointments, tinctures. Strangely scented liquids fill cork-stoppered bottles that she labels carefully and lines up in her pantry. Sometimes she stares for hours at things I cannot see. It is during one of these reveries that I first notice the quiet power in her eyes. They are gold and hot, like the sun. I want to look at her more from that moment, and I do. She is shy for a while, glancing away when she catches me looking. Not slowly, though, she begins to return my gaze. A heat like the Ancient Forge burns deep within my belly.

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just cat-sat for my friend for five days and well, new kinsey scale just dropped i’m a 1.5

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Diary Entry 21/07

I realize more every month just how much my period affects me. It started yesterday. Monday was so bad. Seriously depressed, emotional. I thought about suicide in a way I never had before, like, it was possible. I felt I understood why Seth did it. I felt what it would be like to know that I wasn’t going to exist anymore, and I was okay with it. Lots of I-hate-my-life, I-hate-my-mother stuff. When I feel like this I basically resent everyone and lash out. It feels reactive. I can see myself doing it; I want not to; but I do it anyway. Kind of the same with eating. Impulse control? It’s still with me, those feelings, but the edge is off. It’s sort of blurred, like a memory of me I can only imagine.