opening a cask of your wine
self-made,
fermenting on the rough tongue of hunger
luxuriate in rich sanguinary sensuality
slick and sliding talons penetration like sex but so much better
tongue slides into a coil of intestine, teeth following
soft rubbery, cephalopod-ish
reach deeper, take hold around the wet writhing knot
weakly squishing yet twine-tough and resistant
but a good solid yank is all it takes
and then
it all
spills
out
into my lap
and suddenly I'm in no mood to play anymore
suddenly the fire can't reach the proper temperature fast enough
suddenly playtime is over
it's time to butcher dinner.
Author notes
Not my best work, I don't think. I'm not in the same mood I used to be in when I wrote this kind of stuff. It's more lurking and wishing-waiting, not so primally fiercely overwhelming a NEED anymore. I guess because I know it can never be satiated without unacceptable consequences ensuing. I don't know.
A contest entry
- CONTEST: HIDEOUS ADULT HORROR & BLOODTHIRSTY BONE-CRUSHING EROTIC TERROR (No one aged under 20) by Count Orlok.
350 points, ended November 2, 19 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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I smiled a bit at this one. Cephaloid intestines are a nice concept. This has quite a lot of unnecessary cruelty and sadism in it so it might well win something, bearing in mind that many of the other entries are dross. Please accept my apologies for the delay in judging this contest but I am recovering from having been crucified by some amateur vampire-hunters.
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mMm. let's GO!
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Tasty.
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Sounds very tasty indeed. I am sure the Count will look favourably on this little effort. I know he is very keen on guts. Perhaps "cephalopodic?" ??? Or cephalapodian" ??
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I'm not quite sure why my brain chose to phrase that how it did. Not paying attention to what I'm doing is part of the point. Otherwise I just trip all over myself.
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