20th Century Fucks


Winging no pants—


Barefoot flimsy micro waving—


With a quick mimic kick of an eighty yard punt,


A cheerleader innocently ached her arched cunt


To millions of misbehaving


Tube bon vivants.




Cameras (Flash sparks savoir faire!)


Flashed fleshy folds inferred beyond the butter knees


That undulate her boozy bosoms' utter tease—


So we all watched no underwear


Unscissor rape ...




A T-shirted keep-a-trucking


Bare-assed hippie anointed her twat with his schlang


For a starter — Celery martyr! — Soon a gang


Of spurting young studs was fucking


Her heatedly.


Crackling cunt-fire


Surged around the doe-eyed cutie


To magnetically forge an armada of tools


Engorged to guide semen to her garden of jewels


When they pierce† the numbing beauty


Hard-ons desire.


(† pro telo rigida mea cecidi.)




Prospectus to meet Priapus


Erectus, 4 PM, Church, no insects and ants,


Expect us (Come join with us) It's a real romance ...


"Hey, Babe!" "Take it off!" "Unsnap us!"


"Not marry us!"


Spider, spider,


Come with me, osculate and thresh!


She changed her mind and chortled, spinning kinkiness


While one more daddy pounded purple pink of yes


With his warping cane of stiff flesh


Deep inside her.


Laying better


With practice, she thrashed to unhook


High silken entreaties—to help disentangle—


Or give the commentator a sleeker angle


To fondle her curves as he took


Off her sweater.


Mr. finger,


Melt the buttons that tie my shirt,


Ever so gently, over the mounds of my bra,


For hungry eyes, the lace covered treats in the raw,


Ladled with electric dessert


Buds that linger.


She simply had


To make him stop, so she unstuck


His bone to show the whole world, but he insisted


On something worse: he pinned her elbows and twisted


Her body down. Up the dress snuck.


See? Now that's bad!


"You'll be thanking


Me," came next, "for wiping this crap


From your bottom." Screwed knuckles sliced into her juice.


She felt something pop loose as he whipped out his moose.


"Oh, God!" She was straddling his lap


For a spanking! †


(† ab semiraso tunderetur ustore.)


"Sex is so nice,"


She announced to his big black shoes.


"I love!" she yelped, "You for!" she revealed, "Your money!"


"You won't!" she squealed, "Get any!" she sobbed, "More honey!"


Bees' fuzz on a violet bruise—


A wicked vice!


Buzz sticky fly


In the sticky strands from her fun


Loving slit to the silver bullets on her nose


That shudder there in the smoke of the blue-veined rose


Bleeding at dawn's crack, with void tongue


And velvet cry.


Flush cheeks fluttered


As her face sunk o'er his briny


Foaming nut-propelling pump of an erection


With lush suburbs being hoisted for inspection


Fundamental to her heinie


Being buttered!


"You piece of dirt!"


Came a voice from another time.


Her boyfriend was screaming, "How unrespectable!"


"Oh dear!" (The cream on her grin was delectable)


"Oh darling, I guess you think I'm


An awful flirt!"


(Unruly stunt ...)


"Come and suck-seed!" she slyly said,


Defying her bitchdom, not nothing underneath,


Denying him the pleasure of an uncocked sheath )|(


Forbidden fruit, sublimely red


Crescent of cunt.


Someone told her,


"Relax! Take it easy"; they stood


Around her grinning; snubbed tunic ripped off; cunning


Hands replaced her bra; others kept her from running


And she heard, "This ought to be good,


—better hold her."


O that jiggling


Now-uncinched white cotton candy


Got honked by a Nigger whose huge frontal member


Kissed the Missy's primly tucked in cuntal ember


Till l'il whit fanny split and he


Inched in, wriggling.


Spiked coyote came


Deeply quivered coaxing bolder


Spasms sputtering sperm. Filmy milk-coated eyes


Brimming heartrending tears began to recognize


The TV set (???) on his shoulder—


(Football?) That's tame ...


To aardvark's work,


When you're tongued to a Thoroughbred,


Frenching Cream of Wheat au jus from sopping muttons,


Clenching bulged upthrusting muffins popping buttons,


Eared to cracked bonny buns† that fed


A circle jerk!


(† quod tu cum olfacies, deos rogabis, totum ut


te facient, Fabulle, nasum.)


But the ballad


They sing on the lost players' team—


Ladies sitting around sipping coffee, skirts hiked,


Legs crossed demurely—is a wistful voice: "I liked


The part when the Black ... adds his cream


In her salad."