(not meant for
amen-prime nor
any rhyme upon this time, living
or dead, is hardly
coincidental)
COUNSELOR
(Re:Gherkin)
(a slave shall
enter the kingdom
by clinging to his
Master ~ J. Christ)
let's play passive
charades you said
first word, umpteen
syllables
conjoined sisters,
Ms. Doubt
and Mrs. Trust
one on each arm,
neat trick,
I thought as you
traveled through
my vegetable patch
churning
out your self
serving, pseudo
psycho-babble
exhibiting no
conscience
switching to
aggressive hooks
all purpose
projection reflected
rim shot the
white's of my eyes
confusion's into
door was labeled
out
BIG BAD ASS BOOTS
(enne grosse
schwanzstucker - Mel Brooks)
fee, fie, foe, fum,
stormed Big Bad Ass Boots
mid frenzied booted
rhythms (three against five,
five against seven,
Uvalde cowboy two step)
he stomped his
giant, fat ankle number as a
well conceived
sado-terpsichordian concept
program greatly
needing masochistic plug-in
sanely
choreographed a lumbering male step
almost lost within
performance mode
a subtle intellect
belies his huge black boots
boldness bonding
with his branding iron-gait
a unique yet
vintage leather man routine
(old guard invented
by a bar stool queen)
rites of passage
tattoo insured his place
within the circle's
dance
Bad Ass grumbled as
he writes about his day
within a runcible
tome he set his words
expressed his
thoughts his way: no pay,
no play, what
fawning prelate would
allow or even bow
to cleanse your soul
or satisfy your
hungry hole
consider your
contentment
your needs released
on my demand
your all consuming,
growing need
for rough and
rugged leather sex
became a greater
itch, a major must
metastasized into
your hungry hole,
that crap aside,
you can not live
without control
Boots smiled unto
himself
and
thought,
it's true, I did
demand
to
whip your ass
(trussed up
tighter
than
a turkey, butt
plugged like a
butterball) I knew when
you were ready
your plug would pop
right up, meat
done,
pink,
tender,
I'd steal a taste
before I served you
to my pride
didn't need no
fucking invitation
ram-forced entry,
one hard thrust
sunk deep
into your fuck chute,
let it soak until
your sphincter
stopped it's
argument
teased your hole
until I felt your
boy-butt juices
start to flow
fucked you down
right good, deep,
hard and slow, long
and rough,
huff & puffed,
took all I wanted,
then took some more
more of your slave
ass pussy
until I can't hold
back my need
to drain my aching
balls within
my willing but
unworthy steed
force-feed your
second mouth
a man sized feast
are you tired, boy,
too damn bad,
ride my bull, raise
it up to meet
my thrust, push
back, clamp down,
don't make my dick
hunt, it's not
your asshole
anymore, you gave it
to me as your
troth, a bonding gift,
one summer's night
not so long ago
I give no mercy,
fuck you like the
meanest cowpoke
rodeo's a bull, one
hand hat held high,
buckaroo boots,
chaps of latigo,
hooked on my horn,
your fantasy's
meanest horny Brahma,
drags your body to
unexpected heights
reaches down into
your well plumbed
depths and pulls
your seed up
through your guilt
wrenched soul
I watch my slave,my
toy,my son,my boy's
untouched prick,
without permission,
explode four times
and shoots across
his hooded
leathered face
your sphincter
spasms its small death
and sings a song of
pleasure in release
clamps down tight
and tries to thank
my big bull prick
still drooling
mixed
male fluids into
your well plowed
hole
I feel your raped,
abused, hard ridden,
ravaged hole begin
to suck my dick
in gentle,
grateful, teasing strokes
it teases, begging,
even daring
me
to spill
once more
only too glad to
accommodate,
big bull
pulls
completely out,
within an instant
splits your ass
to find its home,
its dock,
its resting place
and empties all
its sweet man
come deep within
your gut, after all,
all feasts
should have dessert
I collapse on top
of you
a leathered,
youthful unsure Unicorn,
middle-aged
pride filled Gorgon,
greying rock hard
forgetful Manticore,
my animal arms
around you,
my cock in your
pocket
you suspended in
the sling,
spent, floating
in the afterglow
of mixed odors;
leather, rubber,
poppers,sex, pot
and
come;
pheromones aging from our
lust
and clean
man sweat
through your
skull-pussy plug,
I hear you try to
mumble thanks,
learned response,
from many pavlovian
years; ring your
bell, you beg or babble
unworthy thankful
manners for one damn
good fuck'n;
you always thank a man
who
chooses you,
your hole to fill with his
needy manhood,
fucks you right,
makes you a
necessary vessel for
a sacred gift; his
seed
politely you would
beg to have your
butt plugged until
your fucker's seed
has been absorbed
within your gut
(absorbed for years
the hormones filled
your beard, laid
carpet on your chest)
you can't beg, can
you, your hole's
still plugged
I slip my cock
out,
replace it
with a big fat plug
strapped in tight;
I hear you moan dissent,
lean
close remind you
that my whip might
change your
mind, I leave you with your
thoughts;
trained
to raise
your ass for me
I like to see
it suck
and fuck
my plug
while I relax;
I see no response
I take my bull whip
down
and
crank it once to aim
it loudly splits
the air
then
finds its targets home,
your ass, a chinese
rocket
launches
from its pad
locked in your
chains
the
sling secure, your ass
a bright red stripe
appears
pushes your button
to the on
position,
slave ass gone crazy
sucking, humping,
fucking my big
plug; you got off easy;
however, to teach a lesson, I
lay on four
more on
your
back door
I have convinced
you
it
would be best to
please your Master's
smallest whim
(you damn well
better, slave,
don't dare
try this old man)
you put your all
into your fuck,
your hole to show,
your ass
becomes
a sucking, fucking,
humping, big black,
loving
plug
machine;
I
lay on one more stripe,
and smile,
you jump, you score,
it drains you
to the core
I see they both
agree, your grinning hole,
your thrice raped
soul, your Master, him,
who knows what's
best for you, concurs,
your owner, owns
you boy
bound and gagged,
you have no option
but to give in to
trust or punishment
I'll take what I
need from hole or soul;
can't be helped,
you're forced to give it up
I take your ass,
reduce you to an it
then
banish all your guilt,
the jury
of your fresh, fucked flesh
ejaculates
its verdict,
boy's not to blame,
can't be
held responsible,
even though,
he did
consent to pay, full price,
X-ticket ride
guilt left abandoned the
passion of a lesser life,
alone to starve
while
candy
flavored freedoms
may be found
within
the
constructs of forbidden
playgrounds
unbind him;--- thus, we are his judges, his jury,
we alone decide when he
lives free
GHERKIN
(Hammicus Mei
Argumentatus ~ Ezra Pound)
lips pressed to the
base of Big Boots giant
bean stalk, Gherkin
rumpled every still-skin,
of his Master's
more than ample member,
his slave well
trained whose only purpose
is to pleasure,
sucks him deep within his throat
neck muscles taut
to work Boot's penis-prime
but flaccid shaft
until he feels it flood with blood
almost ready for
him to mount like Bronco Lane
his master's
rugged face contorts in slack-jawed
confusion, drools
spittle from the corners
of his mouth
drilled in Master/slave
protocol & manners
asks his owner if
he might take position
for impalement;
permission given, quickly
moves his ass to
feel the giant mushroom
head, poised at his
back door, saliva only
lubricant allowed,
with one swift lunge, no
hesitation, eleven
engorged inches swiftly
disappears, impaled
completely mounts his
owner's steed
sharp pain subsides
with fullness, natural juices
start to flow,
boy-babble issues thanks for Master
allowing him to
take his horse cock inside his
worthless hole;
slave begins a slow trot down
the track, sitting
high and sometime slapping
slave-ass hard
against his owner's leather
setting the feel of
the big horse in and under him,
will ride impromptu
for a while, feeling pleasure
filling him with
pre-come with each stroke, hand
held to his belly
feels the huge head piston in
his gut, stretches
his saddle for the coming ride
slave dares not
forget his manners, queries
Master if he's had
enough slave ass warming
up; exercising
stallion for the run or would he
prefer him ride his
steed some more; sometimes,
Master orders him
to ride some more, tonight
he tells him no
he's off, begins
the race within slave's head,
sets his mount a
good strong leather slapping
rhythm; oiled rig
pumping up and down the shaft
in even strokes,
takes his place as any jockey,
slams his ass
against the saddle, rounds the
first turn, heads
into the back stretch, where he
always rides his
hardest, rides his best for pole
position; takes the
lead, heads into the second
turn pounding
leather harder, he knows the feel,
juices flowing, his
brain shifts gears, his master's
pheromones
building, sends secret signals, from
his sphincter to
his brain, breathing even, rhythm
good and strong,
rounds the turn into the home
stretch, confident
the race is his to win
he feels the finish
coming, the horse cock swells
a little larger,
reins pulled in tight, hunkers down
and starts his
sprint for home, slamming faster,
sucking tighter,
riding harder, one final photo
finish slam-thrust
against the leathered base,
he feels his
Master's flow begin; the race now
won, ass slick with
come, his booted Master's
blood-gorged shaft
erupts into his hot and hungry
slave boy's hole.
The slave's ass clamps down
hard, milks his
owner's horse-cock, sucks out the
last few drops of
man come, his Master's prize
not allowed to
touch himself, clamps down
tighter on his
Master's shaft, babbles thanks
for good hard fuck,
worthless slave boy butt,
use his shit-chute
as a come bag for his
owners thoroughbred
winner's circle steed
Bad Ass looks to
see his slave-boy's
head thrown back,
eyeballs roll a jackpot,
slams his ass to
base once more, untouched,
he shoots,(erupts
onto his Master's chest)
damn good of Big
Bad Ass Boots to let his
boy scout come and
thus secure
his ownership's
control
Boots always knew,
best stirred, not shaken,
while hot, the
puddings proof was in the shot
THE BREAKUP
(Counselor)
(divorce is NOT a
really good thing
~Martha
Stewart)
Big Bad Ass Boots
may never
figure out, who's
Master,
who's the Slave, to
hell
with prime
directives,
when love gets in
the way
boyhood wonders at
dad's
delights his
fascinations
placed beneath his
Master's
feet to clean his
boots and
keep all holes
cleaned; on
call for any
purpose, any time,
gave way to selfish
brooding
spirits (meaner
than a week's
old pile of cat
shit) identity
questions;
seduction by the
darker side of
ownership
Gherkin sits alone
and ponders,
no longer able to
control and
mad as hell 'cause
Big Bad Ass
Boots finally
became just that,
(it took a decade
for the big
man to say no)
pickle's finger
rests lightly,
on a big red icon
flashing:
DO NOT PUSH THIS
BUTTON
skull &
crossbones forewarned,
one push, the Enola
Gay's away
down that endless
tarmac nonstop
flight to
self-destruct;
push, delete,
oblivion
(did you really
wish to delete
that item, all it's
files and
folders will be
lost)
damned if he didn't
do it, like
Cain killed Able
knowing, flesh
of flesh, full
nerved, still warm,
could never breathe
life into that
file again
can't reload the
system, deleted,
love relegated to
the trash bin
queried, do you
really want to
lose a Master that
you've served
and loved so
long,---
click
Bad Ass becomes
Chanute,
prince of tides
unable to
sweep the waves
back with
a broom, while
Gherkin's
epitaph, the button
pushed,
will read: he never
had a clue
THE COUNSELOR
(Video Frendentum
Video~Carmina Burana)
I don't envy you,
Gherkin, my one hand
clapping conundrum,
high heals clacking
in Saskatoon,
passive-aggressive,
Gemini's child of
woe
happiness for you
is misery and back again
you have survived
another day, on crypto
motor oil and two
small crusts; Gherkin you
poor thing, you may
never learn one simple
rule of life:
you've got to pay to get the
kind of rape you
want
no saint could stem
the bloody carnage
of your verbal
flow, nor exhibit steady
patience to accept
your self served
logics endless
pushy bottom games,
deceived your
Master, playing at the
slave-role only to
control. You've had
the best of worlds
lain at your feet
a simple man who
loved you much too
much and even more,
gave not what you
wanted (if you ever
knew) but all you
needed to be cared
for, a man's man
whose arms
unquestioned thousands
may only dream to
fill
a run away bus can
kill you but a
controlling slave
boy eats like cancer
at a Master's soul
a bus, at least,
its sign alight
with hope cries
jump on board
leave Ms. Swan in
crazy la-la-
toonsis-town;
She'll never stop
her dance macabre
too many red roses
to paint white,
sundowner special,
all aboard,
ride with reason,
sanity this way
there's still time
for you, Big Boots,
you still have
tuppence for the fair
Gherkin explained
to Emerald City's
finest; "Boots a
go-fast freak,
medications,
you know; wink-wink"
he claimed,
his
fall from grace
to blame
then little pickle
sold his soul,
thirty pieces of
silver
for one dime
bag,
was that his only
crime
REQUIEM CONFUTATIS
(now we gonna' do
this part really
hard, y'all! ~ Tina
Turner)
O, oh, hoe, say can
you see,
Big Bad Ass Boots
gone forever
pickle prick may
never know that
world again;
addicted to the smells
and odors of a man
he once called
Master, cries
himself to sleep
no more to be
commanded clean the
big man's hairy
hole and taste sweet
bits his Master
left for him nor
made
to lick his big
boots clean;
his
tongue
still salivates,
his wanker
hardens,
to see a big man
wear a well
worn
pair
close that door,
cost be damned!
Bad Ass slams his
fist into his mind
and asks this
question of himself:
would you, please,
forget the fuck
he jacks off amid
the rockets red glare,
holds his breath
while he plays back
all the silly,
stupid mind-fuck games,
farts in the wind,
bombs bursting in air,
Gherkin's
star-spangled reality processor
churns out four
cups gazpacho from one
small stalk of
reason; Boots looks with
awe
into the blendered
light of day
the dawns early
light
Big Bad Ass Boots
needs proof
through the night,
darlin',
not twelve-tone
retrograde
inversions, no
doppelgangers
upside down and
backward
what so proudly we
hailed our cab,
tired old war horse
eighteen-twelve,
Ka-boom, Ka-boom,
Les Marshallies,
musical Tourett's
syndrome
little pickle, up
your ass
is my flag still
there?
prince of tides be
damned;
my kingdom to ride
his horse again;
I hear the voice of
Paula Poundstone,
within the freedom
of my
chains;
at the twilight's
last gleaming;
not with a bang
but a whimper;
in the la-yand of
the
free, he, he
even homos can be
brave!
However, in the meantime,
(grand pause),
will the real king
of fools,
please stand up?