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I kiss in relish anticipation
the food of his tongue
searching inside my mouth.

I touch his flat torso,
above his thrashing hips,
swallowing the passion of comprehension,

long having abandoned us.
On the hard floor, we roll,
with nary a care for objects tipping.

And past the feeling of consciousness
we lose ourselves in mutuality,
not thought possible until now.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Down low, way down low in that most horrible of basements, where the skin of women has been cut away into neat little strips, then sewn into a make-shift body suit, that's where the tub was kept — an old, disgusting tub, rank with odor and full of dark, black body matter melted down into bones and liquid. The thought of this tub still makes me shudder. And, if I had to spend just one hour in this basement I'd feel terrorized, haunted for years to come, which in truth is how I reacted the first time to experiencing this movie which depicted such a basement, and its disgusting tub. This gem of a horror movie, to which I'm referring, is regarded to this day as one of the best horror flics of all-time. It's no mystery why Sir Anthony Hopkins won an Oscar for 15 minutes of screen time for his stellar performance in The Silence of the Lambs.


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I am haunted by the realization that I am a creature of habit, born and bred into a lifestyle taught to me by my parents and society, one that I cannot easily shake off.


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My nakedness becomes me,
defenseless
but for flesh and heart
they live as one.

As do my tongue and lips kiss you,
forged with the grace of loving
and avarice of body
quivering.

I open up myself,
to your warm mouth not wasted
on your knees, your passion unbridled.
Inside my split pear you tasted.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

"Nobody wants to f*ck me anymore!" he declared to me, hanging his head low, almost between his legs. "Drunks tell no lies," my father used to say, was all that I could say to him in return. And as my male friend made his comment to me, about the state of his hopeless unattractiveness, I tried to cheer him up by coming back with, "There is someone out there who'll want you because there is always a lid to fit every pot. The real question is whether or not you want them in return."


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Roll me over in the clover,
clasp my legs behind your back,
pump me into oblivion,
and never give slack.

Roll me over in the clover,
grip my bosom with great heed,
squeeze my tipplers with pinches,
my flesh is plainly in need.

Roll me over in the clover,
kiss my mouth with your tongue,
dart in and out, and circle about,
until my senses are entirely spun.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Given that today is St. Patrick's Day, this post is highly apropos, and a day early, rather than my regular schedule of posting on Tuesdays. Many will be happily imbibing w/ great fervor all throughout the pubs in my fair city. But not this kitty-kat because Monday is a work day for me, which regrettably is followed up by another work day the following day, and so on. When I was a free-wheeling lassie in her 20s, I'd happily line up outside my favourite Irish pub (Molly McGuire's) in the ByWard Market at 10 am, waiting for the doors to open @ 11:30 am in order that I could get at it, and keep at it all the green-beer day long.


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We do not see the world through the eyes of those around us. We see the world only through our own eyes, and sometimes or more often than not, our eyes are closed to the obvious, too oblivious, to preoccupied.


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Certainly, there are aspects of living that we detest with the same intensity we would if forced to swallow a warm tablespoon of cod liver oil! One especially distasteful aspect of being human is having to clean the clutter which accumulates in our closets. Clutter is the junk food of living. Clutter clogs our living space and I'd even venture to state that clutter clogs our clear thinking.


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And cold stone
shall not break conquering love,
this evening alone, acutely feeling,

my liquid pain.
In the water frozen,
I only imagine the essential things,

none more meaningful
than touching, than kissing.
And every part,

that ever felt like flesh alive,
my warmer body at peace
in his flame.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

If you were one of the many who dialed into the hugely popular HBO show Billions, then you're familiar with the opening scene of Paul Giamatti being dominated by his wife, without me having to go into the details as to what his wife was specifically doing to him. [Hint: the initial scene shows her high heel planted on his chest]. Well OK. Twist my arm. Here's the long answer: his character, a prominent executive, the U.S. Attorney, admits in a later season he's a masochist and, as a masochist, he cannot enjoy sexual pleasure unless a sadist inflicts pain or humiliation on him. This appears to be a standard understanding with the majority of masochists in order for them to thoroughly enjoy sexual experiences — for a masochist without a sadist would be akin to an ice-cream sundae without the chocolate sugary sauce drizzled over top.


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Twenty years from now you'll look intently at your world, the environment in which you've constructed, the city or suburban neighbourhood in which you live, even the relationships you've built and begrudgingly admit to yourself that too much has changed.


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She is his pleasure in faltering
as the sanctity of chastity slipped
into the second
inevitable.

When he asked of her
to cry in short breaths,
she collapsed, gasping.
While his spoken words,

pierced into her,
he stoked the flames
that are his keeping,
inside of her times ten,

his voice was heard,
resonating and caressing,
when he came,
to her night of moans.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy