sex – Page 4 – Cajun Mutt Press

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 09/20/21

September 20, 2021 James D. Casey IV

Wanda (no. 110 of Women’s names sensual series)

I never depended on the
sexual kindness & comfort
from complete strangers.

I was raised on Dateline
& after hearing all about my girlfriends’ crazy shit,
the pepper spray was in my purse half-cocked,
ready to strike any madman
like a cobra.

But I have to stop
sleeping with you—
this will be the last time
we make any form of love
together—I was destroyed
by our last congress.

Since you left me,
I’ve been an empty shell,

& I know I have to move on,
& I will find someone else
I will let it slip in,
& when I feel comfortable
with myself, alone,
love might happen

like a surprise hatching
of tiny snakes,
stunning their prey
with good venom.

Damn boy,
you look tasty—
let me tread on
you lightly.

Carrie Magness Radna is an audiovisual cataloger at the New York Public Library, a choral singer and a poet who loves to travel. Her poems have previously appeared in The Oracular Tree, Mediterranean Poetry, Muddy River Poetry Review, Poetry Super Highway, Shot Glass Journal, Vita Brevis, Home Planet News, Cajun Mutt Press, Walt’s Corner, Polarity eMagazine, The Poetic Bond (VIII-X), Alien Buddha Press, Jerry Jazz Musician, Rye Whiskey Review and First Literary Review-East. Her poetry collections: Hurricanes never apologize (Luchador Press) was published in December 2019, and In the blue hour (Nirala Publications), was recently published in February 2021. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, she now lives with her husband in Manhattan, New York.
https://carriemagnessradna.com

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 09/17/21

September 17, 2021 James D. Casey IV

Downward Dichotomy

What the drugs do
is render you hopeless
then helpless till you
spell nihilism and ennui
backwards in your sleep.
When your real thoughts
come primal as beatings
in high school or at home,
where the drugs render
you numb enough to
stumble through the
lost and preconceived
until bloodied fists in
a botched drug mugging
go worse than sideways.
Sirens swallowing your
Fate while guilty and unclean
you watch the ambulance
cart your victim to hospital.
The cop says get in the car,
headed to lockup straight
wishing you were high or
could afford a good lawyer,
but you’d buy your high first
and save your life second.
It’s what the drugs do.

From Lower Depths

Too many ways
to drown with
someone you can’t save.

Wearing as much
sadness as any
beautifully masked face.

While getting high
in alleys with others who’ll fall
as hard from the lower depths.

Yet with each
unwrapping she still remained
outside the box.

Her bordello smile
welcoming me to lies
I preferred to truth.

Until she stole from me
precipitous amounts too often
not to be for narcotics.

I left her to memory
unable to forget
all she wanted me to.
I stay now in shadows
dreams telling me I’m closer
to finding a new lost cause.

Of Joyrides

Her loud carpenter, with hammer
driving nails tells me
the sex will be hot.

She takes her shirt off
slower than most strippers do
With the same junkie marks.

Pierced in more places
than the slain matador’s bull
before the dying red sun..

Her conversation
excoriates ex-husband
who stole her car.

For a meth fueled joyride
ending in a crash without
insurance or a driver’s license.

Her lips do their worst
and me no good,
as much as I like it.

No preliminaries
like we’re used
to avoiding.

She wipes black
lipsticked lips with
back of her hand.

After swallowing
there’s enough truth between us
for a false confession.

Count my twenties,
like a pit boss,
says “later baby.”

When she leaves
I can only think
later will be soon.

Rp Verlaine lives and writes in New York City. He has an MFA in creative writing from City College and taught English in New York public schools until he retired. He has several collections of poetry including Damaged by Dames & Drinking (2017), Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers (2018), and Lies From The Autobiography: Vol 1 Seany, Vol 2 Natalie, & Vol 3 Dawn (2018-2020).

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 08/04/21

August 4, 2021August 5, 2021 James D. Casey IV

My parents had some sex and here I am

but there’s a lot of detail I don’t have
though I guess I could ask them but they don’t
know that I know what I know that they think
I don’t yet know but that’s why they’re parents
and not children but on the other hand
they have parents, too, though all four are dead
but that’s not my fault, I’m just ten years old
–but I forgot my paternal grandma,
she just acts like she’s dead, ha ha, and on
our last visit to see her she told us
that the doctors told her she was was dying
of cancer and on the trip back home
Father pulled over, he was weeping
so much he couldn’t see. So mother drove.

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in a dozen countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 08/02/21

August 2, 2021 James D. Casey IV

Everyone seems to have a story
of the time they accidentally
caught their parents doing IT:
the dirty deed, the two backed beast.
Well, you get the idea: Sex.

Hell, I may be the only person
in the country who never, as a kid,
witnessed his parents going at it,
and either froze, not quite sure
what he was seeing, except
that he knew in his guts, he shouldn’t
be seeing it. Or he had a dim idea,
and backed out of their room.
Or maybe his parents sensed an alien
presence, a witness, and lurched apart
like teenagers caught by her father.

Anyway, that never happened to me,
thank God, but I almost feel
as if I’ve missed a crucial rite of passage,
though I finally did figure out
why my dad paid Jeff and me to sit through
double features on Saturday afternoons,
or why he’d rise early some Sunday mornings,
shave, then close their bedroom door again.

At least I had the sense never
to turn the doorknob to ask them
some dumb-ass question that forever
would’ve hung stuttering from my lips.

Robert Cooperman’s latest collection is THE GHOSTS AND GONES OF TROY (Aldrich Press), which posits what if Odysseus came home at last, but with a horrific case of what we’d call PTSD.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/18/21

June 18, 2021 James D. Casey IV

Pit Stop

The first time we had sex without a condom,
you bent me over against a tree on a
golf course in Massachusetts.
We waited for all the cars to pull out of the lot,
dregs clearing out from a cheerleading
competition, building our anticipation.
We held hands walking across the
decaying grass, my legs budding with
goosebumps in the chilled November air.
It didn’t take long to find the perfect tree
overlooking a pond iced with orange and red leaves.
It was quick and passionate, warming me
from the inside. I wanted us to last
longer but didn’t know how to tell
you without hurting your heart.
When it was over, we walked back to
the car, hand in hand. You trailing out from
me like tears that leak from a child’s eyes in the night.

Aimee Nicole is a queer poet currently residing in Rhode Island. She holds a BFA in Creative Writing from Roger Williams University and has been published by the Red Booth Review, The Nonconformist, and Voice of Eve, among others. For fun, she enjoys attending roller derby bouts and trying desperately to win at drag bingo.