I know it sounds crazy, so feel free to lock me up, but I swear I can literally feel myself coming closer to death every time that I think of you.
I cannot love you. Driving myself insane one step at a time with each breath that passes through my lips that I envision kissing you. I cannot love you. Back and forth are the meaningless messages that coddle me through every waking moment that I envision being with you. I cannot love you. With trudging confessions tying each delicate fiber of your being soon to be drowning creating...
I’m going on a date with her. You’re glad. And somehow I’m caught in between-; she’s not the one I talk to everyday, that’s you. She’s got her stuff together. She’s saving for a house, has a full time job, loves literature, a seamstress, creative, and positive. And I’m thinking of the dysfunctional, self-inflicting harm-; you. Time passes,...
I would compare Thee to a Summer’s day, but you are not bright & cheerful, nor full of bees & picnics, and swims at the lake. I would write you 300 plus sonnets like Petrarch to Laura but I have no magic in my words or faith to guide me through. I would love you like no other, but there are so many types and ways to love, and I have heard all the ones I can think of, and that I have a...
I like intercourse. Let’s not make it fancy. So, scratch that, rewind, delete delete. I like to fuck. I like sex. Slow and loving, or rough, vigorous, bruising I-don’t-have-enough-blood-to-function-goddammit-I-just-lost-my-vision sex. Of course, I get discriminated for it. I’m so desensitized to comments such as “You’re going to hell” “You’re gonna get AIDS”. Sex is a Human function, and primal...
penance. © Howell di Amorosi, March 2013
Fervent guile beaten into me kissing, tormenting and ravishing me twisted encompassed benevolence a debauchery drenching my (our) skin- seeping, forever seeping deep within my core, envelopping (our) my soul. Blistered, swollen, loved. gasping, entrenched in merciless depravity This one moment , bound in blood, - delectable bruising and sweet memorable scars. Knives, needles, wax come and make...
How about, my love, we play a game? A game that plays on until you cannot take it anymore? A game where you continue to torture yourself by feeling my hand wrapped tightly around your throat, squeezing, and caressing with my utmost devotion shown by making the cartilage surrounding your jugular threaten to crack under the pressure, as I press myself against your back, breathing you in, my breath...
Hir 2nd © Howell di Amorosi, January 29th 2013
my fondness is pure quaint and fluttering like a bird from - tree to tree. watching Her there - the cruelty of a few meters insatiable weight of longing pushing me towards Her but with no legs, voice broken - she will never look my way even in passing. - I am not of the world Her tumbling footsteps grace. Better yet I cannot hear Hecate’s sweet sound. Forlorn, I have something yet to...
Free Writing Exercise Mash-Up #2 © 2013
Experiencing Wonder Experiencing wonder? Bewilderment, more like. The first time someone moaned my name was that, mixed obtusely with trepidation. But it was at that moment that an essence of my humanity; curiosity, kicked in with a loud clack and a smirk. I never knew something could be so utterly insatiable. A flickering of the fingers here, a heavy lascivious breath to prickle the nape of the...
From the Dreamer to the Dream © Howell di Amorosi,...
From the dreamer to the dream- your golden tree was found wanting. I desire a “mea culpa” for the stream. The siren’s song was damning;- but the fawn fit the scene. The maid who was scouring -my consciousness thanks you for the scream, it put a halt to my dreaming and gave me this theme.
Free Writing Exercise Mash-Up #1 © 2013
Requirement to Read Literature I believe that in order to read literature you must have an open mind, to allow yourself to delve into the imagery and place yourself into the world placed before you. Of course to do this one must also have an understanding of words, especially ones that transcend you to a different time and place. To understand literature is to understand ourselves. Not just our...
Hir I © Howell di Amorosi, January 2013
In this house was fire and brimstone. In the ground was riches and her fertility. In the walls were trust and mutual captivity. In our touch were tears and rebirth. In the music drifts our past and this new beginning. In this passage, like a raging sea, I will flood that fire and brimstone. I will wash and raise those riches, and ease your fetile ground. I will wear down some of the trust,...
she. © Howell di Amorosi, March 2012
She is the hurricane that tears through, and rips the skin like a sandstorm, dry drowning every inch. She represents the pleasure of being disemboweled, (from burnt knees to crying shame) — And I, because I am the man; the misogynist giving in. I dare to be fulfilled, do not allow your memories of molestation to disdain this image of equality. Any man whom respects a woman her rights to be...
Virago © Howell di Amorosi, February 2012.
To take her from behind, her angelic face pressed into the headboard of her virgin bed, her hair tight in my grasp weaving through all my fingers to never lose hold as I’m pulling on it viciously; the threshold of pain and pleasure bleaching. Ripping her skirts so I can take her there and then as my impatience infects every pore. My ears are filling with her desperate cries and the futile...
My Sweet William © Howell di Amorosi, January 2012
He was a sage amongst the cruelty of the grape-vine; my Persian candy-tuft. His fingers brushed my touch-me-nots, as my hands absent-mindedly grazed his hairy balls. He whispered promises as if the star of Bethlehem, in every movement of his body. The language was ripe, sweet, and overcoming, reminding me of my youth now many ages ago, discovering pleasure with my mother’s bluebottle. My...
Love Nuggetsz; Chapter 3 © Howell di Amorosi, 2011
Venom cried out as if never before, vocal harmony hoarse as if from a starving man. The squeaks of a pitiful character, that mimicked one’s will, as if a mouse. The stool rocked violently as his body writhed underneath, for the juices gave way, seeping within open sores from the embellishments that had struck several times worse, more deviously exact, than the rest. Zato reached out, taking...
Dementia © Howell di Amorosi, November 2011
She was the sweetest of sweets, the most priceless gem, the illustrious illustrator, the quintessential Queen. Her laughter was a vigorous rivulet, filled with gaiety as the Earth is clad in Sun’s majestic ribbons in time for afternoon tea. She had curls of molten chocolate; a treat for the hands, eyes, and mouth. Her skin could have been God’s gift to naïve vanity whilst Humans still had...
Helix © Howell di Amorosi, September 2011
My back is being eaten by a wolverine. I assure you , I am no masochist. She’s packing the cock, and I’m riding the rollercoaster. Desperation is two lines of Snow White Sunday morning during the sermon that crucifies us as illustrious modern-day martyrs, when the babies are crying for the Hell of it, and your father is harder than a rock trying not to look at us simply hold hands....
Nicole © Howell di Amorosi, September 2011
I thrust deeply into her fleshy cunt, slick and sweet with a recent spending at the mercy of my unctuous tongue. The walls are pulpy, and gloriously tight, but never as obstructing as a virgin; perfect. Her nails dig into my flesh, dragging down the length of my spine to the pinnacle of her delight which is my ass. Pressing into the cheeks with the echoing tantric rhythm, helping me ravish her...
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My vermillion: second © Howell di Amorosi, August...
I met her again. I was a baby suckling the meat of her shapely fatty thighs wrapped in Beetlejuice delight. She played piano with my nerves, as the choir of angels raped her throat and strung the devil’s lies with wax, and ejaculations. I was hers, and I made it known. I was debauchery’s annoyance, and free will’s consequence. She was my...
For an epicene Daughter © Howell di Amorosi, 2011
The water breathed her in. Mirth echoes through the reflective sky, as the crimson and gold ebbes; the pheromonal silk grafted into flesh from the mess of birth that bore her. Aoristic subordination. The lust of She paused timelessly in this window of quintessential beauty; the romantic madness within me. Or simply perhaps, the abandonment of restrain; a demagogues release as her eyes peer back to...
Nymphet © Howell di Amorosi, August 2011.
Give me a girl in lingerie posing for pictures in the wilderness. Let me chase her night and day to a catch a glimpse of her selflessness. Hardy my heart, rest at bay, do not give into the Temptresses. Foolish fawn dressed in silk and lace, have you no home for your restlessness?
Silk © Howell di Amorosi, July 2011.
Silk. Her lips, skin, slit. The silk that tantilizes me yet is the kind she wears. The kind the wind plays with, and tears at, showing to me her sculpted legs, and even steps. A grand posture fit for a Queen, and a childish elegance. She whispers to me of the times we could have, with the body she tightly wraps herself around. Her colours are dazzling, taking you to another world...
My vermillion © Howell di Amorosi, July of 2011.
I leave the bed as it was the last time She graced it; each time I manage to coerce her, collecting her with my carniverous claws. Her name, as if rays from the Sun; God’s heavenly bestowement unto me. I try not to be distracted, as velveteen slips past her lips as I wish my pikestaff would be, by divinely trivial observations. For instance, six moles, (mothers...
Love Nuggetsz; chapter two. © Howell di Amorosi,...
They were in the Kitchen now, of all places. The boy was still on the floor, and fought to stay still, even in his ravaged condition. His hair hid his face, and he was permitted that seclusion. Meanwhile, Zato sauntered through the landscape, toying with his bottom lip as thoughts ran rampant. It did not take long for an idea he agreed with to make itself known to him. Long, gaunt fingers took...
Love Nuggetsz; chapter one. © Howell di Amorosi,...
Backhanded without warning in the moonlight that seeped through the shadow of trees whilst upon the stone floor of the greenhouse, Venom knelt. The floor was freezing, and the youth’s knees ached as he had been waiting there for Zato, his lover, since morning, and despite the crude welcoming, the scent of flowers hung in the air as if a hint of kindness. The blonde haired...
For a Forsaken Beloved © Howell di Amorosi, 2011
Enraptured by the Sight you once were, clutching lovelorn through lachrymose. My Angel without a portfolio - I vouchsafed Hir afflutus. The last licentiousness fracture of Righteousness within my Frame. Our ephemeral waltz: bleeding virgins and sequined time. I devour oblivion with Beloved intent: A cornucopia of a ravenous slumber decocting Our engendered Souls wherefore decaying this Mortal...
Flip'h'er over © Howell di Amorosi, 2008/9
you cause accidents with titty tassels. I would crash to have a licking inspection of your mouth to have my fingers have a Romeing experience through your drenched streets, and slick slack alleyways but alas, I am but a futile, and run-over despite my complex - pylon I wonder if you can even catch my scent with your disfigured face of same-old same-old when it comes to you, the third blink is...
Language © Howell di Amorosi, April 2009
We must keep in mind that everything we learn is a form of language: mathematics, the telling of time, paintings, sculptures, mythology, our bodies, flowers, therapy And with languages comes communication like: writing, drawing, diagrams, intercourse, energy work, spoken word but most of all Music. And if you are truly spectacular you would be able yo understand that languages themselves are...
The Tower Green © Howell di Amorosi, 2007.
Hand upon throat. Threat, love, want; Dominance shifted over not under the table. Submission demanded and protruding through reverence in a venerated manner. A black sail raised for those who have died trying; an icicle in a pillar of sunshine, and grace. The lavender rising hitting in a mask of innocently lustful intentions. A touch, a subordinate desire. Opium for the whisks of movement,...
Sacchariferous lullaby © Howell di Amorosi, 2005.
The cheap moon reflecting off the 5 dollar wine bottle. Forget the Brandywine, remember the moment of careless touches drunk on lust, buzzed on liquor. Racing to the untouchable podium the rosary laying on Mister Cardinals floor as he fucks and lays waste to the maid - forget the secretary at the Vatican who only comes in on Mondays. Call in sick, with the Red Cross at you back cushioning...
Foreplay fantasy © Howell di Amorosi, 2004.
As I sit here, being noble - sleeping in another bed I try to close my eyes and rest, but all I can do is find myself gazing upon her. How I wish I could just sleep beside her. To hold her lovingly in my arms. To kiss her neck so softly, taking in her sweet fragrance. How I wish she and I would kiss each other, with eyes everything but open. How she’d let me feel her, my fingers tracing...