Brian Pitt

by Horror Sleaze Trash on June 12, 2013

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Brian Pitt began writing poetry five years ago during his twelve hour shifts as a street cleaner while living in Enterprise, Alabama. Brian is a poet, as well as the drummer and vocalist of the psychedelic/occult-garage band Switchblade Cheetah, and one half of the experimental music project Neon Lushell.  He currently lives in Tallahassee, Florida with his wife and son, and works as a security guard.

—-

 

WILD ABOUT YOU 

I split your cast open and played with the broken bones
that were floating around inside.
I kept pressing my fingers together through the loose pieces of bone until my thumb and index finger were touching each other.
You didn’t make any noise.
Too scared to scream?
Too painful to utter a sound?
Too drugged to feel it?
The bath water is pretty cold now. The floor is soaking wet from your goddamned flailing.
I thought that zip ties would do the trick, but your strong torso enabled you to almost empty the bathtub.
Remember when I would have you take ice baths before we fucked?
You would get so cold that you wouldn’t be able to move your lips, arms, or legs.
You would get kind of cold on the inside, but not cold enough.
It’s always gonna be just you and me baby.
Tell me that you need me.

 

 

I CAME THE SEA BUT WIPED THE SAW

“Baby, baby please, I can’t eat anymore fucking spaghetti.”

It was the olive oil and cum glistening around her lips that caught my eye as we sat at the tiny breakfast table writing letters to each other after a long night of oral sex shared out of boredom.

“No one ever licked my ass before.” she said to me.

Well la-te-da, it’s time for a smoke. November Rain was playing in my head and I was embarrassed that it took me so long to get it up. I’m talking hours. All of that Lexapro and Zoloft made it nearly impossible to get and stay hard. Sometimes though once it was finally back in business, I would thrash it around any orifice that I could snake my black seed of lies into.

If I could find a spot, warm and wet, dry and tight, to fill up with my throbbing silver beads, I would sleep a happy boy. Once the wall was splattered with sperm and tears, once the floor was stained with Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum and Pall Mall ashes, then I might be able to eat an ice-pop before slowly sinking into the other rarity, the sterile boat that keeps me wide awake while I sleep.

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