make sure it spins

Friday 31 December 2010

Today's the official release date for Look! Look! Feathers, which I celebrated by cooking some eggs. A really insightful and generous review of the book by Chris Vola went up yesterday at The Rumpus: check it out.

Today of course also closes 2010. It's been a busy year in this camp. I keep starting and erasing epic summations of the year. But it's too much for me, yo. Maybe at the end of 2011 I will be ready to talk about everything that happened in 2010. Suffice to say, I went up and down both coasts and then some, doing the sunset coast with a girl-carrot I love very much, and along the way I hung out with so many upstanding, beautiful, generous people. We played music and ate burritos and ate chocolate and ate breakfast and saw movies and rode trains and braved a lot of weather. You know who you are. One of the best years of my life, to be honest. Tell me your most secret ambition for 2011 in the comments section and I will make up a barbecue sauce recipe and name it after you.

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"Stealing From Yourself"

Wednesday 29 December 2010

Stealing From Yourself


It would appear that past endeavors
have left you with an empty stomach.
Tis true that guilt is greedy
and there's no satisfying this lummox.
You tried your best to hide
behind the fairy tales and fables;
but guilt devoured your pride
leaving no scraps at your table.




Stolen kisses...
.....clever you:
One of the few 
that were able to subdue 
long enough to dash through
the chasm of long orgasms...
............to steal a kiss.


Stolen words...
nothing left for you to quote
after you openly smote me
for every word I wrote.
You ambitiously sought to deplete;
and can now only manage to retweet.


Stolen thoughts...
violently pillaged and trampled
through my mental fundamentals,
but conquering my complexities
will never be this simple;
because you will soon find
that you are blind to my mind.


Stolen.
Blatant, beligerent grand theft
of my heart's treble clef.
So now, it can't sing the agony
of a highway robber's tragedy
without seeming like a fallacy.


Stolen.
Snatched.
You slipped through the latch
and slowly lifted the hatch 
only for you to discover 
the belongings of another.
Highly confused, you stay
whilst I begin to slip away.


Your shock keeps you at bay
long enough for me to claim the day...
and every one that follows.
You've broken my locks,
smashed my windows with rocks,
and yet: you've never felt so hollow.


Quite the ordeal to process.
A rough pill to swallow indeed.
So much for your progress;
left to wallow where fate impedes.
You uprooted our foundation like weeds;
but now your wants have become needs.


Heartless thief that left
so many hearts to bleed...
you now require their generosity
to help you plant your seed.
Maybe some semblance of grace
will begin to seep through.
You just keep on hoping:
They may even feed you.


Wretched criminal of the heart:
do you want to impart your disdain?
Does the pain remind you of how
you hardly cared about their despair?


You've earned no phrases.
Not even an utterance.
You now find yourself governed
by that which you've scorned stubborn;
adorned in the same bloody cloak
that you have always worn.


It's no longer a game to you.
You're naked in your shame
in spite of the garments you maintain.
With nothing left to gain,
you stand still in your angst
only to eventually fall through.
Perdition is far from therapeutic;
so nothing can absolve you.


Guilt has come to feast again.
Scream all you want for help;
but empty words will go unheard
You stole solace from yourself. <3


Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

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thanks

Monday 27 December 2010

Thanks Dennis Cooper for putting We Are All Good If They Try Hard Enough on your list of favorites from 2010!

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obviously janelle monae is better than both of them

Hey, have you ever imagined the William Penn drawing from the Quaker Oats box getting into a anamorphic romantic and activist relationship with a tiny Santa Christmas ornament? So have I! Luckily Metazen was kind enough to collect my enactment of this imagination with many other strange and delightful Christmas-themed stories for their second annual Charity Christmas E-Book, which you can download for free here: http://www.metazen.ca/?p=6141. Metazen raised a few hundred dollars with this e-book to donate to a small business through Kiva. Great work, Canadians. Canadians are also good at curling, sheetrock, and waving vigorously.

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Happy Christmas 25 December 2010

Friday 24 December 2010

Met natal buat yang merayakannya yah....have fun n great time with all your fams ^,*

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slightly stranger versions of what you already know

Monday 20 December 2010

A person named Emily Temple wrote a nice little crinkle of columns about L!L!F for the Dec/Jan issue of Nylon Guys. Check out a screenshot on her blog. She says: "The collection is a lesson in opposites, in both its push-pull between youth and age and its juxtaposition of sentimentality and irony. It's fresh and weird—and it tugs at the reader in all the right places."

What's more, the forever awesome Michael Schaub included L!L!F in his list of 16 favorite books from 2010, which was imperviously lovely of him (I don't know if that's a real modifier for lovely; it's the first thing that came to my head). Check out his whole list here on the Bookslut blog.

Also, Ryan MacDonald's art class at UMass read poems by Jordan Stempleman and me, and then they made amazing stuffed pillow-like objects. The popcorn to the left is maybe my favorite. In other news, popcorn is a Christmas tree decoration, and life is the bowl of stale leftover popcorn that didn't fit on the tree.

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mastadon in a tar pit

Wednesday 15 December 2010

A story from Look! Look! Feathers is newly live at the lovely Collagist: "What the Fuck is an Electrolyte?" Thanks to Matt Bell for publishing this. This story features VHS workout tapes (stomped), checkerboard Vans, a cockroach running away from milk, purple sweatpants, a racist tennis coach, an "old Indian on a mountain bike, wearing a studded cowboy hat and hauling a rickshaw full of canned yams," and so much more, friends, so much more. This story is different from other stories in L!L!F because the protagonist doesn't want to feel anything. Other protagonists in L!L!F have issues with feeling, but they appreciate the opportunity to do so, at least. Not so much with Monty. This makes WTF flat and weird in tone and uncomfortable next to the other stories, which is like when there is a weird guy at the party who won't stop asking you if your fireplace is real. This is the sign—as we all know—of a top-notch party.

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score one for the home team

Tuesday 14 December 2010

Though I dispute the way the origin story excludes how Cheney and I made up doo-wop songs on the balcony outside the apartment, the rest of Rachel B Glaser's intro to this conversation is factual in spirit and zest. Check it out for our thoughts on everything from misspelled last names to huge-smelling stars.

If you're in New York on Friday, the Word Riot Press book release party for Look! Look! Feathers and Paula Bomer's Baby will be at KGB Bar this Friday the 17th at 7PM. More details here or on Facebook.

Other relevance involves day-old coffee. Someone with two adams-apples who was too restless about the snow to nap on the bus. Birthday pizza for my favorite lady. Cookie party in historic mansions. Sketchy kennels. Assigned reflection. My doppelganger Australian cricket coach has apparently been demoted. I wish him the courage to carry on in his stunted capacity.

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we predict a seasonal suspension of suspicion spit

Tuesday 7 December 2010

Sky too stubborn to snow. Has decided to shave our faces via wind. What else is new? I did an interview as Ada Lovelace. Feel like I might be the only fan Dale Earnhardt and Ada Lovelace have in common. Like I want to wear practical shoes and fancy umbrellas. Made a new RAD Poetry video for Christy Crutchfield with Carolyn and her cat Maude. Exhausting number of links. Had a computer conversation with a student. Hardware troubles. Feel like computers are the new cars in terms of the lay person always knows just enough about them to get themselves in hot water. Some interesting things I've seen lately include two old Puerto Rican twin ladies on the same bus and a Marine with a poodle. Two positive new reviews in decomP: L!L!F and All Good. Thanks, Spencer. Feel like my blog secretly aspires to be a parody of a Larry King parody. Not so secretly, I guess. What should I get you for Christmas? Should I get you a pictographic representation of the way my drowsy minutes before sleep always seem to slough memories of random overheard conversations like one between a street flutist and a meter maid? Should I get you a Rin Tin Tin costume? Should I get you Brazil? Should I get you gotten?

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"The Company You Keep"

Friday 3 December 2010

The Company You Keep

One afternoon, the young Pastor of a well known local church locked up his building after replacing a few fixtures inside. He then headed down the sidewalk about a block or two to the parking lot where his car was parked. He would make this walk every two or three days per week and would be greeted by little kids playing and elderly people sitting on their porch; but on this particular day, it was unusually quiet out; and not one person could be found anywhere in the area.

He got within one block from his church when he heard a woman scream. He stopped right where he was and stood still to see if he could hear the woman's voice again in hopes of finding out where it came from. A minute or so passed and no sound could be heard. Just then, he heard rapid footsteps that grew louder and faster as he stood there. Before he could react, however: he turned around to see a man dressed in a moist, dingy black sweatshirt and tattered jeans standing only a few steps away from him. He had a skull cap covering his face with the eyes cut out; which obviously implied that he was either a robber or much worse.

His assumptions were confirmed when he looked down to see the long, sharp, blood-stained machete tightly gripped in the man's hand. He was sure that the man would lunge out at him with the weapon; but to his surprise, the man instead removed his mask, stared the Pastor down for ten seconds or so, and darted past him down the street and around the corner. 

Completely befuddled by what has just transpired, the Pastor just shook his head and reached in his pocket in hopes of calling the police to report what he just saw. To his misfortune, however: his cell phone battery was completely drained; so he said a prayer to God for the safety of anyone else who should encounter the mysterious man and continued towards his car.

That evening, while eating dinner with his family, he overheard his television in the living room. The news reporter mentioned a masked murderer that was arrested and taken into custody around 3:36 p.m.; which happened to be about ten minutes or so after his encounter with the person. The man was reportedly responsible for the stabbing deaths of about seven people earlier that day. He stepped away from the table and into the room to view the person's face; and sure enough, it was the exact same person he encountered earlier that day.

Later on that night after his daily bible study with his family, he decided that he would go to the prison the next day to visit the man that he shared that awkward experience with in hopes of asking him a question or two. He arrived at the prison the next day a little after 12:00 that afternoon. The security guard accompanied him down the hall to the cells and stood outside the door while the pastor greeted the man from outside of the cell.

Still slightly confused about what happened a day earlier, he asked the man: "In light of what you were obviously up to yesterday, one thing still doesn't quite make sense to me: Why didn't you lunge out at me in the same manner that you did with those you've previously killed that day? Is it because you knew that I was a pastor and would feel a certain degree of guilt afterwards?" The man, still dressed in his same clothes, looked up at him and replied: "It wasn't guilt that saved you, man. The seven people that I killed earlier were all alone when I did so. No witnesses to be found."

"I had every intention of killing you as well; but you had too many people surrounding you."

Without saying another word, the young Pastor left the prison and headed for his vehicle once again. This time, however: His comfort was raised exponentially; because he knew that hedge of protection that he always preached about was much more than just a Sunday sermon.

Be mindful of the company you keep. It just may be the very company that keeps you alive.

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"The Kitchen Table"

Thursday 2 December 2010

The Kitchen Table


I'm reaching for my cup
sitting high on the kitchen table.
You refused to help me up
because you knew that I were able.
You would greet me with a kiss
as you gently stroke my hair;
then you'd smile with confidence
as you point towards the chair.
It's like you were everywhere
that I ever needed you to be.
You always strive to keep me aware;
although I'm far too young to see.
When my stints of curiosity
seemed more than some could bear,
you always offered earnest generosity
and truly unconditional care.


Your trademark tempo has declined
due to issues with your back;
so I really don't mind
helping pick up some of the slack.
I've always had a knack
for consistency when handling chores;
but this higher rate of frequency
became much more than I could absorb.
I try my best not to complain;
although it hardly seems fair
to have house work accompany homework
while your own children are laying there.
They wouldn't lift a finger for much
outside of a beer bottle or blunt;
and when bills come to the forefront,
they disappear by the first of the month.


You knew that it wasn't right;
but you never really put up a fight.
You'd just allow them to stay here;
pacifying themselves with their plight.
This severely bothered me for years.
I truly couldn't stand the sight;
but my love for you kept me near
and I sat with you every night.
I never really slept much
when your health became an issue.
Some nights involved sugar attacks.
Others involved trash bags and tissue.
My days were usually spent
keeping your insulin needles handy
while nights involved keeping my brother
from eating your chocolate candy.


Time changed my point of view
and we started to grow apart;
but what always remained constant
was your spot reserved in my heart.
I'm seventeen years old
and college comes in a few months.
I've truly loved being here with you;
but this strain is entirely too much.
For weeks on end, you've tried your best
to coerce me into staying:
From guilt trips and tantrums
to words you'd never consider saying.
Tears rolled down my cheeks
as I helped my brother into the van.
I know you won't believe it right now;
but I've done all that I can.


The winds of late August
begin to violently blow.
The bridges are cluttered with cars
that gathered fast; but drive slow.
Uncle constantly kept us in the loop
while keeping you from the wind and rain;
but I know that although you were safe,
The house we loved absorbed the pain.
The roof was ripped and torn apart
by nature's malicious maelstrom.
I know that seeing this firsthand
placed your heart and mind in bedlam.
No matter how much we begged,
you consistently replied "No.";
but your wisdom eventually took over
and you knew it was time to let go.


As my Mother clutched the receiver,
tears swiftly streamed from her eyes
when finally given the news
that her brother was not found alive.
None of us had the strength
to divulge such woeful findings;
but true to form: your intuition
easily exposed what we were hiding.
Although I knew you'd find out soon,
I never knew the depth of it's impact.
You spent day after day in your room.
Your emotions were far from intact.
It angers me to see you like this,
but it wasn't hard to understand;
and with every good night kiss,
I knew that darker times were at hand.


The holidays were slow and dull.
Winter beauty has lost it's luster.
We longed for that jovial aura
that only you could muster.
The new year is days away
and our home is in fair condition;
but the doctors kept you at bay
to hopefully give your illness remission.
Cell phones stayed within reach,
Mom has become a bundle of nerves,
and fear is starting to breach
all the patience I've had reserved.
I've always admired your strengh.
You said the same resides in me;
but it's hard to shake the grief
of what will eventually be.


Sitting at the kitchen table,
I hear Mom hang up the phone
and before I can inquire,
she softly whispers: "She's gone."
The next few days at home
hardly created a comfort zone;
I'm surrounded by loved ones,
but never felt more alone.
To make things worse, of course:
little sorrow was left to render
while trying to keep the peace
between fighting family members.
Violent words flew back and forth
as my heart underwent it's contortions
at the sight of your own children
arguing over who gets their portion.


My mind is in the mortuary,
but my heart is still at bay
so I request that they pull over
and let me walk the rest of the way.
I'm not the least bit nervous.
I know exactly what I'll say,
but it's hard to serve this purpose
while wishing you were here to stay.
The love you imparted always lasted.
None other felt so true to me.
That's what drew me near your casket
as I delivered this heartfelt eulogy;
and as a room of teardrops gathered
to show how much you would be missed,
I just gently stroked you hair
before offering you one final kiss.


A few years have passed by;
but you still thrive in memory.
Although I know you rest up high,
You still feel so near to me.
Seventeen years of living together
didn't always impart serenity;
but knowing you live in me forever
grants me unparalleled tranquility.
The hard times that we've endured
displayed our worst and very best;
but the relationship that emerged
truly withstood any and every test.
You gave all that you had for me.
I know that now, I'm far from able;
but I'll climb that chair again one day
and join you at God's kitchen table.


Written By: Devin Joseph Metz






Rest in Peace, Jeralyn Morris Metz. I love you more than my heart can ever express. Till we meet again, Grandmother. <3

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Friday 26 November 2010

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NOÖ [12]!

Tuesday 23 November 2010

If I haven't already told you about this somewhere else, check out the new NOÖ. Lots of awesome stuff.

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keeping busy like a gift i can't give back

Wednesday 17 November 2010

Hey y'all, three weird and never before seen little pieces are online at Used Furniture Review, a new online lit mag. Thanks to David Cotrone for asking me to send him stuff. Subjects include tennis, cigars, cake bully God figures, and fair rides. In other words, par for the course. Other pretty cool stuff up at UFR right now includes an interview with Tom Perrota and some poems from Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz.

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"Vanessa"

Tuesday 16 November 2010

Vanessa

There was once a very busy man who worked for a law firm. He worked long hours and his boss gave him a hard time on a regular basis. His mainstay is usually that of a very relaxed, mild-mannered person; but after months of stress and pressure from his job, he felt as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. After finally reaching his weekend off after working two weeks straight, he just wanted to go home and relax. He arrived home Friday evening and promptly fell into is favorite recliner so that he could read his newspaper and hopefully take a nap or two. His plans were sure to be averted, though; due to a small yet very significant miscalculation: His nine year old daughter: Vanessa.

Vanessa loved her father with all of her heart. She likely favored him over her mother, even; due to the fact that he is slightly more willing to offer incentives to her. Vanessa and her father used to go on their own little outings regularly before his big promotion at the law firm; but she rarely gets to see him nowadays. She was obviously elated to find him home; so she went to greet him and spend some time with him. He sat there with his head buried deep within his paper; but removed it slowly when he felt the presence of someone else in the room. As he removed the paper from his face, he saw his daughter's face light up with a smile bigger and brighter than the sun itself. 

He didn't really have to guess what his little girl wanted; thanks mostly to the huge smile on her face. She reached out to hug him and he grabbed her with his right arm to give her a kiss and a big hug; but before she could relay her request, he issued one of his own: "Vanessa, can you give me about five minutes? I want to catch up on some of my reading." Not the least bit disappointed, She nodded her head and went to her room to go play with her dolls. 

Five minutes flew by.

 Vanessa returned to the living room where her father sat still reading his newspaper. He glanced up to see her standing in her usual spot directly in front of him; as patient and excited as before. Still extremely tired, he said to her: "Honey, can I have about ten more minutes? We'll go out for ice cream afterwards, okay?" Still determined and very hopeful, she nodded her head once more and skipped back to her room. 

Ten minutes have come and gone.

 Vanessa once again made her short trek back to her father. He was starting to feel slightly more rested; but still needed more time. As she stood there lovingly staring at him, he once more asked her: "Just fifteen more minutes, baby. I'll be ready to go by then." She agreed without even an ounce of frustration and once more returned to her room to watch television. 

Fifteen minutes have passed. 

Vanessa decided to walk slowly back to the living room this time in hopes of giving her father an extra minute or two of rest before they got ready to leave. She found her way back to her familiar position right in front of him. Seeing how determined Vanessa was, he devised a plan that would hopefully occupy her some while he took a nap. 

There was a huge picture of the planet earth on one of the pages of his paper. He tore the page from the rest of his paper, and to his little girl's confusion, tore it into pieces about the size of her hands. He handed it to her with a roll of scotch tape and told her: "Vanessa: if you can finish this puzzle of the earth in good enough time, then we'll head out to the theater to see that new movie you've been waiting on." Vanessa's eyes widened like two huge gems. More excited than she has ever been, she sprinted back to her room to get started. Her father was more than sure this would guarantee at least half an hour of nap time; so he placed his newspaper over his face and nodded off.....

......two minutes have elapsed.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He once again glanced over to see his beautiful daughter with her trademark smile looking back at him; only this time, her hands were behind her back. "What's wrong, honey? Having a tough time with the puzzle?" he asked her. She shook her head no; so he asked her "Well, where is it, baby?" 

With a slight giggle, Vanessa revealed a completely repaired page with each and every part of the planet earth right where it belongs. Extremely surprised, He asked her: "Vanessa, how were you able to complete the puzzle so quickly?" She smiled and replied: "There was a picture of Jesus on the back of the paper. I put him in the middle and the rest of the pieces were easy to put back together."

Moved by how keen his daughter's discovery was, he rose up from his chair, threw away his newspaper, and took Vanessa out to see her favorite movie and then to get some ice cream. 

Every day since then, he lived a stress and worry free life; because he knew that if his daughter Vanessa could find the center of all things, then he most certainly knew who was the solution to any and every problem that was sure to befall him.

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Vitamin D for darkness, Publishers Weekly for self-esteem

Tuesday 9 November 2010

Here's Publishers Weekly's review of Look! Look! Feathers:

'Young hits the mark in this smart, quirky debut collection, where base humanity—like the macho behavior of a high school gym teacher who is revealed to have only one testicle in "The World Doesn't Smell Like You"—is juxtaposed against a crushing swell of technology and pop culture. Social media, brain-Internet browsers, and reality television all feature in Young's stories, and institutions like the 24-hour grocery, the "old hotel on Mason Street," and Facebook are venues for Young's twisted tales. In "Mosquito Fog," two online companions arrive at an awkward moment when widower Russell discovers his online confidante, contrary to her online profile, is not his contemporary but a teenage girl. The couple at the center of "Snow You Know and Snow You Don't" slowly reveal in a letter to their unborn child the strange way they cope with a domestic tragedy. Meanwhile, in "No Such Thing as a Wild Horse," the transformation of a local fun park "from something rinky-dink into something grand" is held up, albeit wryly, as a beacon of inspiration. This is a slick collection—relevant, wise, and immensely enjoyable. (Dec.)'

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reformed turnpike bully

Saturday 6 November 2010

Hey, the cool and enthusiastic Tyler Gobble interviewed me for Small Doggies and included a review of We Are All Good. I talk about Christmas bags and know-what-I-mean versus no-I-don't, and also I nonsensically talk shit on Tony Hoagland. Check it out. Thanks, Tyler!

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Friday 5 November 2010

Let's recap: gypsy Halloween singalong, Pet Semetery, cheap gyros, matching b/f, g/f taco costumes, blue jumpsuit, motherboards dangling from neckties, parties of social coincidences, a perilous van ride singalong.

Then the Barry Hannah tribute on Wednesday, hosted by Gene Kwak. Really well-lit time at Newtonville Books, lamps and early release copies of Barry's posthumous selected-and-new collection, Long Last Happy. Joy-stuffed reflections and remembrances, guns with popcorn in them, lots of gut shots and gut laughs of prose. Folks from all over to celebrate a fine man of Oxford, the Southern one. I was humbled to have an opportunity to yak a little about my relationship to the work of Barry Hannah, who was a heart wrangler, a soothsayer, a white hot pilot of knowing why stories are worth it. And humbled especially to read in such company: Askold Melnyczuk, Amy Hempel, Sven Birkerts, Jennifer Haigh, and James Parker. I read "Coming Close to Donna." I wore my best shoes. Later I ate some Eggs Benedict Pizza, and I was a little drunk when I ate it, so I didn't realize until now that such a dish is like something invented as a Christmas present by my kindest dreams.

Next day, I guest-lectured about theft and verbal storytelling in Gene's UMass Boston class. Sharp folks, all ages, creased by experience. Gene was sick and I convinced him to eat some ginger chicken soup. Rain fell on the lake and the UMass Boston campus looked like a prison movie before the redemptive part. Later we got fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and wonderful clove-tasting sweet potatoes delivered to Gene's abode, which was very brave of the delivery people, because I guess Gene likes to shoot them. Or wait, maybe that's his neighbor. That night I read at Lorem Ipsum books (thanks to the kind Pete and Kate for setting things up), which had recently moved into an old refrigerator store. I read with Mark Leidner and Elisa Gabbert. Leidner was hilarious and Gabbert was genius, though each borrowed liberally from both afflictions. I ate some salt and vinegar chips. Gene alas was too sick to read, but he was missed. People made eye contact in wonderful ways. Mark and I stopped at a convenience store on the way back to Western Mass, and then we wondered what would happen if America were one big corporation, and all the billboards just had ads for specific products like: APPLES! CHAIRS! BRACELETS!

Now I am home and working on getting shit together. Some linkage news includes two new reviews of L!L!F, an enthusiastic one in the Brooklyn Rail and a lukewarm one on the blog Glorified Love Letters. Over on the NOÖ Journal blog, Gabe Durham talks about James Robison's 1988 novel The Illustrator, which I want to call a punt-return-for-a-touchdown book because that's the kind of damn good I think it is. And, you can win a free copy of Dennis Cooper's new essay collection Smothered In Hugs by just posting a comment about your dreams or making up a dream and posting a comment. Super easy. Win a free book. Stay tuned for more NOÖ blog content, including long overdue RAD Poetry videos, as I try slaphazardly to hype the run-up to NOÖ 12. The trick is getting past the kicker, who's always a better tackler than he should be.

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"Pink Passion Fruit"

Monday 1 November 2010

Pink Passion Fruit


I long for the taste.
I still remember the sight.
I lust after it so much,
I can hardly sleep at night;
and it truly never fails.
Every time that I close my eyes,
I still think of that moist confection
resting within her candy-coated thighs.
I want it so much
that mere words fail to measure
how bad I crave that sweet taste
that gives me so much pleasure.
My hunger is beyond suppression;
so I'm always in heavy pursuit
with an insatiable obsession
for her pink passion fruit.


I can't go one day without her.
I'm nervous with discontent
if I can't fill my lungs
with her sugar-sweet scent.
I often reminisce
over the look on her face
when we pull closer to each other
for our dark, forbidden embrace:


We ravage each other frantically
as desire builds in our eyes
just to remove these binding wrappers
of blouses and neckties.
We share hints of plum & watermelon
with each exchange of the tongue.
The mere sight of her exposed flesh
is something no man can turn from.
The perspiration gets more frequent
with each body part felt;
so the sound gets louder
when I gently strike her apple with my belt.
She quickly falls in to bed
and gives me free reign
to partake of the various flavors
that only her body can maintain.
I give unparalleled pleasure
that she will never forget
As I indulge in the butter-rich taste
while I slowly kiss her neck.
Her movements are free-flowing
as I start to lower my head in
so I can playfully lick around
the outskirts of her honeydew melons.
Her anticipation grows
and mine's even more so
as my tongue starts to dance
around her smooth, caramel torso.
She wipes the sweat from her head
as she starts to close her eyes
whilst I nibble ever so gently 
on those same candy-coated thighs.
She feels as if she's lost control;
but she submits freely
and willingly parts her limbs
to allow me to begin feeding.
I imagine the look on her face
as she slips into convulsions
from my lips digging deep with ambition
as I lick with strong, unbridled emotion.
I just love the mixture of flavors;
from tangerine to guava,
then peach-laced mango
and pomegranite papaya.
I continue to feast with vigor
moving my tongue in various motions
until that sweet cherry finally pops
& our bed has become an ocean.


We often give into our pleasures;
sometimes more than once per night.
It would seem as if our desires
are too strong for us to fight;
so I know I'll always want more.
I may never stop my pursuit
to yeild to this undying hunger
for her pink passion fruit.


Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

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