Epicure and the peach

Oh Epicure of purest taste,

How was the hot house peach,

That you desired?

How felt the soft and yielding flesh,

The juices flowing fresh and bright?

How were those fast, fulfilling seconds,

As you devoured the young, ripe  peach,

To quench your thirst, your lust for pleasure,

And left the stone upon the floor?

How was sensation, how was feeling,

Did it fulfill your every need?

How felt the biting and devouring?

Was need for pleasure sated then?

How did it feel? How was it wondrous?

Was it the end to all your need?

Bright juices glistened in the light,

As peach was broken and devoured,

And flesh was bruised to give you pleasure,

Oh Epicure, did you deserve,

A prize so great,

A moment of pure ecstasy?

But lust for pleasure is not sated,

And peach will never be again,

How many more will you devour,

Until you find your belly full?


You were my first when you decided,

To take a boy and push him in,

A filthy, stinking, dirty toilet,

A break him open because you could.

The juices that you saw as sweetness,

Were blood that poured out of the wounds.

The flesh that you rutted gladly,

Had been unbroken till you came.

That boy, that peach,

That you desired,

Ate up, consumed,

Then threw away,

Denied the right,

To first love’s conquest,

Still bears the wounds,

Where you have been.

And you?

Where are you now?

Are you still fucking little boys?

Still wiping off against a face,

Then going home to tea with wife?

I see now I was just a sock,

A thing to use then throw away,

A piece of cum stained tissue crusted,

Like all the rest on piss soaked floor.


Oh how was the peach then master?

Did I fulfill the need and want?

Did you suppose I had no feeling?

A piece of flesh to sate a want?

Was I exquisite or just needful?

At least I hope I was a prize,

For you to nurture on in private,

The boy you fucked,

Oh what a prize.

You took virginity replacing,

Dreams for love with reality,

That fucker fucks,

And fucked is broken,

Then thrown away,

You have no need.

Oh Epicure,

The second time,

Is not the first,

Nor never can,

Replace the touch,

Of one’s first lover,

The one deserving,

Precious gift,

Of yielding flesh,

That’s freely given.


That stone you left upon the floor,

You never even knew it’s name,

You never bothered,

As you forced me,

To whisper gentle, loving names,

Instead you named me,

In your taking,

Set out beliefs,

Of what I was.

A whore, a cunt,

A dirty baby,

Told me I loved it,

As you worked.

Oh you described,

Your every pleasure,

How tight, how hot,

How good it was,

But yet you never thought to ask me,

If I was feeling anything?

And that stone sprouted,

Feeling worthless,

Saw sex as pain,

And always bled.

A pattern set in dirty toilet,

Remained because of you my friend.


You who had wife, and home, and garden,

You who should have known,

What you had done.

But boy tears were,

Like catnip to you,

Intoxicating ecstasy.

And fingers forced in mouth,

That cried,

Meant no one heard,

And no one rescued,

Though footsteps were,

Outside the door.

Repeating pattern,

Re-enforced there,

Just one more lesson,

For a boy.

You never asked,

Who I could turn to.

There was no one,

Not that you cared.

My first,

My conqueror,

How you devoted me,

Then left me bleeding,

On the floor.





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