alpha male

You added a piece to the vision today
addendum to paradigmatic gendered performance
you walking into your living room
my back to you in front of your fireplace
wearing the illusion you selected for me
obedience to your idealized objectification
long black wig with curls hanging over my downturned face like a veil
jezebel smudges and stains across lips, eyes, cheeks
my arms crossed in the front concealing breasts
my head down
me staring at the crease in your slacks
you staring at the curve of my spine
my ass and thighs barely encased
a shimmering black and gold micro dress and five-inch heels
your thickly veined hands sliding over then under to pull up the hem
the windowpanes shine unnatural light in the silent dark room
vertigo descends upon me as I glance at the streetlights below outside
we are both trembling


Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

ignored crisis


mid 80s era memory from Atlanta
neighbor died in his apt
lonely grad student from GA Tech
mid June heat and flies did their work
the smell of death walking nearby
dozen eggs long expired exploding
as breath of life liquified and melted
like gaslight unlit in a room with locked windows
no one noticed his silence or absence
until the smell reached beyond his walls
the slow creep of rot ignored by us all

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Poems are like a box of clothes never worn from your brain

I think my brain treats my poetry writing sessions as an exercise in unpacking boxes from the attic and every once in a while finding a good classic cookbook, or a lovely set of dishes never used. Or a dress worn just once and it still fits. Or even an old, raunchy paperback novel, like The Story of O.

I think I had once of these month long sessions of unpacking some really raunchy novels, and given what I just dreamed last night, I think that analogy fits like a ball gag. Someone asked me about teaching The Story of O by Pauline Reage, a work that should not be taught without matching it with the French Feminisms anthology that tears it to pieces. I pretty much view Reage, du Sade, and other erotic writers of the 18th through the latter 20th century attempting to expel the Church’s repression of sexuality—but not the misogyny that came along with the repression. How is it in the 21st century we are still dealing with repression, misogyny, and fear of female desire?

I did not dream of finding wedding dresses in my closet. I have many more stories and poems to unpack and put on a table to shine or toss. Some of them sound like fragments from a raunchy novel. It’s my way of getting my brain out of writers block as I finish my other writing gig for a deadline later this month. I wouldn’t say it’s better than sex, but given the level of frustration that summer brings me (it’s warm, so I exercise and that definitely gets me aroused), writing about these things helps chase away writers block and depression over my summer blues over my lack of companionship. Love and lust really do matter for us writers—at least for me it does. And vibrators don’t inspire 5000 word chapters. Or epic poems.

Enjoy your morning commute.

thinking of your cock right now

Sunday rain
coffee and buns
reading news
waiting for Sun.

Whew! Thank goodness it’s Friday June 1!

Well folk, this year’s May 30 day challenge is now officially at an end, but not my creative writing. As I am on a deadline for completing a chapter for an anthology on digital humanities plus doing grant workshops to prep for a larger grant on the same topic I will be taking a break for a couple of weeks.  Do read this month’s work—it will be part of a book. I will be back to expand on these works and with new short fiction this summer as I build my manuscript. Please do click on my PayPal button to support me and the build of my collection. And let me what you want more of. Tell your friends to come read my work too.

Thank you for being a very engaged and active audience!

Love, Cherie Ann Turpin aka Afrofuturism Scholar


seeing you see me see you see me see you

watching you watch me
as you look for that moment
when i don’t see you
watching me
and as i see you
seeing me see you
it is good to see you.

Consent part two

Consent matters
consent means
you ask
i ask
dont assume
dont just walk in
without asking
consent means
you consider
more than just
your space
your desires
your plans
your fantasies
your expectations
your needs
because anything else
my voice
my feelings
my space
my dreams
my needs
consent means
you ask
before touching
my coat
my shoulder
my breasts
filling my space
filling my place
filling my face
consent means
you ask
you assuming
i say no
i say yes
based on
what you heard
about me
what you think
about my politics
about my opinion
of you
of your motivations
of your character
that are
are unknown until
you ask
says you dont
give a fuck
about me beyond
what you think
you can do to me
of injury or horror
your singularity
of your assumptions
do to
my body
my feelings
my soul
as you wreak damage
and dispose of me
even well intended
without asking
without consent
brings it all to
destructive ends
consent means
you acknowlege
you do not own me
you are not entitled
you are not a predator
you ask
because you see me
because you see my humanity
consent means
real possibilities
of dreams and desires
mutually fulfilled.

Consent part one

Never asked
Want to know the difference
between men and women
Who want to fuck
Who are feeling you
Women ask
what is the difference
between vanilla and bdsm couples
bdsm people discuss
write out
What do
heteronormative vanilla
respectability addicted couples
use for safe words
Not a thing
Heterosexual men don’t
Recognize them as real
Never asked


my father once told me
not to trust you
i trusted you enough
to tell you what he said
and your face changed
as if an arrow pierced you
i trust you enough to realize
i needed time to understand
why it hurt you
how it hurt you
when you believed
i did not trust you
when you thought
how i thought
you could not be trusted
but i do trust you
just as the empath in me
trusted the truth
of the unintended wound
of my words on your spirit
just as the karmic pull
of Saturn Retrograde demands
that i make amends
and apologise
for hurting you
just as the way i
now feel
impels me to say
trust me.


time for a new bed

haunted space
this is a bed
that needed to go
ten years ago
beds keep memories
beds soak up sorrow
bad breakups
every single fight
every drop of semen
every drop of blood
every drop of urine
every tear
not wiped away or scrubbed
every dream
every nightmare
every moment of
you thought lost
or forgotten
echoes of orgasms
you thought
best not spoken of
every lover
every spouse
real or imagined
soaked in fabric
you did not realize
consumed your
parts of beingness
left in the ether
of the past
and like shoes
over worn and torn
it must be replaced.

This is really happening.

Cum to you
Come to you
Cum on you
Come on you
Cum in you
Come in you
Cum to me
Come to me
Cum on me
Come on me
Come in me
Cum in me
Cum off me
Come off me
You cum
You come
I cum
I come
We cum
We come

fire rite

are you the you
spoken of
spoken to
spoken with
as i sing
during spring?

are you the you
you walking in
you crossing threshold
you behind me
you without sound
you waiting for me
that expectant smile
you without sound
you hiding intent
as i face you?

the healing came last night

sage on fire
washing my rooms
chasing out demons
welcoming love
healing all spaces
i was tipsy with spirit


you told me everything
before you spoke again
though until you
first spoke
i had not known anything
but what i felt

photo tell

crinkling eyes
faint warmth
depth of heat
depth of intent
dark rose hip lips
gapped open
caressing air
teeth unclenched
yet meeting
cheeks unstrained
as you smile for me

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

talking to you for real this moment

saying that
and me yours
no mistake here
i yours
no mistake here
you listened
i saw that
in you
value you
you asking
you valuing
you seeking
me regaining
my voice
to be
who you are
what you are
i owe you
much i wish
to give

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

heated meet

familiar walk
a well-worn path
in well-traveled dirt
hard packed density
rock hard
summer sun not yet heating
spring cold land
meet me near Litha
with naked feet
and bare oak.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

inside you

a small flame fueled
ever so quietly by
ether of hope

sorrow and loss
weight of the past
that never completely fades

misunderstood or mistakes
you carry it in silence

you are after all

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Who is the “you” and “I” in my poetry?

So, if you happen to know me, you may be wondering if I’m talking about you, or someone close to me or you.

The answer is no.



Maybe not.

Who gives a fuck?

I’m writing about human experience and what we endure while living on this planet. I do include my twisted imagination and twisted reality and twisted feelings. I’m pretty strange in my flesh n blood world, so if my writing makes you feel a bit uncomfortable, welcome to my world. I might write about you one day. Let the world beware, said Catherine Tramell.

The Month is almost up. Not sure I feel like doing this in June. Holla at me and tell me.

Oh, and I’ve been holding back a bit. Look for me to just get straight up weird these last days.

tell me how this works for you

not sure
what you meant
you said
you learned
how to channel
your feelings
how that happened to happen
how that would not happen
to all emotional fruit
you seem challenged
to express any feeling
or let
your face reveal
truth from
your heart
much less
your mouth
it stays trapped
your eyes
caged in
your tongue
behind your teeth
or was that the point
you were making
to hide and bury
and pray that
you finally
dug it up it
wasn’t dust
or worse
forgot it was

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

what erotic subjectivity looks like part 1

female sexuality
female subjectivity
erotic subjectivity
to childbirth
to marriage
not owned
not controlled
no fear
no shame
no mask

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

there will be more to say about it

like so many men
like so many women
like so many men
you fear
you despise
you desire
a woman who
says yes
says no
in other words
voices a decision
in other words
i am
a foreigner
to you
i am
to you
my sexuality being
to beck and call
of marital call of duty
or other notions
of respectability
that mutes female eros
my sexuality being
too loud
too visible
too tangible
too intangible
to ignore
or control
i am deprogrammed
from the cultish
hymns and calls
of rape culture
i smashed my tv

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

fast forward to the good parts

you’d get it all
if you said it
plain and clear
clarity on what
this is between us
way i see it
intimacy begins
with synergy
brain and spirit
even if you thought
Lynch’s rabbits
went too far
we could still
Romance like Breillat
or look for
that indy movie
with no rating
like Cronenberg’s Crash
but gets you
hard enough
to bend me
over a table
lights still on
you could
get to know me better
like sharing poetry
while we watch
collapse of the West
under the weight
of our collective desires
or long walks
in the park
discussing the absurdity
of human existence
in the 21st century
as well as looking
for any reason to lick
your lips before
kissing you.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

to you as well thanks as well to you thanks well to as you thanks

pleasure all mine
pleasure all yours
all my pleasure
all your pleasure
my all pleasure
your all pleasure
pleasure my all
pleasure your all
mine all pleasure
your all pleasure
mine pleasure all
your pleasure all
my pleasure all
your pleasure all
pleasure all my
pleasure all your

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

timeline of why part one

you danced solo
circling as you
took in the crowd
greeting and reading us
first time
you appeared
moved familiar gait
open to all who
truly saw you
needing us
to remember
i forgot
i met you before
you already knew me
never explaining how
you danced
you danced
you performed
tempo changed
i forgot
how to waltz
like i forgot
how to ride a bike
and i still
dont know how
to dance
without stumbling
or why
you asked me
to dance

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

when you will know me

you knew of me
before you met me
i wrote of you
before I met you
you know of me
because you met me
i know you
because i met you
when you know me
you will know me


Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Conjure Real

what is the difference
or separation
between meaning in
conjure and language?

where does the relationship
to each other manifest?

can the carnality of
a desire be conjured
through language?

what is missing?
what word
calls forth


we staring at each other
with our thoughts
circling down like moons
an ache rides down
between us
like a warm shower

longing rocking and shuddering
through us
as we watch the light of auras
meeting thoughts
foresight and imagination

we hover and peruse
no longer enigmatic or occult
our hands meeting
we crawl to each other
touching knees and thighs

your breath quickens
we both fixate and tremble
our lips crushed together
tongue meeting tongue
your teeth smeared with my lipstick
my teeth nibbling at your throat

your tears falling
upon my cheeks
already wet with my tears
you whisper
both wish and manifestation

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.


blue and white planet display

Spring gave birth to the horror of sight in us all
and I never believed until now that I could and would live to see myself
so utterly shorn of slick shells
forced to face the real me
all walls come tumbling down for all to see hear touch
even pollen can burn flesh so raw and new
I journeyed to the core of the sun to understand
why we must continue to plow and sow even as we trample our own gardens
I did not know that I myself was a seed to be sown and reaped
and like all seeds the hard shell must swell and burst
so that I would shed blood and tears as I rose from the moist black earth
all walls come tumbling down as Yeshua and Chango in a tipsy brass duet
hold court with Oya
and I see Her funnel clouds reach down and bore into my chest.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Invocation to Oya

eye of the storm image from outer space

The leaves rustle and bristle in the howl of the breeze
the husky voice of Oya caressing me in the full darkness of night
no one is really watching me and no one is around
her windy aura surrounds and fills me
thundering and sifting through my aura of guilt
She promises me many of my secret desires
including that which I dare not name
She twirls thought the air and disappears
I am alone in the rapture
alone in myself to claim what I know to be mine
and mine I keep to myself
He sweet breath is till with me
brushing through me up my skirts
as I suddenly become tipsy
and like a Sibyl I now know the ahead
but the moment I hold now twists from my reach
I try grasping at the slippery handles to remember.

I remember you, the child of Windy Oya, your eyes always cast upward
your arms reaching for her naector in expectation
your body in rhythm with Hers
Ah, but Oya never leaves her child to twist alone
and she dances with you, teaching you her steps forward so that you remember
to not forget how to change
change like Mother Wind!
rush forward now, rush back!
spin like a hurricane, your arms outstretched beyond
hurling yourself from the cliff
knowing the Mother will carry you into moist valleys
caressing your soft brown locks as she steps wide
through blood red clay and evergreen leaves towards the sea
rocking you still when you cry our in pain
She only asks that you reach out to her
her husky voice rumbling in your ears in gusts and gales
her bright as night eyes warming you when you shiver alone
She knows when your heart quickens–
now spin and change as you will!

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

spread me open #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin


not accustomed
to having someone ask me
such an open question
such a vulnerable question
such a way of opening oneself
to another
especially when I consider you
being who you are
being what you are
being how you are
being why you are
especially when I consider me
being who I am
being what I am
being how I am
being why I am
it was so unexpected
at that moment
given the setting
given what that setting meant to you
given what I had said in that setting
I wondered why you asked me
that question
I assumed you would have
anger at me
anger towards me
rage even
I’ve become accustomed
to seeing from a man
but, after almost a year
considering everything
considering the weight
of such a question
I would have to say
no, I am not angry at you
something entirely different
is what I feel about you
even as you continue
as you stare at me
to spread me open.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Northern Gothic (part one) #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin


Willimantic is a small blip of a town between New York City and Boston. It used to be called Heroin Town.

Considering the fact that most of the textile factories and thread factories shut down in the 70s and moved down South (as in Central America, since even Southerners were insisting on union wages), and considering the larger fact that Connecticut was no longer home to the big insurance companies, you would not be surprised at the condition of Willimantic by the late 90s.

Once a sprawling, working class community with huge Victorian homes, ancient buildings and bustling businesses on Main Street, along with a steady influx of French Canadians, Puerto Ricans, and Irish-Americans, many houses now stood empty, became occupied by UConn students, or became drug havens for heroin junkies, and many of the businesses either went bust or else moved to the strip mall down on I-195. It was said that the mall, a venture put forward as a generator of new jobs during the recession in the late 80s, had actually killed what was left of downtown life. Here and there a few storefronts attempted to breathe life, and actually did survive, albeit piecemeal. Two restaurants actually maintained good business, drawing in the yuppies who lived on the outskirts of Willimantic or from Mansfield, near the state university set in the midst of cow pasture. But it was nothing like what it was. Such was the state of economics in Southern New England.

And what of the lost souls who wandered up and down the street, search for the last hit, the new high that would surely take them from the everyday misery of the memories lucking behind the empty theater across from cracked, crumbling Hooker hotel (actually J. C. Hooker, who never imagined himself being known as a swatter’s haven, a hooker’s hotel?)? Or the greasy spoon still serving cholesterol to truckers traveling through from Providence to Hartford, to New York, to beyond?

Nestled in the midst of this slow death was a fledgling cafe, once a fledgling bookstore specializing in feminist studies and other such subversive material. The ghosts of the bustling city lived in the alley between the cafe and Greenleaf lamp shop, and through their descendants who, not imagining any other place to live, continued to shop and eat on Main Street, continuing to take their children downtown, choosing the desolate scenery over the larger yet still desolate city of Hartford. Or the students from either Eastern State or Connect State looking for cheap rent and privacy from the desperation of campus life.

Such was the woman who stepped out of the back of the building where the vegetarian cafe was located. As she walked down the narrow pathway she tried not to notice the ever watching eyes behind the windows in the slum apartments to the left of her, the barely painted exterior of the back of the next building that did not look like an apartment building from the front, but just another office building. She had not been surprised at its decrepit sate when she was first shown the apartment in the building next door, nor was she particularly afraid of the young men who occasionally wandered out to fix their rusty cars.

She was cautious, silent, hoping that their stares were more of caution than of interest. Two years were gone, and yet no act of revenge, no smell of sulfur, no evidence of a hex. Yet.

For the last three years she was living with her head ready to turn at a second’s notice to look back, to the side, looking for the change in temperature, the spirit that she knew to be lurking somewhere, for the face of the man who drove the energy towards her, who she knew to be motivated only for one purpose: to drive her up to and beyond the limits of her sanity.

She looked around the parking lot to see if the red 1987 Subaru station was still sitting in the parking lot before unlocking her car and settling into her driver’s seat. Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw herself and grimaced at her already melting hair in the evening humidity of late summer heat.

The moon already lurked in the shadowy sky, but it would be late in the night before the cool night air would give relief from the July sun. She softly touched her face, noticing how her coffee brown skin seemed to glow in the rays of moonlight. Seemingly pleased with herself, she started the engine of her gray 1988 Chevy Nova and sauntered out the parking lot. The adjacent parking lot was nearly empty, save for a stray taxi, and two police cars which were each occupied with white male officers. They seemed engrossed in deep conversation. The road seemed to carry the gray Chevy towards the stop sign.

She watched a thin woman entering the small gym the right of the intersection, and felt a slight sensation of guilt. As in response, the thin woman flipped her hair and turned to look her. The gray car zoomed across the intersection and up the hill, rushing pass the overhanging trees and looming Victorian houses, threading through the narrow streets and parked cars. She kept her eyes on oncoming cars at several intersections, expecting some fool to ignore the stop signs she crossed, as if an accident was tomorrow’s promise. When she reached the Route 6 highway she began to relax, settling into the monotony of highways connecting to highways, connecting and collecting cities.

Her eyes never the left the road, but her mind swayed back and forth from the road to her apartment in Willimantic, to the bedroom where she knew her lover was waiting, her moment to raise energy she needed to do battle, to focus on the inner shrine she built in her belly, the womb where she wished to fill with more than sperm. All of this she would try to spill forth to her spirit guide in Glastonbury in an elaborate ritual that could help cast out for the good of many the enemy now pursuing her destruction.

“Will he cure you?” asked her lover, as they later lay entwined, their love juices still pouring from their bodies. “No,” she answered, “but he will help me break down the walls that protect him and allow him to continue to work against me unchallenged.”

And so soon she shot off onto I-384 to Glastonbury in her tony car, where her elf-like spirit guide sat waiting for her arrival.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.


residuals #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

Maybe the imminent and overwhelming arrival of the lunar eclipse accorded some responsibility into Kathy’s bitter mood following the breakup of yet another short term lovership. She knew how to explain herself, her position, her sense of self, easily, as a writer, when she spoke before her students in the four classes she taught at the local community college. There were no subjects too taboo to discuss with her audience, who usually sat mesmerized or at least shocked, such as when she “performed” as resident poet at The Atomic Cafe, a run-down coffee joint run almost entirely from donations from locals, students, and permanent exiles from the savagery of city life and suburban jungles.

Burlington, Vermont was a haven for those young enough to transform isolation from New England cynicism into active and optimistic socio-political coalitions determined to see permanent social change; for those too embittered to still believe in or hope for much of anything other than a swift, peaceful death, Burlington served as a sort of thin shield, like fish scales, from the hostilities to which no place in America could be immune.

Kathy could not cut, however, through the thick partition that separated herself from her desires, the wall of silence that froze her tongue when she touched her last lover, who broke off with her in apparent bewilderment at her seeming lack of interest in him, his attempts at conversation, and most disturbing, his sexual needs. Kathy, as if intuitively, felt him withdraw from her presence, and silently wished him quickly gone, but not for the reasons he assumed. When she stood amid the studded and pierced women and men she noticed on the left covered with photos of poets who, like her, began and ended their careers standing and reciting in front of audiences like this one. She also noticed a vaguely familiar face staring at her.

At this sight, she suppressed an impulse to bolt from the room. Instead, she closed her eyes, and after a few uncomfortable moments of silence, began reciting from memory the first stanza from her latest poem. When Kathy’s mind began to generate the energy she needed to recite her poem, she began to forget that her body was actually standing in a grimy, worn storefront that was already filled with other writers eager to draw from the sexual energy emanating from the short, buxom woman with short brown dreads. Her low, gravely voice trembled as she, eyes closed, softly swaying, spoke to complete strangers her most intimate poetry.

When Kathy opened her eyes the first thing she saw was a tall man with a smooth complexion made even more apparent with his black turtleneck and slacks, his long dreds pulled back and somewhat controlled into a single plait. She saw his full lips slight curl with amusement, his brown eyes focused on her own large, black eyes with a curious but intent stare. For a moment she thought he was laughing at her. Then, as the audience began to field her with questions and suggestions, she lost focus on the tall dark stranger in the back of the room and continued her discussion.

Later, during the communal vegetarian dinner feast, Kathy saw him again, grazing on a steaming pile of black beans over brown rice. She waited until he swallowed whatever he was chewing, then sauntered over to his chair near one of the gray, frosted panes of the storefront. The combined effects of the dimmed lights and the dark shadows cast by the rich, black panels and jagged masonry covering the walls, floor, and ceiling left an impression on Kathy that she was walking through a cave, or perhaps, a dungeon.

The man’s eyes narrowed briefly, then widened again with that same irreverent humor that had earlier unnerved her. She noticed the crinkles framing his eyes, nose, and mouth, how his age seemed both ancient and young at once. He was older than she last remembered, but not by much. She turned on her heel and walked over to a small but familiar group of locals who greeted her warmly. When she turned her head back towards the chair, he was gone. She felt both sad and triumphant, wondering what on Goddess’s green earth was he doing in Vermont, of all places? The man reappeared suddenly, and sat back into the yellow chair, reclining comfortably. No one seemed to notice but Kathy, who walked over and whispered to him.

“How the hell did y-y-”

“How did I learn to teleport? Come on, Kathy. Is that all you have to say to me? Don’t you even want to ask me WHY am I here? How long?” He folded his hands together to emphasize the lack of physical weapons, metal or otherwise. He seemed genuinely puzzled at her stance towards his very presence, if not hurt.

“You seem to have a short memory, Jacque,” replied Kathy, her voice slowly rising. It seemed to come from a deep, bitter well. “As I recall, ten years ago you trashed our apartment and tried to destroy my manuscript because you thought I was writing about another lover? You were determined to break me, to destroy me if necessary, to own me. You knew I was a novice, yet you pushed me to the edge, again and again–”

“–And so you settled for quiet Vermont, only now you pine away for the unobtainable, and suck the energy dry out of these poor, dumb hicks who couldn’t tell a butt plug from a pacifier.”

“How did you find me? And what DO you want?” Might as well get to the point. Kathy wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to the last question. Jacque’s face crinkled at last with a genuine smile, pleased at her seemingly more relaxed stance. His brown eyes glittered like a wolf eyeing a doe’s soft underbelly. She noticed, for the first time, that white strands were beginning to salt down the his long black dredlocks. She also noticed that he had released them from the band that pulled his hair back earlier in the evening.

“I was wrong to allow my jealousy to surface so easily, and I was wrong to make you feel unsafe in any way. I had forgotten how easy it was to cross the line magickally—and the alcohol didn’t help. Anyway, enough bullshit, you want to know why I am here. I want to invite you to join the project out in Seattle, to sharpen your craft, so to speak, on the cutting edge of magic as performance art–”

“And you don’t have access to people who can do that out there? Why me?” quipped Kathy, noticing but not caring that when she interrupted Jacque, his eyes glittered with not a little irritation.

“–and I want us to start the circle over again–”

“As what? Master and servant? Husband and helpmate? Adam and Eve? Eden is lost to us both, love, and I don’t intend to search for it. I told you, I don’t want any part of that anymore.”
Jacque was visibly struggling to remain focused. Kathy wondered if all of him was really in Vermont. She wondered if he was still in Seattle, but silently decided not to ask. He looked tired, suddenly, as he looked up at her and spoke.

“Look, I didn’t come to bury the hatchet in your head. I want it to be better. I want to be your lover, your companion. I want us to back to high ritual again.” As he spoke, a sadness washed over Kathy as she watched him plead his case. The irony of his words being the very thing she dreaded and craved grieved her.

It was a cruel, cruel joke played on her by the divine, she thought bitterly. She wanted to believe him, to give herself to his looming, roaring energy. But he did not convince her of his change from the raging, jealous sadist who could never be satisfied to the apparition now sitting in front of her. Still, she admired his gall in the wake of the destruction he waged in her life.

She was so immersed in her thoughts that she had not noticed that Jacque was no longer speaking. She had no adequate response that would convey the confusion, the anger, the desire in her heart. So she sat in silence, watching the snow gather in the dusty windowsill outside. A car pulled into the driveway across the street, and two men, both dressed in ski jackets and earmuffs ran towards the side entrance of the dark wooden storefront, leaving their breath in the wake. When the car drove away, Jacque focused on her face, and studied her eyes for a moment.

“I apologize for my intrusiveness in your life. I will move on,” he said slowly. Kathy watched him as he began to shimmer.

“I didn’t say no to everything, Jacque.”

“And, so now, what am I to take as your answer?” choked Jacque. “Do you know how hard this was, traveling across the country, knowing what an ass I was to you, to beg you back into my life? I saw your book, Winter Garden, in a store downtown about six months ago. Was it all pain to you, Kathy? Was I merely an experiment for you? Or do you remember how I held you?“

“I have a life here, cold and lonely it has been for a long time now. But it’s the one I know that works for me, “ Kathy whispered fiercely. She stood completely still, breathing evenly.

“I know you, Jacque, and you know me. So we don’t have to pretend with each other. You know what I want.”

He blinked twice and for the first time, seemed genuinely confused. Kathy leaned down towards his face and smiled grimly. “You took so much energy from me that last time. You owe me, big time. You can start by teaching me how to teleport to Seattle right now. Then we can talk.”


Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

bed talk #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

She remembered her latest conversation with her lover:
“I’ve been masturbating again.”
“At night, right before I go to sleep. Your picture, I stare at it, think about your hands rubbing my belly.”
“Is that why you took those pictures of me, to masturbate?”
“No, actually I took them to remember you at a particular point in our relationship, when it was still fresh.”
“And so are you saying that our relationship isn’t so fresh anymore, as in sour? Or just me?”
“No, don’t be so literal. I mean, as in we-just-started-fucking fresh. Anyway, do you have a problem with it?”
“Me masturbating.”
“No, why should I mind? It’s your body, and it’s not like I don’t do it myself–”
“You do it in the bathroom?”
“Where do you think I should do it?”
“In bed, like I do. And, anyway, the bathroom is too small, too cold. I guess it’s easier for you men to just unzip and stroke. I need to recline to get any pleasure out of it. How do women come standing up anyway? I love it when I see these ridiculous movie scenes like the one in Sliver, did you see it–”
“No, I’m not up on alot of movies.”
“Yeah, well, this is with Sharon Stone, the actress from Basic Instinct. They got her in the tub jacking off. I can tell you right now that’s total bullshit. It’s much better for women, the way I see it, anyway, in a nice warm and dry spot.”
“You are so unimaginative.”
“Yeah, well I guess I’m imaginative enough to keep you interested–”
“And enough to generate a fantasy around my picture.”
“Exactly! Would you like to hear one?”
“I want to hear about your dream.”
“The one about Erica Jong?”
“I met her once, a few years ago, when I was living in D.C. She signed my book. I don’t think she likes black people.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She wasn’t too friendly to me. Actually, I think she was frightened of me. I mean, I was pretty fat then, and I looked kind of butch in my black gear, but I thought I looked chic. Guess not, after all.”
“Why do you always refer to yourself as fat?”
“Well, I’m not fat now, but I was then. Anyway, I discovered her at fifteen back home in Ohio in my town library. She made a profound impact on my life, on the way I viewed myself, my sexuality.”
“Were you fat then?”
“No.  When I was small I used to think my breasts were growing too much because I played with my nipples too much.”
“Even then a large sexual appetite.”
“Well not actualized, but I did have an expansive imagination from which to feed my fantasies. I think reading Erica Jong and Nancy Friday made me realize that other people did the same thing.”
“Who’s Nancy Friday?”
“She’s this writer from the 70s who put together a book of sexual fantasies by anonymous women. At the time it was pretty shocking to folk since for some reason they didn’t believe women fantasized or masturbated. I’ve been masturbating since four, myself.”
“My God! Weren’t you the precocious one.”
“You’d never know from the pictures of me as a kid. I looked like every other geek.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why, it’s true. I hated myself then. I was wearing glasses, thick ones that slid down my nose, my mother dressed me in these horrible clothes that overemphasized my ass, or else put me in old outdated clothes that made me look old. When I was fifteen people thought I was in my 30s. No one liked me, especially since they knew my parents wouldn’t let me go anywhere or do anything.”
“But you came out all right after all that.”
“And look how long it took. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate their wisdom in keeping me from falling into the traps alot of my classmates fell into. I discovered that a few years ago at my 10 year reunion. They were all married with kids, or with kids and working at really dreary awful jobs.”
“And that made you happy?”
“Well, I felt it to be poetic justice. They had their glory days in high school, while mine were yet to come.”
“And now?”
“Mine are yet to come.”
“Don’t laugh, it’s true. I’m still waiting to grow up, to finish this goddamn book so I can get on with this business of adulthood.”
“Guess what, darling–you are already there.”
“Oh don’t tell me that. Please. I haven’t even begun to create my masterpiece that is to be my life.”
“Your grand entrance, so to speak?”
“As grand as the moment you ravished me in my own kitchen.”
“So tell me about this dream of yours.”
“Erica Jong?”
“I think she represents someone else. Erica wasn’t sexy in this dream. She was old. Dried up. I think it was a symbolic dream, like I was being shown a way to communicate my own feelings of being outside, of seeing others as not so powerful, not so overwhelming.”
“And it was like this–Erica was teaching at this industrial college, a branch of Smith College. I know, this is ridiculous. But anyway, I said to her ‘we all have a place here. all of us belong here no matter if we are Jewish, white, black, Hispanic, or Asian. She looked at me strangely, like I was telling her something in a foreign tongue. I felt like I got through to her, but that she didn’t like what I was saying. And that her time of glory was done. I got the sense that we were speaking on a creative plane.”
“And sexuality doesn’t reside there?”
“Yes, but on a slightly different level. I still want to know what brought you to my bedroom, my life, in the first place. And so what am I? A free range for you to play cowboy? explorer? conquerer?”
“Nothing close. A friend, a sexualized friend with a smart mind, and a smart mouth to boot. I could ask the same of you, especially now when you are dressed to provocate, so delicately erotic tonight. What am I to you?”
“A lover, a paramour, a friend…with a delightful tongue–”
“The better to taste you with–”

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.


almost halfway, readers! #30days #30days2018


Hope you are enjoying my May writing rush–I know I am. Some of these works actually sat for almost two decades before I brushed off the dust and reworked them to reflect my growth as a writer. I had a poet once tell me to write poetry and put it away for a few years before returning to it. I resented the advice at the time, but I think Marilyn Nelson was correct all along. Some of these works are brand new, but I’ll keep it to myself what’s new and what’s old. It’s all new, given the work I’ve done to all of the fiction and poetry. And if you are wondering if I’m going to put together a collection, the answer is yes. Not sure how to work the flash fiction in, but I’m open to trying new things. Not sure about the essays, but I’m open to suggestions. I think it’s long overdue for another book publication on my terms.

In any case, look for more work to show up between the 15th and the end of the month, with an intent to keep going long after the #30day rush. Please leave comments and, of course, leave a tip in my PayPal link.

Cherie Ann aka Afrofuturism Scholar

language of fixation aka your gaze

I’ve thought about and pondered
how often you cum
all over your hairy lanky thighs
looking at and thinking about my ass
you love to stare at me
you squeeze my womanflesh
imagining a soft downy quim
you watching a woman walk
big round ass thighs
wearing tiny bikini panties
ass jiggling about
hardly or not contained in the thin fabric
ass cleavage riding revealing ass cheeks
painted bikini panties ass jiggle
not contained in wispy fabric
you flowing white milk on your hard thighs
you want to see those cheeks separating
revealing tight anal rosebud
and underneath
the softer wet rose petals
your thick veined hand
pushing me down
on my stomach spreadeagled
pulling me apart
how long would you just stare at me
do you want your cum
spraying all over yourself
or between my ass cheeks
or inside my ass
or inside my pussy
tell me what you think is happening
does it make you angry
seeing your body language
forced to focus
questioning the whole thing
there are no buts but butts
your language
rewired rebooted rebuttal
forced to focus again and again
what does it mean to see your language
remastered remixed
are you capable of seeing yourself
as I see you
going down this path
between my ass cheeks
searching for a way inside
freeing yourself
you are moving
this is real
you know my body
you know my soul
you know the truth
of sliding up behind me
grinding yourself up against my ass
you know what you are going to do
no need to stop
love you feeling me
you moving
sliding up behind me
grinding yourself up against my ass
no need to stop
more than watching
more than admiring
miniskirts and fleshy thighs
you have to feel that reality
walk inside
I am waiting.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.


your walk


dreamed of you
walking through rock creek park
your legs
sliding through leaves
like a violin
squeezing air
through thin walls
through thin wired
your voice whistles
sweet and salty
with every
breath blowing
boundless bends
black blood agonies
as you climb hills
watching you
drink your own sweat
like sweet honey wine

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

art of love


dreaming a lover’s cock
kneading my softening quim
brushing me softly
circling the cup
pressing inside soft walls
like fresh clay on a wheel
lifting layers to the top
while spinning
muscle squeezing
gripping dense pottery
hardening in the cold air
an interminable movement
of pain and ecstasy wrapped
in fleshy ribbons of moans
like a jack-in-a-box
exploding suddenly
in spring heat

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

black love

paint me black
exquisite ebony
make it too sheer
to wear on anything
but velvety skin

paint it raven
black as my ardor
for you
for me
blacker than black
black to black black
blackness being black
black being too good to
speak of without tears
of rapture
of delight
of deliverance

with anguish
with ecstasy
want you to
pencil in the lines
on onion paper smearing
between fine lines the stripes
of Noah’s hoop blending
all hues smoothly into
rich sable

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.


A particle of sand could be a world
to beings smaller than atoms
smaller than a though
it could be floating like plankton in an ocean of air
it could be a universe that lives inside a universe
a center which may possibly be not the center

Many worlds may pass before our very eyes
and we ourselves may also exist on a floating speck of dust
waiting for God/dess to cough and expel that which we call home
and hurl us into black, silent space

It is all very much like the air we inhale
creating and destroying worlds that we may never know to exist
just in one moment of being
in one innocent act of survival.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Ancient Melody

So strange the soft melody seeming
too soft for anyone else to hear
a strain so beautiful I wish I could share

Forward it rolls like tiny waves in a pool
that never quite reach the edge
an unending torture for cilia
pulsating ribbons reaching towards
a more solid stream yet gaining nothing
but whispering strands beyond my audible vision

A flute whispers in my ear
wrapping a lament around my head
it is an ode of ancient origin
in a tongue we no longer speak or hear
a language flickering to a rhythm best
resembling that inside my loins
the words with which I would gladly utter
an old conjure to sooth the glowing magma boiling
in a bottomless pool of menstrual blood.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.


Yesterday I felt a prayer run up my spine and pierce my brain
I felt the snake uncurl from its long rest and open its eyes
shaking its rattle in my cunt and breathe out a long wet hiss

I opened my unblinded snake eye and beheld my Mother
with her naked pulsing nipples pushed out by her long black breasts
her head crowned by the Sun and Moon
her eyes of Dragon’s Blood and Lapis
her hands bent like the claws of vultures
writhing red and black striped serpents
to my outstretched hands.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.


something is not quite here
not on the surface
not quite tasty on the tongue
like a temple orange not yet sliced open
with its bitter fleshy skin still smelling ripe

the flesh of your thick cock fills with blood
raging through your dark gray slacks
rising and straining against your firm right thigh
like the lava that pumps through your veined hands
while my body hovers over your long prone frame
not quite settling in to mount you
but yet you penetrate my interior
determined to feel flesh parting

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Presence of You

You are too much to digest with one swallow
you, with your easy smile and lazy saunter
mask unrelenting intensities of your presence
here in this square, cold room and
I cannot digest it all in one swallow.

Sitting across from you
I though I would have something flippant to say
but when you finished speaking
all my plans
to make you actually look at me while
my eyes still rested on your face
because I could not quite dare to see
the rising tide I once caught in your eyes
that rush of you inside a wave
that could surely drown me
so I turned away in a tremble
settling in the encircling vibration of
your voice.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

subject of desire

what is desire if denial of desire
becomes in of itself an obsession?
do not tell him you want to come
so I am told
for you
I cannot be acknowledged to exist
as a desiring subject
where virginal vaginas are objects of worship
I defy the lie that would imprison my pussy my soul to madness
I revel in the deviance of woman pleasuring her/myself

when I say I desire to touch you
do you feel my fingers only on your cock
or do you notice sheer light crossing between us
as I reach for your hand?
I smell the rich amber and cedar of your scent
as I roll your sweet flesh
around my tongue
catching hair like threads on my lips

I am told
do not tell him you come hard and often
that you are insatiable and uncontrollable even as he
fucks every hole
grinds me into liquid
and yet I push you further inside me
and you think you may both drown
not enough time to think or project
not enough time to believe anything else but pleasure
not enough guilt to walk away
not enough mercy to know when clear becomes red
not enough control to hear the safe word

he sees though the torn curtain hanging in the doorway
legs spread eyes closed
masturbation will make you blind to all considerations
but that which makes the cunt flood and spill
woman hands desire both the self and him
becoming voyeur to one’s own exhibitionism
the whoring of writing
the whoring of writers
being nowhere all this time
except buried in my own womb
drinking my own menstrual blood
licking up my own juice
tying to hold on to my last big orgasm
my own pleasure being selfish
you/I are/am so angry at/about my/your
dependency on a moment
we both struggle to see
before the breaking of morning
when you/I know in these few seconds left
love is possible.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

The Power of Looking Back

I suspect that you look at me
out of mere curiosity or pleasure
that you are hoping
that I will see you looking
that I will look back at you
and turn away before your eyes meet my face once again.

Yes, I am quite certain of it now
you want this to happen
though we have yet to speak
your eyes linger much too long
for me to conclude that it is nothing, at all
and so I malinger on a fantasy of what
that look could possibly mean
and now the look is a gaze
and the gaze becomes a stare
and soon I am compelled to stare back
and with a brazen gesture I was never taught
I lick the crevice on my full bottom lip and smile at you

the power of looking

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.


The thickness of the air between us
pistons between our bodies in
the twilight chill of an autumn evening
and it is an agony to not have courage to
make this moment tactile.

But there is nothing here stopping me from
reaching out to touch you
nothing keeping from
laying prostrate between my strong brown thighs
and it is flame that leaps from my hands to your face
like lightning under glass.

It is the freedom to touch that
which has become vastly discernible to us both
this power that would engulf us in a
hot, moist tunnel
squeezing and pushing
like a mother’s moment hovering
between life and death
when her child’s shiny head emerges
through purple, engorged lips seconds
before exploding into this world
of lights

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Magic Man

How you bespell me
Glamour me
Roll me
To give
To share
To not disappoint
To love and be loved
I am me
seeing you like a
glob of light


Love Ritual


the paths we walk are the ones
we created and walked before
heal your fear of me and speak
talk to me like one human being to another
we need not be alone in the midst of chaos
like walking towards the forest of the unknown
life is somewhat obtuse to the naked eye.
sensing edges of love bringing us closer to the source
eyes do not always see it at first glance
ears do not hear it with the first note
unmeasurable pangs leading us to eros

you have the tools to build the bridge
needed to reach across boundaries
defying constraints that isolate
and leave us bereft and stranded
walls once thick like bricks
now eggshells easily cracked
crushed with the weight of need
desire unrelenting and unbound spilling
opening your quickening heart
as my spirit pulls you closer
your flesh growing taut
like deep-bellied dew melon
feeling your breath on my neck in the dark
you are the warm mist curling up and around me
reaching to pull me closer
releasing that which binds your will
existing in the space of now

eyes unchained by agog balancing power
recognition of complicity in defining the real
sometimes the right questions can produce waves
crescendo changing the landscape
spark unfettered by the chains of agog
refusal to be consumed by sameness
seeking out the you who speaks
without fear or censorship
speaking of life in all its wet promise

meet my voice with yours
unafraid of an empowered woman
a man worth his salt does not fear a woman
with her own ability to speak for herself
looking into your eyes
unfettered by social convention
i see you and i speak
walk to me and speak in the now unafraid
meet me at the edge
between longing and fulfillment
remove the veil of silence
no longer swallowing your impulse
the answer is still and remains yes
without fear regret pause ambiguity conditions

we both standing with my back to the wall
your hand glistening like diamonds in the waning moon
ascending from its dive between my brown thighs
as if to seek comfort and confirmation
your hand once more returns
cannot unravel pleasure or pain boiling inside
an insatiable interiority
phallus unbound erect invoking the god
completing the rite we are the magnesium fire
our shared river spreading the flames
a temporal shift as you are favored
sate your obsession
show me your true face as you take me

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.