[All the Fuckboys Therein] a poem

Some weeks later,
some weak laid her

& nostalgia of those days
of fuckboys warmed
in to put her to restlessness

great minds don't fuck alike,
they weep alike,
senseless casuals 
sowing sperm unlearned
in swimming out of circles,

learn to the path to joy,
is to think less of enjoyment.




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Blotted Etches]

[All Unsaid] a poem

Wounds are not supposed to be this deep without killing,

nor should words be used knowing 

when you used effective,  they are razor-edged pills spiking our morning coffee,

there is so much unsaid,

so much to be said,

to say it,

could wake us up

from this dream we've been 

squatting within 

Dontrell Lovet't 

from,  [Blotted Etches ] 

[Night-Terror Proof Touch] a poem

Sex is an art of a thousand details;

see her smile, 

watch what makes her react,

construct a night-terror proof 

touch, 

hold all friction & fiction,

now put your mouth on her

body,

leave nothing, nowhere 

untouched, unappreciated

Dontrell Lovet't 

from, [Blotted Etches]

Liquid Latex

Theater you don't enjoy,
Being the theatre is your thing,
touches of the savage & abberant
flirts with titillating scenes

An entire act can be played out
on top of you, in you, all over you,
stains from drained urethras
tears from pleasure invoke
in nights otherwise joyless

Tell me what you want,
then I'll give you all wants
& let you borrow some of my
very own,
lay test to your flesh in
the chronic quest all muses
must suffer.

Dontrell Lovet't

from, [Blotted Etches]

[Someone Who Loves You] a poem

Someone who loves you is lost,
gone astray,
through some deeper, darker,
unimaginable brush children talk myths
around;

& everyone who may love you
or may have at some time now
bygone, tunes into your misery,
giving you their condolences aloud,
& quietly muttering, "Better you than me."

All's left is someone who loves you,
lost in child-borne myth,
whose shadow cowers under
the smolder of the poison fugue
of those who no longer loves
or would love to see you lost with
that someone

Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Blotted Etches]

[The Hair Image] a poem

The instinctual predator in men is the instinct we would find bond;

I do admit,

I enjoyed the way you twisted your head
over the slightest befuddled sight


Dontrell Lovet't
-from [Blotted Etches]