The Slick

a lunar haemorrhage in the throat of God

Apr 26, 2026 · 1 min read

⚠️ Content Warning (18+): erotica, transgressive body horror, foul, offensive language.

I fray my nerves on the veneer of my skinnae,
a moist, dripping pearl in the throat.

Then the transgression comes:
yer Godly fist.
Violated, the pearl rips its belly open,
spasms,
exudes hot gold over my sweating hips.
Radiant.

The skye pants through its open ribs
shivers—
the fever of lunar haemorrhages

of wet mouth
of a beautiful oblong inside
of a psychoflexed hand in the throat.

If the cosmos were birthed by a heavy, breathless kink,
it demands we meet wet in the Slick.

It speaks the Slick:
language of worship
language of parting flesh.

God is not a sovereign but an unclogged clit:
Mama is an unobstructed cock.

My severed artery is a sermon
in the labour of your heavy breath
and my sin is a trembling muscle,
a throbbing organ,
pressed to the holy meat of yer thigh.

I peel back the logic of my skin
and offer you the dripping feast.
Not with a pounding fist,
but with hands entirely open—
watching the universe clot between the fingers.