Two poems by Dustin King

Dirty Dream
What do you do with a sex dream about a close friend?

She said, My baby ripped me open,
scattered my shit in front of strangers,
and now every waking hour sucks my nipples ragged.
My husband hasn’t made me come in years.
I want you to fuck my cunt mine again.

I lick the length of her torso and do as I’m told.

I shouldn’t mention it in real life
but I do, every detail,
because everyone should know when
someone dreams of them.

Apparently sweet dreams of adultery are nightmares
because now her husband is punching my face
as her son kicks my shins.
She watches from a window laughing, or crying, I can’t tell.
I plead, I can’t control my subconscious!
Two nights ago I was riding my pet giraffe!
The night before I drank from a mud puddle!


Egg-White

Little daylight fairies dance across the ceiling. I’d have painted these walls 100 times if egg-white wasn’t my favorite color, .1 grams of fat per each. Omelets are delicious. I’d fry one up but I think I’ll just lay here instead. Some people spend their entire lives in beds in rooms like this and I want to honor that. I hope their ventilation is good. I hope that someone’s watching me from the ducts, a spider at least. Pearl of oyster. After the storm. Yellowish. The days are dull. Homes filled with dust. Mold. Pollen. Insect bits. Bacteria. And dander. Such a lovely word but do you know what it means? Material shed from the bodies of humans and animals, which is disgusting, which is precisely why I’m staying put, this constant exchange with each other and our environments. There are some people, though, whose every fleck I would lick right off their skin. The light fixture looks like a boob, replete with nipple. I stretch my fingers, my tongue toward it, but it won’t reach. I imagine each one I’ve had in my mouth, each one I’ve lost myself to. I’d look up at the owner and confusion, laughter, pain, ecstasy... but right now it’s just me in these sheets and I can make any face I want.

Dustin King (He/him)
Dustin would always rather be sneaking a bottle of wine into a movie theater. When that isn’t an option, he teaches Spanish and runs a small organization that provides aid to the undocumented community in Richmond, VA. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Blood and Bourbon, Throats to the Sky, Horror/Sleaze/Trash, South Broadway Review, Autofocus Lit, and other journals.