Monday, August 26, 2013

Daddio by Jules Archer

Hey daddio, I don't wanna
go, down to the basement

Because of the creepy
crawlies, in your pants that

Flash and dance and poke
pink flesh down into my own

Private and pretty parts. Hey
daddio, I don’t wanna

Dig your style in
darkest parts of night
times. I won’t say yes, sir.
No, sir is all you need because no

Means no despite what the boys
down the block and in the bar and
In my cunt slur and stutter and
preach to me about being a

Nice baby, a good lay, and all that awful
jazz you hear on the radio and in

Rough spots down below.
Hey daddio, I don’t wanna go
Prude no more because my skirt
Shall ride my thighs like

Gangbusters, which is not the same
as gang bang or gang rape or

Good girl, don’t call me, good
girl because I have a better set

Of lungs now and hey, daddio
I will make fists more often than

Not. Make my face and buck my
hips like a Saturday night brawler.

Take my right but I will take yours,
daddio. I will give you that full-fledged
Disclaimer at the end of
your name that screams

rapist. And hey, daddio,
how do you like me

Author bio: 
Somewhere between being born and raised in the backwoods of Montana, Jules Archer developed a craving for the written word. Today, she writes random stories of heartbreaking torpor and domestic bondage. Jules Archer has appeared recently or is forthcoming from Monkeybicycle, >kill author, PANK, Northville Review and elsewhere. She writes to annoy you at:

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