woman wailing for her demon lover
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18 Wednesday Apr 2018
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18 Wednesday Apr 2018
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woman wailing for her demon lover
06 Friday Apr 2018
Susurrus: “a soughing of the waves;
murmur of flow.” Kissing you in the fog,
under stunted myrtle. When the flesh craves
more than just fingers and tongues, when a snog
goes on for too long – your jeans unbuttoned,
dew drops in your pubes, mica-flakes under
your nails – you make that lechery-moistened
groan. The sea cries in want and you answer
with your own cum-soaked sob, estuary
soaking your jeans. In those fifteen minutes
during recess – with dune grass, pear cactus,
with wet panting in us and susurrus
around us – we become the wind’s secrets
to the surf; children of chaos and glee.
28 Sunday Jan 2018
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Le meilleur, c’est un sommeil bien ivre, sur la grève/ The best is a drunken sleep on the beach
Arthur Rimbaud
23 Tuesday Jan 2018
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When i make love to you
i try
with each stroke of my tongue
to say i love you
to tease i love you
to hammer i love you
to melt i love you
& your sounds drift down
oh god!
oh jesus!
and i think—
here it is, some dude’s
getting credit for what
a woman
has done,
again.
23 Tuesday Jan 2018
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Psychologists have stated that the virgin may be the only sexual pervert in our society. The virgin’s abstinence from sexual activity is an unnatural response to a basic human emotional drive.
23 Tuesday Jan 2018
There is always more to love. For you love
is a koi gliding through water: content,
at peace, blest. For me it is the clawed glove
piercing fish-flesh, feeling you wriggle, bent
double. Come, cum, pray: intense, phrenetic,
like a pretty piece of flesh — or a crushed
chrysanthemum — or the gothic chronic
that I roll for you. You have blushed and blushed,
swimming in circles. I do not love pools.
I love the mad sea. I love the forces
that no soul can control. Pierced and hoisted
high, fish, you crash back down. Seas have no rules.
Gape and gasp as all inside you gushes,
geysers, squirts such thick chaotic fluid.
10 Wednesday Jan 2018
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Buddha save me from your followers, erotic poetry, Four Noble Truths, root of suffering, rough sex, shag carpet, sonnet, Why I'm Not A Buddhist
I’ll give you the, “root of suffering.” That
and the damn shag carpet will leave fresh rug burns
on your chin, your ass, over each knee, brat.
Sure, they’ll fade soon, from tart’s rosette to slattern’s
brown. The scabs will follow, crusty as lace.
And all around your precious throat, bruises,
both blue and yellow, will mark an embrace
that’ll match my fingertips. There aren’t sutras
for such love; but since all flesh aches, which leads
to such base urges, Buddha will know the itch
that we scratch. Under the shower steam flows
up our backs, soothing our cocaine nosebleeds,
letting heat soak into each scar, each stitch,
burning away all remorse, all sorrows.
Notes:
The basis of Buddhism is a doctrine known as the Four Noble Truths. A loose interpretation of the First Truth is that all life is suffering, pain, and misery. The Second says that the root of this suffering is caused by cravings and desire … at that point I stopped reading.
03 Wednesday Jan 2018
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perverse hotep/ perverse satisfaction.
03 Wednesday Jan 2018
Posted in Erotic, German, Poetry, sonnet, Translation
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anal sex, erotic poetry, falling on my head like a memory, German translation, memory, puckered again, rim job, sonnet, where it was, wo es war
“Wo es war,” where it was leads us to it.
There were days as if it were not hunkered
in the distance; from gangrened to frostbit
to flesh in the cold. Where it was. Absurd
to think of it: beastly, feral, depraved.
Absurd to follow. “Wo es war,” and yet,
I do. There be dragons; all that it craved,
ravings. I crave for you: take the blade, whet
stone, carve such German words on my neither.
Twist me this where it was hunkered. Our tryst
begged. I follow. I rave. May memory
be my only brood; the past such future.
You lay with your ass in the air — I kissed,
you clenched; puckered again, I thought, briefly.
20 Wednesday Dec 2017
Tags
erotic poetry, flood, let the pressure build, memphis levee, rough fuck, sonnet, stones gone crack, tender be tide
Of course this is tenderness. Of course, this
shall hurt — tenderly. Memphis’ levee
cracked, as levees do. From pressure. The hiss
of sea, two fingers just so, that achy
need to let go. Let those fingers in. Deep.
But you said no. No. Let the pressure build.
Then, not yet. Then, fuck me. Let waters seep
around stones gone cracked, stone left unfulfilled.
Sea is passage yet you’ll find it a vast,
rough fuck. You, precious stone, go splinter-splish
this way and this. Tender be tide, we’re told,
all which sucks feeds, all which flows needs, aghast
that such levee broke. Old sea was brutish,
nothing rose from the depth, child, nothing rolled.