Category Archives: Erotic

dickory

13 Sunday Jan 2019

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Coddy-moddy, fanny-nosh. The priest swore
it sin. Dickory-dock is prayer, I swear.

“I’ve done this,” you said. “I was ate before
I was seven.” You pouted: “No — not there.

Yes, like that.” I undid, unclasped, unbound.
I let fall until you stood stark in front

of the window. There are bodies hell-bound
in the dark that crave to be seen. Cock, cunt

and all-flesh in extreme. Who was the first
to want you? worship rough in your altar?

leave you sloppy? For years I was thirsty,
but then you found me and settled my thirst

— now I savor returning this favor,
this prayer, this sublime kiss that sets us free.

mustachio

11 Friday Jan 2019

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Just now we shall have bit of snug bit
of sniff: get my nose in it, in you. Breast

bondage, tit torture: with wax, teeth and spit,
with cords holding you still. I am a guest

here. Ill and lewd we walked the spit of land
between the Eel River and ocean. Gulls

and sea lions basked. Beyond the low farmland:
redwoods. Once, buried up to my knuckles

in you, we hid near tide pools, the billow’s
roar, your hiss, your husband dozed, his bong cashed.

Under your shirt: last night I marked my greed
and need. Just now I lap your lips, your toes

curl, sand caked. I’m a bad friend, all mustached
in your pubes. We both count on that, indeed.

kiddywinks

04 Friday Jan 2019

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Voluptuous under flannel. Daggers,
stones and diesels; filling all that you wear

with joy. On the prowl. On the side. Lovers
of love, this is the truth about that dare:

dick-slap our faces. You, Keiko and Drew
crouched on the floor, upturn grins all aglow.

Vodka, ganja, Truth or Dare left Day Two
of our acey-deucey, bifocal blow

out a blur. Blouses on the bed. Born of?
Born for? None of that matters. The soul gleams

beloved. Kiddywinks and saints of Stonewall
nurture us: love is love is love is love

even when standing above you. With jeans
loose I blushed then let fall for one and all.

mort douce

03 Thursday Jan 2019

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Haven comes in psychokick flick-knives, nails,
poor boy honey, joombye and beat-up doll’s

spit, the kind kids call: knee tremble details,
vicious buttercream, phat fanny bomb brawls.

Circle jerks and splooge shissom are code names.
We dance to Kunt Kustard trance, Cock Vomit

and their five finger solos. Roaring-flames.
Lusty-guts. Rump-shakers. Fabulous smut

is my bible, nancy high boy my priest,
roundheeled gal my oracle. Like acid

I lick both sides of the stamp. Odds be raised,
I’m still your lollipop stop, your greased feast,

batty rider. Clit club, a stud of blood
in your sweet death. Mort douce. Dog-knotted glaze.

phase

02 Wednesday Jan 2019

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Back when cars exploded for no reason
and T couldn’t stand no jibber-jabbing

I blew my chance. Not in some cheap hyphen
ass dumb punchline but in you. Blitzkrieging

fingers in your curls plastered to the sides,
your skin dark opal. Dumb star-crossed children,

your dad said. We were clean as doom. Our prides
crimped to the max, feathered, teased with strychnine,

lye, waste. Your dad said that I was: bad news,
confused, going through a phase. Like a “Damn-

A-Team-Cars-Blowing-Up-If-Looked-At-Wrong”
phase. To pity fools, to taste cum and booze

on your breath. To recall your purse held: Wham!
cassettes, used condoms, our cashed baby bong.

new year’s new day

01 Tuesday Jan 2019

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Quenched yet parched. Cold had heated its perfume
so that my cat screamed. The haunt appeared clad

in hot winds. Juicy bones in my bedroom.
“You’re bad for wanting me to do this!” Bad?

Sulfur was in its smooches. Negligee
from a Sears catalog. You don’t know bad,

waif love. This time of year my runaway
blows mean loss and more loss. All this nomad

flesh means never enough. I’m the mortal
that the dead warned you of. Divas of notched

sable fur ask: what’s so bad about carnal?
New Year’s first day: debauched debauched debauched.

Haunt, I love you so. First make an obscene
sucking noise, then I suck all your bones clean.

new year

31 Monday Dec 2018

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Into your crass I came; hungry, not starved.
Cold heat within me was hard proof that you

were the sweetest thing under this roof. Carved
from the same root we are: satyr’s seed, blue

dahlia, maple sweet. It was at the inn
while in your end that our fire without rest

burned with merriment. Praise this sin while in
you. Praise your owl cry for more. Let each blessed

stroke cut us off from all other teenage
wastelands, beloved. Storm lights in our window,

burdens left by war gods, your breast cancer
— none of it matters. We let love rampage

in us. We praise the freak, love’s wild weirdo,
death’s new year — we’re ripe with hints of slaughter.

gore

30 Sunday Dec 2018

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Bust of palm spent. Thrust against your back, bent
in your ass. Slap-on jeans drawn down. Bourgeois

passions. Old tongue. In Hayeren I meant:
Vo’chinch. I meant: Nothing. Comme ci. Comme ca.

Maybe good. Maybe bad. So so. Drained. Gushed.
That pause. I could stop. We could stop. Say: slow.

O ho. Or: more. Or say: gore left me flushed.
Gore left you hushed, waiting for the deathblow

from a fuck to give off more than obscene
relief. Is it enough? you ask. My chill.

Your heat. Perhaps. Enough to make us cum
in fire, ash. Don’t begrudge carnage between

us. Don’t cuss hard love. It’s still love: the thrill
of your dizzy tizzy, your ill tantrum.

][][

NOTE:
Hayeren is the term that Armenians use for their own language and, “Vo’chinch,” is an expression that literally means, “nothing,” but is used in the same way that the French use, “comme ci comme ca” — neither good nor bad, it just is.

4-sight

28 Friday Dec 2018

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There was no ark, no broken seal. The dead
clock this world but not like how I was taught.

“Oi git overstrung, freaked oyt, too,” I zed.
“Oi’m fired up. Oi’m fucked up. Oi’m overwrought.

But Oi’m perfect, otherwise.” Other … wise.
4-sight. Savoir faire. It’s there: that finite

tense that we both sensed. That manic demise
that no laws, lit or holy writ can right.

We don’t know and the dead don’t claim the truth.
The dead just are — absurd as negative

numbers, absurd as love. Call their wisdom
the same when my knees bend, cheeks bulge, uncouth

jaw pops with your climax, with what you give;
no arks, no laws, no writ. Just soul. Just cum.

defleeced

26 Wednesday Dec 2018

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In the bathroom you lather her snatch-thatch
until the hair hangs, soaked in suds. Mirror

ready. Razor in hand you kiss the scratch
and bruise you’d left. You play rough, big sister.

You break toys and crow when you taste her ass
on my cock face flushed while gagging me right

down your throat. You called her up after class,
told her that she would be spending the night

in your dorm-room. Now amuse me, you tease.
Show her what happens to bratty Littles

who go all catawampus. Shave her smooth.
With her girl-curls sluiced to the floor you squeeze

defleeced flesh letting drawn-out cum-tendrils
tie you to the clit that you suck and soothe.