Tags
erotic poetry, masturbating to emily dickinson, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spilled ink, without transgression there can be no wisdom
Venus fly trap. Pheromones and cock. Seed’s
heavy fluid. Stamen’s curve. Stamen’s lure.
Flower hell; as in, fuck, you sigh, your greed’s
drippage. As in, there! a touch of the pure
slipping three fingers in. Buck on the cot,
in the tent, with your parents by the camp
fire’s fire. The tendrils. The roots. The cumshot.
None of that is here. Soon your fingers cramp.
Soon you hear: good night, while the tent’s zipper
unzips. Cocksleeve dreams fade. Nature’s excess
goes on without you. Zero at the bone,
indeed. No tight breathing. No clit trigger.
Just dark. Just something out there in distress.
Something bestial. Something that can moan.
