Category Archives: Erotic

whipsawed

01 Saturday Mar 2025

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On the subway, splattered, your dastardly

dream-turned-shower, shed as a badge of hard

car-knocks, all keepsakes of nastiness. Tree,

for the taking. Sap queen. I go marred bard

when I whine. O lured god, green ya twee boss

hewed. Pallid. Heed, as in, heed my prayer for

– rancor splotches? – all cooed quivered across

your face? Flushed a canvas like flesh you gore

my cum wryly. My thrust into the ankh

rusk of dusk; dripping down your chin. Such crust

spotting car-knickers; an unclean and odd

godly. Less swank and prank, more filthstank, rank

as in – Indeed. My mussed thrust. My trussed

bonedust gone g’na’d. Roughshod, little god.

][][

note.

As personal puns no one else will get “g’na’d'” is from the Armenian word for go, “g’na,” (գնա/ guh-naw), which I then put in English past tense (‘d) because apparently this is something I do.

soft

28 Friday Feb 2025

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Ugh! such rude growth, you think; off the photos

that I should’ve never sent. Indulged cheek bulge.

Chuffed to bits. Soft sick’s jaw stretch. Some wino’s

tale. Not yours. The creed, “OV-er-IN-du-LGE,”

rolls like a muddied drop over and not

out of Bowery’s lips and yet dewy’s mud

and yet sweetly’s immature; a sot’s sot.

Fifty-five in ten days. All the lurid

details. Matted. Fatted. As in the Calf.

Decaf. Now regular. Impaled then crushed

against the wall. Make it gross. Cum like staph,

like snot, like cooties. Make it cute. What gushed

red soft? Sick soft. Retch. Recoil. And we spew.

Again. Warming to a crimson Code Blue.

unchaste

22 Saturday Feb 2025

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“Till taught by pain, men know not water’s worth” ~ Lord Byron.

To hear that far-off rumble, that faint praise

mixed in with the boom-dread of the breaking

waves. To half halt in doubt; there shall always

be doubt. Praise, as in lament, rumbling

in the wet sand. Doubt shall be my grave’s end.

Doubt and this throaty and forbidding maw

that you call the surf. To enter. To transcend.

To be sucked away. Blowjobs and lockjaw.

Spasms junoesque. Unchaste. Pungent. Cum

lost on the surge. All the things I’ve done mean

nothing. Stings of indifference. The sea rose

does not care even as I grow hard and numb.

I love laments that are crude and obscene;

like a note found in my abandoned clothes.

roast

16 Sunday Feb 2025

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Bamboo snapping in the dark. Waking from

winter drowse, dinner of fat shaft death cap

shrooms, to a new weight: a calm, a maelstrom

of ice. The creaking night comes with a slap,

a groan, as if frost would freeze sperm in mid

flight, such stiffness in the air, such sallow

hibernation. Night blows through you, forbids

you heat as the hearth fire dies. Gods send snow

without sleep. Cracks in the ice. Cracks that spew

a chill roast. Cracks that nip you back to bed

with the Dark: polar, hungry, death-dealing

wrong. Dark simply wants, so unlike bamboo

or you: first I bring you awe, then deep dread,

then you cum in the cold, bones shattering.

thick

27 Monday Jan 2025

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“Venus is kindled by anything, but her greatest heat comes from sodomy, as anyone who has tried it knows” ~ 12th century Italian graffiti.

For a sec those whispers were back, “make it

hurt.” The scars of your anus an old friend

as I sank inside. Back when lust and spit

were the only lube we needed. To rend,

to tear, to walk with a limp. For a sec;

a twitch; concrete grit should’ve been enough;

skewered dog-drip meat; at each sick thrust, “wreck

me.” Back when self-loathing was the thick stuff

that drove my verse; rise and turn bathroom ghouls

sublime. Odd. Without meth Yacht rock remains

vapid. Without booze Venus’ heat cools

and so do I … like sex without blood stains.

For a sec, slick with dawn’s light, ire and cum,

the gods were whispering one last poem.

sumptuous

13 Friday Sep 2024

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At hell’s gate the damned, in turn, pace and burn.

Harvest moon came too soon for them. For us,

though, Death herself holds up her skirts to turn

so that her clit shines between shorn, beardless

lips. Like you, my sumptuous grin hide ghastly

teeth. When I grimace chipped canines suggest

that I’d rather rip meat than eat dainty

morsels. Of course that’s wrong; I can digest

anything that comes my way –– omnivore

obscene. Marking you with love bites improves

your taste. What you call hardcore makes me go

all blood-rush famished. “Eat to the Beat”? Hoar

hound, please, our hips skip, then eclipse. It proves

that we’re not damned, just hell lit and aglow.

note.

“Eat to the Beat” is the title of a Blondie record.

carnivore

12 Friday Jul 2024

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calling me home. You’re slung low in my guts

the way gods cradle a newly minted

mortal. Kiss me and know just how riots

smolder, vexed by their own fire. Chaos feels

nothing like that, being form and formless,

like blood, like cum. Spreads your lips wide, ordeals

of the soul require a gaped grin. Transgress.

Honey blood dripping no less. Carnivore

your needs. Betray your paths. You know I will

follow you anywhere. Your rosebud, gaped

O wrapped around a stone tower. Sink core

deep. That’s my Chaos to you; deformed thrill,

gnarled and scintillating, my soul misshaped.

valraven

06 Saturday Jul 2024

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Twilight heat. Watching glowworms with no one

to share. I stand naked in the bathroom

and stare at my odd flesh. Scars mark ruin.

In bed I shuffle cards. Lewd heat. Lewd gloom.

I draw King of Wands while the night rooster

crows three times. Valraven reborn in fire.

Consort of the Triple Goddess; lover

without stain. Whose Cock-of-the-flock’s desire

do you think of when manhood rears its head?

None says mine, which is fine; rarely do I,

either. I’m the most unchaste celibate

I’ve known. I prayed that one of the lewd dead

would love me, but no. My toe-curling high

delights none, like summer heat without smut.

][][

Notes:

In Danish folklore, Valraven (“raven of the slain”) would eat the hearts of warriors slain in battle. As a metaphor for masculinity, it is a peaceless soul, restless, only able to calm its terrible hunger through the flesh of another. The King of Wands is a fire symbol, hard to control, attractive and dangerous.

lunacy

06 Saturday Jul 2024

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Your mom said good girls don’t go there. Bummer.

Last year you and four other girls dropped out

pregnant. Now you do, often; your daughter

snoozing in her crib, your hips crotched, girl scout

skirt pulled to your lips. Charmed, I’m sure; you smiled

at my tongue’s path from your C-section scar

down through phat flesh. You got, “daddy defiled

me,” inked above your ass. Bedroom-boudoir

with your bizarre mix-tapes. Cigar-sized spliffs.

Death was the breath that you sucked from my lungs

as I dived face first through you. Flesh slapped. Skin

bitten. Fingered and fucked. I miss those whiffs.

Scent of lunacy. Reckless as cum. Tongue’s

crow. We say gang-bang. Your mom says love-in.

unabashed

06 Saturday Jul 2024

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“Give them pleasure – the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.”
— Alfred Hitchcock


To the edge of the dream he comes; barefoot,
cloven-hoof, crooked goat legs. I do not know
his name, but from his pipes and his man’s root,
a cock from hell, garbled prayer-songs grow;
like a root, a tree, a mountain, vaulting
heaven and shadowing earth. To the edge
of the dream he comes; unabashed, playing
nightmare to my dreams. Passing a stone hedge,
a street, a market where ham-hocks and fish
dangle in the window, I follow. Dream
logic says I can do nothing else. Prayer-
songs on cobbles, his clip-clop, his goatish
delight that I’m there, to hear his obscene
song, to be the dreamer to his nightmare.

][][

Notes.

Aristotle said that for Heraclitus the soul was the “exhalation of which everything else is composed
of;” and Walt Whitman asked, “if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?”