Category Archives: Erotic

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patchwork

08 Friday Jan 2016

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You’ve made a fetish doll from me. From spit

and stains, from my hair and nails. When you said:

— “I want the moon on my tongue, now give it

up to me” — You knew that, when pricked, I bled

pale light; that when, hung, suspended, drugged to

my toes, you could taste how to fly on my

skin. You say it’s about conjure, that you

can drain me, just like that. But I defy

that limp rag. You can suck patchwork veins

all day long and you still won’t get it. Moon

light is a distortion of what we want

inside. All the stolen pubes and cum stains

in the world won’t save you, it’s why you’ll soon

come back to me: hungry, hollowed eyed, gaunt.

— Babylon Crashing

chapped

31 Thursday Dec 2015

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Just to see what it felt like, I took wax
from the stove and dribbled it, sluggishly,

through my thick pubes. Some say that they climax
quicker with pain. But the world is squirmy

with quick fucks. Tomorrow I’ll shave this mess
before work. Three years, gone — like that. Some say

that all they want is a slit-buzzed caress
from a talented tongue. The term, “foreplay,”

insults, who needs more than long lapping? Wrapped
up, as tight as we are — it’s a damn myth

that we somehow found peace. All my devout
prayer to your shaved stubble has left me chapped,

bleeding. This is not for me — and so, with
a jerk of the hair, I pull it all out.

sheds

14 Monday Dec 2015

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Tonguing, leaving streaks between your cloven
lips, the spots where blushes and bruises bloom,

even during your heavy flow. Back then,
you said, you’d hide away in the bathroom.

Blood in your panties, soaked into your jeans,
and how everyone smirked. In the old tongue

even the word for menstruating means
hidden away, dashtani. “I was young,”

you said, “and Soviet-era tampons?
I’d just stay home.” Now you press on my face,

here in the bathtub, as your uterus
sheds. I have streaks on my chin, red and bronze,

my tongue working you to a state of grace,
delving deep between your clit and anus.

][][

In Armenian, the word for menstruating, dashtan, (դաշտան), is the same root word for separation, dashtani (դաշտանի).

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that slapping nuisance

03 Thursday Dec 2015

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I can’t sleep. I’ve listened to you all night.

Over and over, softly through the floor.

This must be your art, your craft. Sodomite.

Pervert. Poet. And while I could say more

there are a thousand reasons why I should

stop here — I’ve wasted so much whiskey on

myself, I’ve bled, I’ve gnawed on green wormwood.

And you — with your, “Afternoon of a Fawn,”

and your beastly hands and cruel antlers —

You sing low. That noise, that slapping nuisance,

fills the night with voyeuristic heartache.

All art is illicit, it seeks pleasures —

In your pause, in your last note, that silence,

coming from below, keeps the world awake.

— Babylon Crashing

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night tide

28 Saturday Nov 2015

Posted by in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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The drowned girl said, “be rougher, I don’t mind.”

In the old tongue — a tongue that I couldn’t

speak well. The lake water had made me blind

so I clung to her wide hips as her cunt

covered my mouth, my chin. In the night tide

the small waves inched over us. I could feel

her bent forward, pressing down, as she tried

to gag me -drown- while her wild mane went eel-

like, all hither and yon. I’ve walked Sevan’s coast,

the drowned outnumbers the living. Thirty

years-old; wild hair rose up, like — dark like, kelp —

a voice that called from the lake. Carmine’s ghost

calling, “Yeranut’yun.” — Bliss. The way she

pulled back and said, “you naughty little welp.”

][][

note:

In Armenian, the word for bliss is, “yer’an’ut’yun,” (երանություն).

— Babylon Crashing

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acheflow

20 Friday Nov 2015

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Here’s release. You and me, we’re not like them.

They pulled away. You sniffed my open palm

as you touched your lips. My fingers, my thumb,

even my wrist were soaked. The low buzz-bomb

growl of my vibrator filled the backseat

of your mom’s car. The upholstery had crude

scars and new finger-funk stains, while slush-sleet

coated the windows — Acheflow — We pursued

whatever we could do between the breaks.

Your prom was a bust; your college transcripts

denied. You were a ball of stress. All fraught

until a toy made you squirt up earthquakes

into my palm. They blanched while your hips

buckled wide in the Gaspar parking lot.

— Babylon Crashing