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Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art
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lorelei
14 Saturday Nov 2015
Category Archives: Erotic
bit salt
06 Friday Nov 2015
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
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Morning fog. Open window. Her muscled
arms. Spooned in silence. Soft boy flesh waking.
One roll and she mounted, sliding from dulled
sleep into howling wetness. Tightening,
vice-like, a groan, nails marking his shoulder,
husky, low. Fog patches filling the gapes
of the bay. Child of the reef, your lover
caught you out of your drowned-skin. What escapes
lust when a muscle-woman puts her mind
to it? Not even myth. Her thighs buckled,
her heels dug into the mattress. She ground
down. Bit hard. Drew salt. Laughed as she reclined
back; let him breathe while sea-water dribbled
between her thighs dribbled down dribbled down.
the peel sessions
15 Tuesday Sep 2015
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
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Ill kept, bad investment, this aftermath
when we drift off to sleep. Some want two sips
I need a whole damn ocean, a bloodbath.
I know about quenching. How the bullwhip’s
handle, when pressed just so, can stem your whole
deluge. I’ll leave it there. To wet my lips
and then moisten my mouth, rupture your soul.
I run my fingers through you, though what drips.
I call it soul — something that I can touch.
Slake. We all have appetites and there’s bliss
when at last full. It’s what copper suggests
on the tongue from peeling fruit. Insomuch
as my tongue can peel your fruit from this kiss,
this pulp, this sweat pooling between your breasts.
claim
01 Tuesday Sep 2015
There’s those who want to be told that they’re good
— Specially in bed — Specially after
doing something bad. This code: “Spinsterhood,”
meaning — good or bad — I love you, sister.
Does it matter that we don’t look the same?
That you can’t take me anywhere? Come close,
I would like to whisper to you my claim.
The one that you can’t share. And yet, what glows
between your legs, in your throat, on your tongue
— I call it a gift — talent uncommon.
You’re a good, sister, even when naked.
Even when you’re more than bad, say, wicked.
I have tasted your passions — though I’m young
enough to be your child, if you had one.
at times willingly
11 Tuesday Aug 2015
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
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“Delight in the video” — I don’t play
too many lover’s games. All that vanity
turned sour some time ago. Yet I obey
simple commands, and at times willingly.
It’s what you do in public. Curious
that you’ll take it far enough to almost
get caught each time, almost. It’s that boldness
that no one else sees in you. Like a ghost
you mark where you’ve been with dripping,
sticky fingerprints — After the vodka
tonics you type, “Hit Play.” The video
starts. Where are you? Pay toilet? Sitting
down, you smile — staring into the camera.
“This is for you,” you say, “watch: nice and slow.”
butch cockscomb crawl
07 Friday Aug 2015
Tags
butch cockscomb crawl, erotic poetry, Juicy Lucy's Yurt, sonnet, three-person'd passion, yak milk
Quick, drink up. It’s on me, despite all this.
— Try my red lips like a surgical scar
quickly opened — when you lean in to kiss
you’ll find that my teeth, immense and bizarre,
gleam. Try posing me in a slitted-skirt
with thighs crossed as two girls begin to brawl
over nothing at Juicy Lucy’s Yurt,
where it smells like yak milk, cum and Pinesol.
Mostly I don’t step in. It’s not science,
just cheap alcohol. Try a Butch Cockscomb
Crawl. But tonight’s different — for there are some
who find cold-blooded pleasure in violence.
After the fight I took the two girls home,
despite all this, we made it a threesome.
deathblowjob
29 Wednesday Jul 2015
Tags
Acid Girl, deathblowjob, L.S.Diva, monster squirrel fetish, mutant cells, obedient bodies, Poetry, sonnet
I tell you, sex with a nightmare is odd
but fun. No, it wasn’t a monster squirrel
fetish; she was, in fact, a disease god.
— L.S.Diva aka Acid Girl
aka Small Disease God — I don’t know
exactly the disease she embodied,
a small one, I suppose. The term, “deathblow
job” was hers. Obedient bodies’ need
to feed did not excite her. “You’re immune
system’s failure is what I want,” she’d grunt,
her long forked tongue crazily twined with mine,
fingers touching the lump in my breast. “Soon,
soon.” I don’t mind being loved for my mutant
cells, who can say of cancer, “fuck benign.”
sleet caked
27 Monday Jul 2015
“An wha will mak me fidgin fain?
O wha will kiss me o’er again?”
– Robert Burns (1788)
“Feck thes!” Our breath, clouded. The car’s heater
struggled, even at high — In the back seat
next to the baby-chair, you stripped off your
mittens, pulled your jeans to your knees while sleet
caked the windshield. “Ah got tae gie ye back
tae skale in ‘en minutes, we’ll make it queck.”
Guiding my head down, my shoulders hunchbacked
while your snow-boots pressed into my stomach.
It took you eight; leaving me sick, your cum
in my eyebrows. Even after you cleaned
me up I was a mess all day long —
I’m older now. I’ve heard the joke: “Th’ Mum
an’ Th’ Neighbur Bairn.” The punchline: “Sex-fiends
ur made an’ education isnae wrang.”
sufficiency that intrigues
25 Saturday Jul 2015
It’s the self-sufficiency that intrigues
me. All those small, little acts that add up
to more. A friend writes about her blitzkrieg
sex life: hers is a world where she worships
only her own rapture. A cry, a puff,
a groan, a lament, an echo, an ache.
And the orgasm? Raucous enough,
oddly musical, what I might mistake
as a miracle. That long buzz and burn.
I have never been like that. It’s a shock
to learn that my own flesh and libido
could be somehow different, that I could learn
how these small acts work, that I could unlock
such fire, that I could be an inferno.
quote unquote
14 Tuesday Jul 2015
Posted in Erotic, quote unquote
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coitus more ferarum
Latin phrase of the day: «fucking in the manner of the beasts
»
memories of my ghost sista 