Category Archives: Erotic

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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

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bit salt

06 Friday Nov 2015

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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.

— Babylon Crashing

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the peel sessions

15 Tuesday Sep 2015

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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.

— Babylon Crashing

claim

01 Tuesday Sep 2015

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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.

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at times willingly

11 Tuesday Aug 2015

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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.”

— Babylon Crashing

butch cockscomb crawl

07 Friday Aug 2015

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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

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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

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“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

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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.