Category Archives: Erotic

a moth, a scythe, a shadow

31 Wednesday Dec 2014

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry

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fire-weed, drake-root,
belle-chose, a geography
without names

oyster clouds over
an altar of Venus, jasper
moss still warm after sunset

Netherlands chick
weed, split petals in
the daring-down hollow

a witch and a crow and
placket-lace in the high
mountains

things forgotten phoenix
nest wrong answer moonlit
tongue

all the Latin that I
know contrapunctum and
cinaede and cunnilinctus

through tall upland
grass Aphrodisiacal
sport among the rushes

high in the east lady’s
low postiche clouds
over with lightning

birds hidden on the mount
pleasant dreams among
the boughs

butterflies petticoats
lane flecks moving
up and down

early venerable monosyllable
heralding first rain
then flood

storybook Mrs. Fubbs’
parlor a broken
china cup

kitchen fire
thatched
cottage smoke

burbling
Cypriote fountain
someone is happy

][][

nuthatch atop
a maypole first
flower

thistledown Master
Robin Goodfellow
in the thicket

a moth, a scythe,
a shadow not
moving

washed air, Eve’s
dropper, song
in the gutter

flying through the dark
woods Cyprian scepter
in ghostly hands

long August night
Don Cypriano cat
screams grow louder

red woods and rule
of three slowly
emerging

morning, noon,
evening silent flute
breeze in the field

mist
in the valley arbor
vitae twilight

impudent
mountain rising
empty sky

wetted

18 Thursday Dec 2014

Posted by in Erotic, haiku, Illustration and art, Poetry

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Selkie

dust devils on the high seas

walking blessed and rude
out from the long surf
green winds blowing
up a wild
sea I’m a full fathom
five lover come
drown

let’s be poor dirt friends
I live on a high hill with
a priceless view of the sea

a windless morning how
many souls drowned last
night with the sinking sun?

rain squall breathing
deeply the waves I
go down on
you one last
time

you and me, mountain
stream, we dream of
a mother we never knew
but keep trying to reach

][][

note: I drew this picture about ten years ago when I was trying to make an ocean tarot deck. It’s the selkie myth, the seal lover who comes ashore to seduce those who are in love with the sea.

dennis cooper’s “BEING AWARE”

10 Monday Nov 2014

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Men are drawn to my ass by
my death-trance blue eyes
and black hair, tiny outfit,
while my father is home with
a girl, moved by the things
I could never think clearly.

Men smudge me onto a bed,
drug me stupid, gossip, and
photograph me till I’m famous
in alleys, like one of those
jerk offs who stare from
the porno I sort of admire.

I’m fifteen. Screwing means
more to the men than to me.
I day dream right through it
while money puts chills on
my arms, from this to that
grip. I was meant to be naked.

Hey, Dad, it’s been like this
for decades. I was always
approached by your type, given
dollars for hours. I took a
deep breath, stripped and they
never forgot how I trembled.

It means tons to me. Aside
from the obvious heaven
when cumming, there’s times
I’m with them that I’m happy
or know what the other guy
feels, which is progress.

Or nights when I’m angry,
if in a man’s arms moving
slowly to the quietest music –
his hands on my arms, in my
hands, in the small of my back
take me back before everything.

— Dennis Cooper
from Tenderness of the Wolves

[clit] [spark] [return]

03 Friday Oct 2014

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Kissing rust between
thighs to make that dead

clit spark return veiled
in blues gear that

screams circuits twitch,
they all know it: A

to Zed ghosts are not
in machines, they are

machines that must
rot and rust alone

in the dark. Holy Spirit?
La Llorona? Slag Pile

Annie? What shouldn’t
survive is the spark.

Power fades. All suns
die. Yet we defile

the night with electric
lights. We are tools.

Thinking apes are
machines and when

we die who knows
not you. I went down

on a ghost once, it
was like licking raw

wire. Spit-drool sparked.
I held her there; until

her low sigh of bliss
faded … like a machine, almost.

][][

Kissing rust between thighs to make that dead
clit spark return veiled in blues gear that screams

circuits twitch, they all know it: A to Zed
ghosts are not in machines, they are machines

that must rot and rust alone in the dark.
Holy Spirit? La Llorona? Slag Pile

Annie? What shouldn’t survive is the spark.
Power fades. All suns die. Yet we defile

the night with electric lights. We are tools.
Thinking apes are machines and when we die

who knows not you. I went down on a ghost
once, it was like licking raw wire. Spit-drool

sparked. I held her there; until her low sigh
of bliss faded … like a machine, almost.