Category Archives: Erotic

xenomorph, darling

09 Wednesday Apr 2014

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Quench your thirst — I want to feel your heavy
cold breasts on my back when you mount me; scrape

your claws across my skull as you hold me
down with one hand, exposing the soft nape

of my neck to your teeth. My dull, mammal
blood — I’ve never let anyone do this

before. Love is so had to find. People
say that they’ll work for it, work for this bliss,

but how many really do? The perverse
shall soon inherit. Those who have tasted

strangeness are set free from all the world’s shame.
We few, we lucky few. Love has no curse.

Love is our birthright. Love, lap up my blood;
lick my lips, nothing else will taste the same.

body, remember

24 Monday Mar 2014

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Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay,
but also those desires for you
that glowed plainly in the eyes,
and trembled in the voice—and some
chance obstacle made futile.
Now that all of them belong to the past,
it almost seems as if you had yielded
to those desires—how they glowed,
remember, in the eyes gazing at you;
how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.

— Constantine Cavafy (translation by Rae Dalven)

dead thing

19 Wednesday Mar 2014

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The boy, at least as I drew him, was blind,
translucent, in gray oil against a pout;

more like a slash than frown, the bitter kind.
The girl, in my sketch, faded in and out,

pulled hair, and kicked my ass for suggesting
the things my pencil drew. What can I say?

Under full moon I’ve watched the dead kissing
and things that were only shadows, dim, gray,

made the beast with two backs, took shape down here.
Am I to blame for showing you what I

saw? Yes, perhaps. Of course. Tonight, the clouds
will hang just so. Dead thing; I’ll kiss that smear

from your lips. Second coming, indeed. Die
once more. I’ll leave you in cum-sticky shrouds.

sex without fear

18 Tuesday Mar 2014

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Mother and son listened to the muffled
voices from the room next door. The babel

of vice in a love hotel. The ribald
grunt of bed-springs breaking. The carnal

sob that comes from a job well done. He played
with her hard nipple, toyed with her swollen

lips. She held his head until he obeyed,
her long curved fingers making a fountain

for him to drown in. Her mouth at his ear,
sliding down his naked skin, cupping him,

her mouth taking in his engorged boy-cock
down to its root. What is sex without fear?

Later, they sighed, sticky with their jism
and bliss. This is what we call “pillow talk.”

queimando, ardendo, incendiando

17 Monday Mar 2014

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Pretty and pink, I want to sleep.
Waiting for a touch, I forget you until daybreak.
I am the full moon, if I smoke a joint and excite my libido.
Burning, burning, burning, and then … ashes.

][][

Linda e rosada, quero dormir.
À espera de um toque, quero esquecer até o dia clarear.
Eu sou o lua cheia, se eu fumar um charro, e libido a excitam.
Queimando, ardendo, incendiando, e … cinza.

minha língua

16 Sunday Mar 2014

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March 16, 2014 (2)

Drinking angels.
Saliva. My tongue.
My language. My words.

Lick my wings with your verb.
Until you feel the orgasm flower within my shoulders.

Slowly lick my clit, said the angel.
The pulse of your tongue touches it.
You devil, the angel said.
You leave me nearly dead horny.

][][

Bebem os anjos.
A saliva. Minha língua.
Minha lingua. Meus palavras.

Lambe-me as asas com a teu verbo.
Até que você sente a flor orgasmo dentro da meus ombros.

Devagar lambesse o meu clitóris, disse o anjo.
O dos teus pulsos isso língua toca.
Você diabo, disse o anjo.
Você me deixa de tesão quase morto.

do gosto da vida libidinosa

14 Friday Mar 2014

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My skin and the wind
sings your verses
to the moon. Your body
on mine. Your willingness
to taste. Desire
to do crazy things before,
during and after. Your
tongue to know me.
My mouth to suck you.
Under the influence
of the moon
Under the taste of
libidinous life.

][][

Minha pele e o vento
canta teus versos
para a Lua. Teu corpo
no meu. Teu vontade
de sentir o gosto. Desejo
de fazer loucuras antes,
durante e depois. Da tua
língua a me conhecer.
Minha boca a te sugar.
Sob a influência
da Lua.
Sob a do gosto da
vida libidinosa.

epigrams xi.99

23 Sunday Feb 2014

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Feb 23, 2014 (1)

Feb 23, 2014 (2)

 

De cathedra quotiens surgis — jam saepe notavi — pedicant miserae, Lesbia, te tunicae … sic constringuntur gemina Symplegade culi et nimias intrant Cyaneasque natis.

“I’ve noticed when you get up from the couch you’ve been assfucked, Lesbia, by your wretched skirts. Your skirts are caught between your massive cheeks as big as two Gibraltars — it’ll be a tight fit.”

— Martial, «Epigrams XI.99»

root bound

23 Sunday Feb 2014

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Midnight sweetly suck soft peaks hard ridges
a cute twitching ear. Clandestine, candle-

less acts each panting partner’s pubic fuzz
old-growth jungle in darkness the cruel

sticky fun things that we who in stillness,
nocturnal fragrance, tongues in the sun, gag

down our dear flora moon’s rootbound tresses.
Holding captive junk, black ink, midnight skag,

eyelids close — our hats tipped forward, low slung
guns, or pecs or whatever you call it.

Just think: I will never sleep with you, you’ll
never know such love, or taste such a tongue.

And yet you go on — thinking all this shit
is good. And it is. It is just awful.