Category Archives: Erotic

all erotic rebels

05 Saturday Oct 2013

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Don’t, they say. It’s fantasy. They don’t want
to know, they say. It’s dreams where everyone
suffers from plastic, Victoria’s gaunt
secret and sex is hot simplex-free fun.
Honey, they’d never let you in our hell.
Salvation for me ain’t no damn haven
where the saved are all erotic rebels;
always wet, always hard, always molten
fucking. Because when love fills you with grief
that can’t be consoled they say don’t. Their dream
demands that everything be mind-blowing
for minds that never are. Here’s my belief
that there is an end to hell. Don’t blaspheme
holy sex, don’t curse love, don’t damn dreaming.

this wine that i uncork

29 Sunday Sep 2013

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She brushed against him, kissed the devil, sucked
his fat bottom lip into her mouth, flicking
her tongue once, twice; each kiss causing havoc
all through his body, essence bubbling
up, then nipped, then suckled. Virgins were her
biggest weakness. She wanted to taste all
of his fourteen years. Awake the geyser
no one had yet to tap. Little boy doll,
I’ll take what is yours into what is mine.
I’ll make you sob. She raised one arched eyebrow,
posed. It’s done like this, she said, as she bent
catch of his breath down on her knees. This wine
that I uncork, fill me, gag me. Cum now,
son; and with that he spent and spent and spent.

the secret of my obsession with the living dead

27 Friday Sep 2013

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laughing with chunks of life
stuck in my hair — “just another
midtown addict” by perks

But your body does make odd noise: a cry,
a hiss, a whimper, a groan. What crackles?
a slap, a spark, a moan, a grim-toothed sigh
pushed out from between cracked lips. Dull angels
can’t fuck anywhere as good as dirty
corpses, submerged in toxic waste goo, breathed
alive. Hungry for flesh. We’re all hungry
for something. Despair. I’ve lost hope and seethed
with rage and I’ve cut myself just to feel.
But you, who can’t feel, still feel that deep need
to feed. We all feed. You said I crack you
up. As in pieces. As in when you kneel
your joints crumble. Lover, take me in, feed
but don’t bite. I’ll make your green flesh turn blue.

waterloo sucking

27 Friday Sep 2013

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A man stepped out of fantasy, where you
called him Master and he called you Bad Slut;
ending always in your own waterloo:
sucking the cock of a man you hate. What
tedious repetition, exactly
unlike sunlight that streams with grace. I love
kink, too, but Doms seem to be creepily
similar. Drop the whip and the kid glove.
I will mark you, there will be pain. Your streaked
gaping cheeks across the vacuum of space,
into a tale where my shadow assumes
its face. I have no needs, save that you piqued
my interest in your need for pain. With grace,
love, I will dominate you from the tomb.

notes:

The French emperor, Napoleon Bonaparte, was finally defeated at the town of Waterloo. To say that someone has “met their Waterloo,” means that they have had an unexpected defeat. As in that ABBA song of the same name, “Waterloo/ knowing my fate is to be with you”

horny goat weed

26 Thursday Sep 2013

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He would look like a girl, save for that curl
of a beard, that fine, thick hair, those antlers.

He skips girlishly but in ways no girl
ever skips. When he kisses he offers

you all of Arcadia, for his tongue
is far sharper than his pipes. During sex

you catch him maa-ing with pleasure. He’s young,
bound in the response of the moon, reflex

of the stars. Imagine heavy, round limes
lost in the leaves. When you swallow his cum

he melts into you like myth. His singing
is of worlds you will never see. Sometimes

you hear his hooves clicking in the kitchen,
his rude goat cock hanging silent, dreaming.

ugliest words

22 Sunday Sep 2013

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It’s a weird world. She tells me of a date
and how later they both fornicated.
Yeah, that’s the word that she used, “fornicate,”
one of the ugliest words to describe naked
lust, sex magic, lucid pleasure. But she’s
foreign, recently dead and her English
broken. What do I know? I lost the ease
of my tongue when I passed, too. Her anguish
and fear with sex, especially anal,
remains, bit daft, since she’s lost her booty.
She’s more mist, more soul made froth. You living
call lust sin; but if you’re not a lustful
soul death tends to be … shocking. Poor banshee,
love won’t hurt you. That’s what death is: loving.

because it is love

21 Saturday Sep 2013

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What can bind us to another? Crimson’s
smear on the tongue. A stain no spell can break.
Blood is blood is blood. I’ve drunk from demons
like you before, felt that wild fiery ache
run all riot through me. I’ve begged, I’ve screamed,
I’ve been bled in turn, but not like that. Knives
reveal secrets, tell our fears. I blasphemed
when I took you inside me. Love survives
because it is love. Here are my secrets,
here are my fears. I’ll drink all that once ran
in your heart, all that you no longer need.
Call it greed or bondage, all that riots,
all that aches. It is where I first began,
where I’ll return. I’m hungry. I must feed.

every shuddering part

21 Saturday Sep 2013

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“in youth is pleasure,”
Denton Welch (1944)

Hold on, urgently try. But gasps become
moans; a fire in every shuddering part
of your lungs, your legs, your skull. Each spasm
quickens, then that flavor, salty and tart,
fills your mouth. Weeds wrap around collarbone,
making subtle curves. Your flesh unstained
by whips or teeth, even when your last moan
turns to silence. Accept this gift of pain.
They did not believe you. They who pursue
your flesh simply to condemn it. Amour
is pain, even while taking your last breath
it is pain. I was there, I believe you,
for when they dredged the lake it proved what your
blush claimed; that beauty lies in youth and death.

amazon, babylon, depravity

21 Saturday Sep 2013

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I have never understood the allure
of so-called innocence, that mythical
state, like virginity, they ascribe, pure
and fresh, to others. Using a carnal
measuring stick is foolish, every kid
I have ever met knows what’s going on.
Adults call it taboo, and they forbid
descent. They fear a new dawn: Amazon,
Babylon, Depravity; for the cult
of the virgin will always kill Eros
once a few parents are shocked into rage.
Call it Fire, or the Erotic Occult,
Venus, or the Phallic Stage. All of us
are burning souls trapped in this fearful age.