Category Archives: Erotic

the liquid dew of youth

04 Monday Feb 2013

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“Fear it, Ophelia, fear it,
my dear sister.”
Hamlet; act 1, scene 3

Child, don’t open your buttons; the liquid
dew of youth is a charmed broth. You’ve had thorns
in your credent ear, and we’ve spilled our mud
in the rear of your affections. My horns
and stones fit nicely there. Ophelia felt
Hamlet’s calumnious stroke; it drove her mad.
We have no need for a chastity belt
against contagious blastments. “My comrade
wears a condom.” Do you? I have unmasked
all my virtue to the moon. I’ve drifted
down the silver thread of moonshine. I’ve asked
Queen Mab to bed and not once fouled my blood.
Child, why worry about your maidenhead?
I’ll teach you other ways to cum, instead.

born without wit, shame or tact

04 Monday Feb 2013

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“Item: she is curst.”/ “Well; the best
is, she hath no teeth to bite.”
— William Shakespeare

You bore with talk of what’s lewd. Can you milk
a cow and brew up frothy ale? “Item:
she has no teeth.” I am smooth; just like silk,
or fresh rot. “You care not” for my ruined gum,
black gape, my drained smile. “But we do love crusts.”
Scabs and pocks and sick that taste like nausea
are not rare treats for my friends, sodomists
from the bad side of town in Gomorrah.
“The Two Gentlemen of Verona:” act
III, scene 1, still hold some gut-turning shocks.
“I care not” how syphilis can attract
fresh love in an era of diseased cocks.
Only that you were born without wit, shame
or tact; the things you call “lewd” we call “lame.”

strain

03 Sunday Feb 2013

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You have offered yourself a dozen times,
but it’s only self-control that I prize.
Mine, not yours. I understand you. Sometimes
I can understand mine too. I despise
what I’ve become. I long for green sunshine
in the oaks. Shadows of leaves that crisscross
across the wondrous curve of your spine
as you lay spread out on your bed of moss.
All that is gone. Out from the blackness pins
point to light, become shafts we’ll devour
together. I miss finding brand new sins
that we would deny ourselves. I miss our
summer days in the grass when we would play
at love-sick Beatrice and sly Dante.

upon a hint of ginger

02 Saturday Feb 2013

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A scent comes back to me. The last safe love
I knew smelled of pinon nuts, a winter
in New Mexico. Brine from an olive
still scares me. A bastard of a lover
ruined cloves and made the hint of Old Spice
into fear. A boy I loved in fishnet
stockings knew how to make plums smell like vice.
I have forgotten names. I don’t forget
the musk you once used to mask your true scent.
There’s no hiding from that. But memories
of scents are either sad joys or hell-bent
dread and nothing else … nothing that can please.
How odd that the one who loved me the most
turned this mild whiff into a vengeful ghost.

aftershocks

02 Saturday Feb 2013

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Beneath the surface nothing waits. Measure
these things in “magnitude.” Rubbing, grinding
something, like Tectonic plates, shift; tremor
in your left thigh spreads outward, consuming
you all. You love this sort of destruction.
There can be no life without some small death.
Later, gasping, entwined in the ruin
of the bedsheets, you try to catch your breath
on wet ground. All these puddles that have gushed
under pressure show that nothing will wait.
All it takes is a fingertip, one brushed
nipple, for aftershocks. Magnitude eight.
Sure, this is sadistic. But you trust me,
so I’ll see that you survive, just barely.

kai and the snow queen

02 Saturday Feb 2013

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That day Kai got into a curious
white sleigh, driven by a woman in furs.
“Man-child, make me warm,” she said. Her hairless
body was blue ice. “Come taste your mother’s
milk” and smothered Kai between her pale thighs.
She let him taste her only twice: the first
to numb him from the cold; then to baptize
the boy’s face in an aurora-like burst
of mist. “Come. I will have you mine, I want
the heat of your cock now.” Is it wicked
to seek out what we lack? A ghost will haunt
for love. The Snow Queen for Kai’s burning blood.
Would she melt when he geysered inside her?
The thought made her smile, urge the sleigh faster.

vain and macabre

31 Thursday Jan 2013

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You asked, dear boy, now that I’m in the grave
if I had ever tried to shave the hair
off my cunny? Once or twice. But to shave
a ghost’s pubes, it cannot be done. I swear,
we can try, it’ll be fun, but there is no
razor made by man that can get the job
done. How other ghosts bear it, I don’t know.
Death makes us all rather vain and macabre.
I died in my nightgown, which will become
transparent when wet. Pity the girl cursed
to wear only panties until kingdom
come, with pubes peeking. I’d die of shame first.
Do you care? Let me sit on your face, nose
in my curls. Now make me gasp out all my oohs.

drops of gray

30 Wednesday Jan 2013

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Is that where the fear lies? When the dead girl
turns all the way around and we behold …

one more sad, misshaped face — one more swirl
of dark, untidy hair — blue skin stone cold —
X of a broken neck — empty drowned eyes.

You know that party trick; it’s all you hear
about. I wouldn’t call it total “lies,”
but there has to be more. A ghost unclear
on the concept just gets laughed at. Darling,

come live with me. We’ll figure something out.
There’s more to death than clammy skin, creaking
floors and causing the irksome to freak-out.

Smile, my honey dear, while, I kiss away
your tears … drops of blood, of dust, drops of gray.

boyish sea hag

30 Wednesday Jan 2013

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I read these waters. The hoarse Hebrides;
the sun-blind surges of El Salvador;
Bermuda’s coral reefs; Dublin’s rock skerries.
I’m the middle between the void and shore.
Far out from in the waves comes the reply.
Mist of sundown rises, stretches away
across the horizon and distant sky.
Reading waves is like talking to Yahweh,
grumpy old man. I draw in the sea, shreds
of speech that wash away. I take sea-weed
off rocks, blood kelp, make them my natty dreads.
A spar is my staff. I am a half-breed;
boyish sea hag; living a life devoid
of words, either on shore or in the void.