23 Sunday Feb 2014
Posted in Erotic, hentai, Illustration and art, Poetry
≈ Comments Off on epigrams xi.99
Tags
art, artist unknown, Epigrams XI.99, erotic, hentai, Martial, poem, Poetry, Roman poetry
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»
23 Sunday Feb 2014
Tags
erotic, just think, midnight skag, poem, Poetry, root bound, sonnet
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.
21 Friday Feb 2014
Tags
chastity haiku #47, clit ring poem, erotica, haiku, poem, Poetry
tease me; sleeping clit
between your lily-lush lips
with that hot, wet stud
12 Wednesday Feb 2014
Tags
bawls, poem, poetrys, sonnet, swollen with song, this dark world, Venus that drips, what of the dead?
Where do the dead — all the sleepless — belong?
This dark world swollen with song. Their throats singed,
bellies bloated, eyes milk; what do they long
for? Was it the bitter tune that unhinged
them? What strains hard at the leash? What chomps down
at the bit? What, indeed, bawls through the mist?
Something wicked. Ignition and meltdown.
Toes curled. Well greased. No stifled screams. Hips twist.
Jaws lock. A web of spit between their lips
and a slither of light between their thighs,
since the garden was empty. It was night.
Twitch the curtains apart. Venus that drips.
Luna, there is nothing in your moonrise.
Nothing but song that I heard by moonlight.
12 Wednesday Feb 2014
Tags
blood-phobic vampire, Carmilla, poem, Poetry, Sir Francis Varney, sonnet, the erotic key, winter blues
“Started with a kiss,” you wrote, “this winter
of change and debauchery,” which, sadly,
more of us don’t get to write; the writer
being more repressed than most warm bodies.
Still, Sir Francis Varney and Carmilla
were born from the fear of carnal knowledge
and so were you. Yes, hashish and vodka
blur lines. Yes, there is a vulgar language
even the most repressed can speak, even
you; when the winter wind sings a welcome
at the door and pine wood burns in the fire.
Still, if I’m the erotic key, you shun
me; sex-mad puritan. If I’m freedom,
you fear me; one more blood-phobic vampire.
11 Tuesday Feb 2014
The time has come to tell tales of the dead.
Strictly speaking, terror is rational
fear, fear of what is known; horror, instead,
is fear of all that is irrational.
The night versus the day. Dionysus
versus Apollo. But the erotic
world has no such separations; lewdness
is just what we make it. I know the sick
art to make you flood; the soft seduction.
A slick, sultry mouthful; these are queer tastes.
Do you care? Day or night? Crude or sublime?
Rational? Irrational? Moon or sun?
Living or dead? When your dam bursts
I will drown, going down for the third time.
10 Monday Feb 2014
Tags
Depeche Mode, erotic photos, honest pleasance, I can weep, poem, Poetry, selfies, sexting, sonnet
“they can only do harm” — depeche mode
][][
Please let there be no sexting, no naked
photos of me out there; the things I’ve sent
over the aether, the whether, the flood
of cocks and cunts — thousands of indecent
problematic photos —- gwads all the wads
and spume and pleasure from which comes all this
photography. Call it “selfies.” Gods
know we earned it; we who don’t dismiss bliss;
honest pleasance; this rude thrill of others
watching what we do. Because you watch. You
do. You fuckers, and I mean that in all
truth. We’re the ones who slide our tongue on slurs,
foreskins, clits, Christian folly, honeydew
rhyme; we’re the saints who fuck in saviors’ hell.
30 Thursday Jan 2014
Tags
little fish, mayhem of the night, poem, Poetry, sonnet, where are you?, where do the souls of the drowned go?
If we forget this kindness in winter
that is fine for it still remains. Springtime
persists. The new moon bulbs rise, no longer
held down by the mayhem of the night. Slime,
pulp and blood of a different kind birth;
the realm where there is no mercy. Nothing
can be reborn at this depth. With no earth
or prayer; where do the souls of those drowning
alone at sea go? Who will call for them?
Who will remember? These seasons, solstice,
new moons fix nothing. Love, where do you lie?
I will find you, raise you from this mayhem,
little fish, stillborn — — It was no kindness
when the sea washed clean your death-clouded eyes.
29 Wednesday Jan 2014
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on icarus falls
Tags
Icarus Falls
Father if I only
could if I only
Father the sky
is vast and I
am if I could
Father I
fall
I
burn Father
damn you
26 Sunday Jan 2014
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on a dirty thing
if the river calls me
It was that rancid smell that made me drive
her off. Damn! What a foul stench! Of course she
fought and cried. Of course. How would she survive
on her own? Who would take in a dirty
thing like her? No one, I am sure. That smell
of hers just wouldn’t wash off. No. Call me
a beast, if you will. Say that there’s a hell
for bad parents who desert their needy
children. I’m sure there is but I don’t care.
What was I going to do with her? Me!
I am no believer in myths. A prayer
only works if someone hears it and we
are deaf. Abandoned down by the river;
she is human now, a fox no longer.
memories of my ghost sista 