17 Monday Mar 2014
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on queimando, ardendo, incendiando
Tags
ardendo, art, incendiando, poem, Portuguese translation, queimando, spliff
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.
16 Sunday Mar 2014
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on minha língua
Tags
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.
14 Friday Mar 2014
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on do gosto da vida libidinosa
Tags
do gosto da vida libidinosa, erotic, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, taste of libidinous life
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.
06 Thursday Mar 2014
“and ’tis known a pretty piece of flesh am I.”
— Shakespeare
… is just simple brass trapezoids, organs
attached to organs, atoms to atoms.
The thermometer’s quicksilver lengthens.
Wheels whirr. Steam steams. These retrograde systems,
archaic even, concentric streamlined
gadgets, working elements that Dante
called hell, all of this, everything I find
inside myself, this heart beating away
in the dark, will one day melt into air.
Stop. Cease. Listen. Hear it? The cynic’s star
laughs, makes signs of the hobo and the bum.
What a piece of work caught between despair
and joy. I count the beats, play the guitar
and wait. I’m air. I’m song. I am rhythm.
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.
