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all the poetry you need to know, erotica, feminism forever, hell yes cocksuckers, I love cheap porn, my cat is throwing up on the stairs, sonnet, verses are wasted on those who masturbate to cheap porn
slut’s smut/
sonnet
16 Thursday Feb 2017
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14 Tuesday Feb 2017
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How is it that strangers now look at me and say, “you must be cruel in bed”? What changed in my eyes to give them that impression? How do I now hold my face that I didn’t before? Why am I now self-conscious about the jutting of my hips when I stand close? I don’t think I’m a rageful soul, the way angry men I meet keep their fury buried deep in their fingernails; but I keep looking at you and thinking about what a good and glorious great joy it would be to stormily break you slow, ride you down, lead you through wildfire so that I could stand with you on the other side of pain.
09 Thursday Feb 2017
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You were the prettiest of playthings, the most fascinating of small romances.
04 Saturday Feb 2017
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“How many licks” – Lil Kim
I need a new word. The ancient mothers had tongue,
but I’ve lost how to read. The Chinese call it, “Tian yin.”
The Greeks, “Aidoioleixia.” The Welsh, “Gweinlyfu.”
The Tamil, “Vay neṟikkoṇam.” The Nepali,
“Yoni mukhamaithuna.” But for the rest of the world
it is simply “Cunnilingus,” or “Kunilengus,” or
“Cunnilingio.” It sounds like a medical term. The fruit from
the Tree of Diana would never taste like how that word sounds.
The Mystery is there, on the tip of our tongues, I can
almost hear the proper words, like trying to decipher
the chaos as the Goddess of the Hunt brings down the old boar;
at the climax we all make noise that sounds like sacrament.
][
“… how summer learns to end.” – etherlighter
Mother Lilith, progenitor, what breeds
deeper disquiet in the human heart
than this celibacy that only bleeds
the soul of ecstasy, sets us apart
from the Divine? Debauchery, speaking
in tongues, music: they hold truths and secrets
that the piety of silence, lacking
epiphany, can’t find. When you say, “sluts
and whores,” you speak of prophets. We all die,
Lilith, but not all of us have to numb
our souls first. First Mother, First Wife;
let the world burn, even Augustine’s lie.
Orgasm: it’s the closest that we’ll come
to the Divine in this short, little life.
][
Babylon, man-child,
grow up, there is
more to riding off
on a foamy white
horse, a jism of
release, never to
return, the patriarch
will fall for he is
blind, somewhere
in Rome hidden
from view rests
Saint Hripsime’s chemise,
made of sackcloth,
which rubbed her
right there when
she walked, for even
martyrs are full
of desire, much
like in Boccaccio’s
Decameron, in
the first story of the
third day when Masetto
becomes a gardener,
who “tills the soil
and makes barren
plots fertile,” discreet
easing of the pangs of
lust among the bold
sisters and abbess
and though Hripsime
was a virgin Pier
Paolo Pasolini showed
us how Christ treats
those who put horns
on his crown, they are
the true
children of heaven.
[submitted by ghostsista]
20 Friday Jan 2017
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I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my own.
19 Thursday Jan 2017
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He feels himself buried in those two infinities, the ocean and the sky, at one and the same time: the one is a tomb; the other is a shroud.
18 Wednesday Jan 2017
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≈ Comments Off on slices [haiku]
fruit left uneaten
pulpy slices juice-curled hair
burden of wanting
18 Wednesday Jan 2017
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Tags
doog, erotic poetry, ghostsista, implement, reblog, sheismadeinpiland, sonnet, torment
The tiles were so cold — You wanted torment,
like how god-dogs do it. Your muscles clenchedunder your jeans. You’ve walked around, hellbent
that none of your friends would notice the drenchedlittle patch, the buzz of your discipline
implemented deep between your cheeks. Youpeel down your jeans like you peel skin
down bone, down muscle. At each corkscrewtwist lick squeeze the silicon hammer’s head
spreads you wider. We two lay on the floorof your mom’s bathroom — The acid hitting
just then. “Yeah, leck it. Me clit is blood-red.Me arse — O! ahm a god! ahm a doog! Mooar!”
Torment, you had called it. Your toes, curling.
18 Wednesday Jan 2017
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Tags
ghostsista, gosto, italian translation, poem, Poetry, reblog, sheismadeinpiland, taste
TASTE
Full of the mystery of taste.
Reckless with my mouth.Throbbing fruit
fresh. My mouthon your skin. A light kiss
with the touchof the tongue.
Suck yourfruit; with a grip,
howling, and hairpulling. Strange
fruit.][][
GOSTO
Plena do gosto da mistério.
Afoita com minha boca.Latejando de fruta
fresca. Minha bocana teu pele. Um leve beijo
com o toqueda língua.
Chupo teufruto; com um aperto,
um urro, e puxãode cabelo. Fruto
estranho.
18 Wednesday Jan 2017
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≈ Comments Off on orpheus [after midnight]
Tags
erotic haiku, erotica, ghostsista, haiku, Orpheus, Poetry, reblog, sheismadeinpiland
desire: words, fire.
I’ll show you how the hills burn
if we both survive