Remember, that I am your creature: I ought to be your Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel.
— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (1818)
quote unquote
26 Wednesday Dec 2018
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ghastly
26 Wednesday Dec 2018
Tags
creosote, desert night, erotic poetry, ghastly, lost year, pinkie pie, pinon, poem, sage, sex under the stars, sonnet
After your mom goes to bed you slip out
of the trailer so that we can nuzzle
and pet in the red dirt. Lower-lip pout —
O-lip moan. Kisses and pheromones. Dull
ache of cock pressed against the camel toe
in your cotton. Creosote and sage. Kiss
with my tongue in your mouth. Rust moon’s glow.
“Middle school,” you hiss, “was never like this.”
All that stands between us is a condom
and the cloth of your Pinkie Pie knickers;
a left-over from your ghastly, “lost year.”
Not like this. Not now. Pain gives us freedom.
Not like that. This. Kiss me more. The sky blurs
as we bleed, crossing through this queer frontier.
demivierge
24 Monday Dec 2018
Tags
59, demivierge, dutch jacking, erotic poetry, frigg, mutual masturbation, poem, sonnet
Lady Frigg: there’s no shame when the gods touch
us. Hand on a mutton dagger. Fingers
in a velveteen mine. What they call a Dutch
Jacking, Fifty-nine, Mutual Pleasures
is what we do, every day, after school.
Fertile demivierge: all that’s in repose,
ready to be woke, is in us. Flesh fuel.
Dungarees around your knees. Your curled toes
quiver as I work in a third finger —
stroking what lies within. Like a heart-stone
or a seed-fruit our gifts are limitless
here in your bedroom before your mother
gets home. Tiny deaths spring up. Endless moan
as the gods fill us, vast and numberless.
Note:
DEMIVIERGE: A French term meaning, “an adolescent who, though still technically a virgin, has engage in other sexual activities including mutual-masturbation, oral sex and heavy petting.” (from, sex-lexis, an on-line erotic dictionary)
olisbos
23 Sunday Dec 2018
Tags
Cunt-Bugger, dildo, dill doll, erotic poetry, masturbation is the door we all need to pass through, olisbos, poem, sonnet
Would I might rouse the jelly-boy in you
which throbbed, quaked, pulsated in your knickers
last night. A dill-doll. A purple cork-screw
with all the battery-power of mother’s
little helper. Greeks called it, “olisbos” —
born from where the ghost of Sappho’s cosmic
songs caused storms, carved the island of Lesbos.
I like it best when we’re out in public;
you slip it out and head to the restroom,
gone for ages. Once I heard your fuck-please
keening groan mixed along with Cunt-Bugger’s
(pet name) dreary drone. Last night cum, froth, spume
glazed its sides. This night with its batteries
dead you feel a touch too raw for pleasure.
scurrilous
20 Thursday Dec 2018
Tags
age difference, erotic poetry, high school prom, poem, rites of passage, scurrilous, sonnet, Wham!
It was odd: taking you to high school prom
though I was in college. That dress: ruffles
galore. You had licked cum from off my palm
moments before but in one of the lulls
on the dance floor while Wham!’s Careless Whisper
dropped I felt scandalous. Rites of Passage,
indeed: with acid from an eye-dropper,
with wine, with pot. Dried cum caked your cleavage
and ass, your fleecy cunt under your dress.
If I must praise anything I shall praise
us: a shy wanton and a sex-starved nerd
and our last night. Neither of us could guess
how soon we’d part: I’d start my Vegas-phase
making porn and you enrolled in Harvard.
quote unquote
19 Wednesday Dec 2018
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Denk immer an die alte Weisheit, solange man noch vögeln kann, lebt man!/ Always remember the old saying, as long as you can fuck, you live!
Catherine Tailleferre as Fräulein Nimmersatt in Die Beichte der Josefine Mutzenbacher (1979)
wanna
19 Wednesday Dec 2018
A spring is freed within a cave, a pearl
polished. Two mouths both open. Your morass,
thicket of curls, leaves cum-smears as you curl
over, spasm, then curl again. Cut class,
I said. Afternoon’s after-shocks teach us
all we need to learn. Your dad calls, urgent
that you return. “It’s my turn,” you say. “Mess
you up twice, boy. Make you dumb with brilliant
vice. Make you fall in love with sin, again.
Make you wanna please.” With heat like sauna
you guide me in. Fingers atop your pearl.
Fingers between us; an oak tree root in
your mussed-up morass. “Cunt’s floodgate gonna
bust,” you warn and your toes begin to curl.
aslant
19 Wednesday Dec 2018
Tags
aslant, erotic poetry, finger fucking, more sleaze please, Poetry, problem with grownups, screaming orgasm, sonnet
After dinner your mom pours the coffee
while the grownups gossip. You take me up
to your room. We sit on your bed, your knee
pressed up against mine while distant grownup
voices come from down the stairs. “They’ll hear us
if you do that,” you warn. “I know I’m … loud.”
More than just loud: each time you’re a circus
of sound. You cum with the noise of a crowd
brawling. Hormones tow us. Our bodies
aslant. Sex spray. Lovesick sparks through your clit.
Once your mom caught us; called this sin. Parents
are odd ducks. It’s all sin to them. Your cunt’s
muscles flex. They know we’re both freaks, misfits.
They know if I move you’ll shout: “More sleaze, please!”
love-tide
18 Tuesday Dec 2018
Plea to the sea. Lure of cure in rapture:
you took a photograph with your brassiere
unhooked, sitting in front of a mirror
to watch me, inch by slow inch, disappear
into your split-slicked need. We sat with spread
hips. Your hair covered my face. Lips steady.
Camera snapped the moment the dark seabed
boiled slag up in you, filling the cowrie
of your cunt with the hope that I might fuck
away your wound if I could. There is pain
only sea sprites can cure, like the violence
in your pix: like how love-tide flows amok
in us. We keep fucking, trying. Again,
always again. Just once, O gods, just once.
quote unquote
16 Sunday Dec 2018
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got choked/ got woked
4-word poem
memories of my ghost sista 