curs

12 Wednesday Dec 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blisters in your nightmare, blow job, buck goat, curs, erotic poetry, fellatio, joy in being crudely used, sonnet

Foul and depraved. Some might say, bestial.
A hint of skull-duggery. A slap dash

of skull-fuckery. That nightmare: jackal-
headed ghast with a touch of cock, a splash

of cum, one who makes your nipples pucker
pushing six– ten– twelve inches down your throat.

Haven’t thought of that fiend with a swagger
in years. Yesterday your sister’s buck-goat

eyed you with lust. Today it was the curs
next door. Awake or asleep you’re crudely

used. Some say that we do this on purpose,
so that naughty thoughts might make us monsters.

Grace comes when we admit that we’re horny.
Denying that is what’s monstrous.

thickset

23 Thursday Aug 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blow job, erotic poetry, fellatio, odd god, plush, root seed and suck, sonnet, thickset

Not that bent field stone, slick with dew, jasmine,

chicory — there are gods of those fields, scant

hairy things who watch you squat and piss in

the green flax. I wish to know what the ant

and the bee see in such jewel-weed. Not

that plush spot plump between your collar bones.

Not bone or field stone, not odd god, fleshpot

or urge (there is always an urge) that groans

thickset, clover seed to plant root in you.

Open your mouth. Root seed and suck, inhale.

Simple as not gagging. The way you pass

through a pallid field turned bronze. What shall spew

from me shall dribble down your chin, a pale

trail, a craving, splash, dew-dropping the grass.

shushing-slush

20 Monday Aug 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blow job, erotic poetry, poem, quim, sex slush sounds, shush, sonnet

Gushing-gust. Rammed, slammed, damned as I can slow

downward thrust. From above. From such thick stem

lusting-lust heat, then seed. Round cheeks aglow.

Round chin in shambles with spit, cum and phlegm.

Bodies are round. Muscles are a myth. No

sinew, no bones, just bliss. Just lunacy —

that “rave” in crave. That moan quake. That widow

maker. Fat stem in quim. In cosh. In glee

as I plumb the depth of your throat. Convulse.

Gag. Try to stand up. “Back to your knees, cur.”

This is a game. I play to win because

you play to lose. To be used on impulse

with a thrusting-trust. — Fuck like a centaur.

Cum like a sphinx. Without grace. Without pause.

suffused

20 Friday Jul 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blow job, erotic poetry, fellatio, oral sex, sonnet, suffuse

Dark love: filling your throat up to the balls.

This, too, is romance. Hands pulling, clenched in

your hair. Call it rough. Call it crude. Fuck-dolls

and archangels whimper at our work. Sin,

good and proper, they’d call this. Cum and drool

cascade down your chin. You grin. I trust you.

You trust me. Other love lives are cesspools

of hurt. To spread your ass wide. To corkscrew

into you with head thrown back, with throat bared.

Others moan of lives lived without passion

but you quiver when that word is uttered.

You’ve taken what nirvana offered.

Suffused with such dark love our souls open,

reverberate with wonder — we’re well paired.

gospel

14 Thursday Dec 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anal sex, blow job, drenching, facial, fellatio, gospel, prayer

I like you best with your face dripping cum.
It’s my form of prayer to you. A godhead

splitting your ass, ruining your rectum
until I roll you over on the bed

and you taste your own tart-funk on my cock
as it fills your throat. There’s nothing soothing

about prayer, just the sudden thrill and shock
when I pull out, my orgasm drenching

your cheeks, nose, eyelashes. If seminal
solutions are sacred then my temple

is your ass. Piercing it is like glory,
something sacred and cum proof of faithful

worship. Balls deep in you is like gospel.
Heathen, once more you and I are holy.

bastard’s freak

18 Saturday Nov 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Arse's trickster, bastard's freak, blow job, erotic poetry, fellatio, Lather maker, Rude root, sonnet

Arse’s trickster; Lather maker; Rude root.
You say cocks are symbols of devotion,

godhood, rebirth; like you’re the first to put
the “erection” back in resurrection.

Knacker bone; Billy-me-nag; Love’s horsewhip.
First strip away myths, all the begetting,

its use as a weapon, male ego; strip
it bare and what’s there? 8-inches … pulsing.

Leather stretcher; Jockey’s pride; Bastard’s freak.
Some days I can say, “Brother, your beauty

haunts me.” Give me those days without bullshit
crafted to glory in this queer physique —

days where I can leave your face soaked, splotchy,
cum-streaked, where you hold out your palm and spit.

Orgazma La Grande

26 Sunday Apr 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Uncategorized

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blow job, drag queen, homoerotic, Orgazma La Grande, poem, Poetry, sexetry, Shantay you stay!, sonnet, t-boy erotica

Standing under a zebra photo you

dazzle. The stripes, the heels, all
that lacing;

I cannot help but stare at where your
two

stockings curve out of sight,
disappearing

under your skirt. I’ll follow them,
lover.

I’ll drop to my knees and rudely
trespass

where I don’t belong. Then bend you
over,

hands on the wall, trace the curve of
your ass

through the fabric. Find where the
skirt unzips.

Kiss you hard. Pull your panties down
and bask

in all your glory. Kiss you hungrily.

Stroke your cock, your balls, lick your
girlish hips.

Looking up from between your legs I
ask:

“How should I make you cum?” You:
“Dazzlingly!”

pig roast

23 Wednesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anal sex, bisexuality, blow job, erotic, fellatio, homophobia, MMF, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the problem with straight men, threesome

What was awkward wasn’t the need, wasn’t
just the will, it was the way that the straight

guy made it clear that he had consented
to this only to fuck your wife. The eight

shots of vodka that the three of you split
should have loosened things up, but no. You both

take a place beside her. He will submit
to her deep throating him down. But he loathes

the thought that he might be forced to kiss you.
Perhaps she’s watched too much porn. Perhaps she’s

blind to the clues. But with your cock in her
mouth and his in her ass she grins at you

both with joy. This is what she wants: boy grease,
cum, sperm, pig roast with two men, two lovers.

overshot

25 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry

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age difference, art, blow job, erotic, fellatio, mature-young, milf, poem, Poetry

once I overshot from the drunk
that she siphoned off pleasure
from base to tip perhaps
she just liked the word dunce
as if all her students weren’t
young and dumb and full
of cum I sucked her lime
sodden lips tasting queer
tequila, salty, on her rim
and too young to know
what the hell did she
just put in her mouth