Tag Archives: cunnilingus

honey-suckled

27 Thursday Sep 2018

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Bent like so — her wet, bushy cunt is just
beyond the reach of your mouth. My tongue swirls

against your hard bud. Swirl, twirl then a thrust,
sucking your skin in. You grind. You cowgirl

my chin. With two fingers quaver you spread
her, run them back and forth, sink them in, twist,

curl. I’m cock-slapping your clit. Your forehead
is slick from where she rested as you kissed,

honey-suckled her, tempest in your throat.
Honey-blossom, passion is so fragile

in our loneliness. Cashed out blunt, wineglass,
a line of poetry that you misquote —

It’s all good. You smile as you make her mewl.
I smile as I grind away in your ass.

murk

08 Saturday Sep 2018

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Fruitcake and sludge love, a love-smudge, dried crust
crusting my nails. Few ghosts come back with pride,

with tales. On our last shift you were tied, trussed,
crotch-rope spreading your pudendal cleft wide

under your scrubs. Release, in all its forms:
from me, from work, that cum-sticky murk smell,

cirque-slush fog. I know how a nurse transforms
with bliss of rope kissing her, “pumpkin shell.”

Bad joke. “Peter, eat her.” Very well: last
kiss, last shift through your cottons. Moist as cake,

as fruit — as the mistake we want and yearn
for, crusts our nails. In the future our past

falls from us — Call this the sort of mistake
that leaves behind only ghost-tales, rope-burn.

monstrous

09 Thursday Aug 2018

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Sucking on the onyx, the molasses,

in you, while our mothers in the kitchen

 

chortle and your country-hedge of brat fuzz

tickles my nose. Wets my chin. If we’re kin

 

we’re a queer kin. There’s hissing in your hair.

We’re snakes and snake charmers. There is nothing

 

here to vex the tongue. Clit and cock, prayer

fat with blood. An itch. Your fingers moving,

 

pulling me in. Perhaps they’ll notice grass

stains, flushed cheeks, itches itched. You’re serpentine

 

just now, spine arched, hips buckled, monstrous

with need. Sublime in the morning sun. Crass

 

with cum, with becoming love’s lore. Your seam

split wide, your hedge soaked. Perhaps they’ll notice.

hourglass

13 Friday Jul 2018

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Thin are the night-skirts and thin was your skirt

you’d meet me at the door in. Thin, short hem,

 

held in place with a pin. Coffee, yogurt,

chronic; breakfast out back. There was mayhem

 

in your breast as I brushed your breast, bending

down to take a dish. In the basement

 

with the worn-down washing machine running

I could feel it vibrate through your splayed cunt,

 

up through your hourglass curves, your unsurpassed

ass, your double belly. It’s a Tuesday

 

and may all our Tuesdays begin like this,

with cum. Let the neighbors be aghast,

 

this is not for them. Let us stretch our foreplay

out all day long. Desire calls and we kiss.

dishabille

06 Friday Jul 2018

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Kindness is a strange aphrodisiac —

You show me shocking blue bruises, stitches

 

and a thick tattoo on your lower back

that reads: Baby Mac Sappho. Your nieces

 

come to visit. Your sister frowns at me.

I look like trouble. The hospital room

 

is small. I wait in the hall as you three

chat but as soon as they’re gone we resume

 

where we left off: your gown pulled to your breasts,

thighs wrapped around my neck. Your dishabille

 

lips, the moon-stud in your clitoral hood,

the way you spurt. All week you had no guests.

 

That hurt. But this kindness, you say, this feels

good. Just good? I ask. Heh, cuntablunt good.

fat palm

27 Monday Nov 2017

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Night wind in the trees; though I never heard
that din back then. Just your mewling quim qualm

cries with each flushed thrust while your lips puckered
and dripped. To pull back. To mark with fat palm,

the smack, the sting. Onto days; felt your burn
on my fingertips, melted deep in my hair —

I walked for days glazed in a world of stern
scorn, ghast hush, torn crush. You’re all of despair.

I of need. How do you say? High maintenance?
High greed? Come back, love. Return like clockwork.

Or, soul, don’t. Gods do not love indulgence,
just the noise that you give when your hips jerk.

We are nights with wind and trees and ozone.
We are the low crackle that breaks the stone.

hood

16 Thursday Nov 2017

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Perhaps it was the flavor — the essence —
the smell. Perhaps it was the study hall

after school — meant for our math and science
homework. With doors locked the sunlight would crawl

out from the windows. It strayed, meandered,
returned back to the spot where you straddled

my face, grinding, while you sang out the slurred
glories of my tongue. You convulsed, bejeweled

my cheeks, chin, lip until I swallowed you,
hodge-podge, all the while your clitoral hood

rubbed me raw. Perhaps it was in that zone
before we went home, cum-dazed, stuck like glue,

peeling yourself back that I understood,
dear friend, I could live on your cum alone.

Quote

from, “dictionnaire érotique moderne,” by alfred delvau (1882)

13 Monday Nov 2017

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CLITORISER (Se). La faire jouir en jouant de la langue
dans son con (voir Gamahucher)

Il te faut, à tout prix,


Sucer des clitoris,


Et si l’antiquité


Ne l’eût pas fait,


tu l’aurais inventé.


—J. Duflot.

CLITORISER. One who make her cum while playing with her
cunt (see Gamahucher)

You need, at all costs,

to suck the clitoris,

And if antiquity hadn’t invented

this then you would have.

—J. Duflot.

][][

NOTE: I often lament that English has not invented better terms for oral sex. We borrow some; “cunnilingus” and “fellatio” are universal but at this point a little bland. “Suck clit” and “Blow job” have always felt like school yard retorts; what we say when we are shit-faced drunk and all our poetry has left us. The French, though, have devoted a lot of time and energy into creating their erotic language. The fact that they have an entire verb, “gamahuche,” expands their poetic worlds drastically. English needs something better than just applying, “licking,” and “sucking,” onto cunt and cock.

potheadette

12 Tuesday Sep 2017

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Words that rhyme with grunt: we’ve been friends so long,
forthright, strong: rumble of vowel. I’ve throat-

fucked you so much that we’ve made your diphthong
skip groove. That noise that you make, that keynote.

It’s odd when the only thing in-between
me and our stranger is a ribbed condom.

Because we lured, with hash cakes, with obscene
talk, your new neighbor over. A threesome

when you should’ve been at school. By the third
bite you bit her neck, her clit, called her aunt.

You might call yourself a potheadette nerd
in a niqab, we both know what you want.

That sound that you make; unfettered, sloppy
with joy; my best friend, soaking wet, gushy.