Tag Archives: erotic poem

fettered

16 Wednesday Dec 2020

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Night frosts. Fettered gales. Sauna sun rise. Steam

fit for queens and concubines. After school

 

you came, brought her with talk of romps, extreme

and droll. “Not in her rump,” was your one rule

 

as I slipped out of you. “Only in mine.”

All day the sauna’s pine walls soaked up heat.

 

When you two arrived, frigid as frost’s shine,

we puffed and passed, shucking off our clothes. Cheat

 

ice-sleet like this. Mellow lay, they say. Stoned,

you laughed when she impaled herself. I laughed

 

when you kissed the spot where the two of us

joined. She laughed and came. Others have condoned

 

this. Meh. You asked to learn my queer witchcraft;

craft built from libertines and the Goddess.

lunacy

25 Saturday Jul 2020

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Your mom said good girls don’t go there. Bummer.
Last year you and four other girls dropped out

pregnant. Now you do, often; your daughter
snoozing in her crib, your hips crotched, girl scout

skirt pulled to your lips. Charmed, I’m sure; you smiled
at my tongue’s path from your C-section scar

down through phat flesh. You got, “daddy defiled
me,” inked above your ass. Bedroom-boudoir

with your bizarre mix-tapes. Cigar-sized spliffs.
Death was the breath that you sucked from my lungs

as I dived face first through you. Flesh slapped. Skin
bitten. Fingered and fucked. I miss those whiffs.

Scent of lunacy. Reckless as cum. Tongue’s
crow. We say gang-bang. Your mom says love-in.

for grace

06 Wednesday May 2020

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“Just don’t bring home a white boy,” your father
bid. So you did. He was flippin’ flippant

when he said, “the devil is in my daughter,”
but I was, too, daily. We’d had blatant

need for veils: your hijab, my sonnet. Place
for grace. Safe space. Each poem was a road

home for us: “Fuck ass, let no wrath erase
our path.” In my bedroom more than faith flowed

where my tongue teased. Each kiss a phat freckle,
salvation. My palms on your breasts. Until …

fissures from your father’s need to control
us: his, “modest virgin,” her, “infidel

b-boy” – men who sew their woe; men who kill
joy all because of their own broken soul.

rascality

23 Thursday Apr 2020

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Look back. No thirteen sisters. No coven.
No high priest. Just you with your spring follies

at the farm house. Perhaps you did summon
him: one more demon, kid stuff, keen to please.

Perhaps you two found purchase propped against
the wall. Brick patterns on your backside, skirt

rucked up, hair all undone – until you sensed
strain, like your husband’s porn: watch mommy squirt.

You still love men who ooze delinquency.
Men and monsters. You called. Lust breeds mischief

when we’re alone; rutting near walls, mazy
hedgerows, fallow fields. It’s still not enough.

Called and summoned. You’re starved for rough magic,
for all that’s uncanny, fell and phallic.

fiasco

17 Tuesday Mar 2020

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Your dead breath on the neck as my hair stands
erect. “Why be ashamed of being dead?”

I asked. “I can’t hold you with wispy hands.
My lips are so cold when we kiss.” You said

you dread going down; all those small complex
movements that oral sex requires. “I know,

I know, death robbed me of my gag-reflex.”
To spit or swallow turned pure fiasco;

my cum flew through your face. Was that what lured
you in, though? Hope for one last kiss — the snips

and snails of my breath? What’s a, “little death,”
to the dead? The air tasted of frost poured

on grave dirt. You couldn’t baptized my lips,
so you stared, enthralled by my fleshy breath.

lèche-la

15 Sunday Mar 2020

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There is monotonous darkness and heat
under your bed. What adults fear they shun.

They took me away. Now nightmares will eat
you — not like how I ate you, that was fun.

Just why Trots and Cap’n Bill’s adventures
were,“Grand,” but ours were,“Smutty and Unchaste,”

I still don’t know. Was it the sex? Sex blurs
the line, they claim. So I know what you taste

like. Is that a crime outside of Utah?
As if. “Lèche-la,” you sang. What am I but

fable? Lèche-la: now they police even
your make-believe friends. What will you let gnaw

on you? Them or lust? There’s no shame in smut
or lust or hungering to be eaten —

Notes:
Trots and Cap’n Bill were characters created by L. Frank Baum for his Wizard of Oz series. Lèche-la is French for, “lick it,” as in, “lèche-la chatte.”

despite

01 Thursday Aug 2019

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Gorged on hope you forget your place. Desire
won’t save you. If you’re the stuff of dreams then

you’re a safe flame for those afraid of fire
… a vague vulgarity. Who’d ever sin

on your behalf? There is no Orpheus
for you to sing you out of hell. Your place

is to warn others that all the lewdness
in the world feels most often like disgrace

and woe. Smut won’t save you. All this is true,
but I still give thanks for smut. I praise those

who’ve praised me with their libidos; who’ve taught
me lust sublime and passion’s true virtue …

I love that, despite all my griefs and woes,
despite feeling so broken and distraught.

last act

05 Sunday May 2019

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Snatches of dream: horse cocks and long grayling
men, scents of blackcurrant and pheromones.

I dreamed that you drove to the Gulf, searching
for the best beast to fuck. I run with Crones,

Maids and Mothers, with smut, skin flicks and sleaze.
I dreamed of a red thread leading to you —

freak thread. Like all beasts, I cum in furies.
I hunt for your cunt. In dreams I pass through

your cunt’s soul-gate, as consorts do. To ache
with you, with ruin, with greed. Obsessed

with need, with how my cum-splatters flow
over your breasts. Come and find me and wake

me and fuck me like a freakshow conquest.
Last act at the New Orleans Centaur Show.

all-mother, all-lover, all-other

28 Sunday Apr 2019

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Here is the cum that I spread on the bread.
Here is the blood that I spread on the cum.

Here is the burning candle that I’ve fed
them both to while her owl sang a solemn

whinnying song in the dark tree. Altar
to her name and tongue, her cleft and cleavage:

She-Folds-Back-Her-Labia. All-Mother.
Owl-Faced-Moon. The-One-Whose-Cums-In-Carnage …

Each night an offering of my essence
is left for her. Bread soaks up everything

that I smear on it. If she’s pleased she sends
her owl, filling the night with the fragrance

of raunch and vixen fever, countering
cunts and lasciviousness that transcends.

enough

14 Sunday Apr 2019

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Soft or hard, purple or brown, my mouth takes
it deep your tongue tongues it, crests it. Our lips

purse as we start to suck, as her cunt quakes
and salt droplets her skin. With acid trips,

frigatrix fingers and chronic, we shared
a bed and your sister’s ruined body —

cancer had left her rickety and scared.
Deep love requires desire. The three

of us odd things. You say orgasms must
be the cure. I say with enough pleasure

we will hold on. But love, debanawen,
even death, nbowen, is neither just

nor fair. It just is. Like how we kiss her.
We pass the bong. We do it again.

NOTE:
Today marks Week 2 in my studies of the Potawatomi language. I want to learn it because it is beautiful to my ear. My goal is to one day translate English and Spanish poetry into Potawatomi, to help expand its edges, to make this world a little more interesting to be in. That said I am going to be working on this project for a long time to come. I’m constantly getting my verb tenses mixed up, which is why this poem is using only simple nouns. Love, in Potawatomi, is, “Debanawen,” while Death is, “Nbowen.” I hope soon to be able to form more complex sentences in my sonnets but today I’m being kind to myself. I’m a slow learner.