Tag Archives: erotic poem

year of the conch shell

30 Wednesday Aug 2017

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The Year of the Cock makes gender-neutral
a tad hard, be it soft flesh or strap-on —

but we strive. If, during our long anal
fucking, I cup your balls, pull your tampon

string, or rub that scarred place that you can’t feel,
then we’re still creatures of fire in a world

that loathes burning. If, after each gasp, squeal
and, “¡Ai! mi Diosa!” If, while we’re curled,

nuzzled, while the sweat and cum cools, then yes,
this year might remain awful — we can lose

so much — yet, we’re here right now, divinely.
There’s no Year of the Conch Shell, though we bless

the same deep crinkled lips. These are taboos
that we must break—these acts that make us free.

shlick

12 Saturday Aug 2017

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Not like sleaze stopped us; with your loud, “Oh gosh!
Thish ish amashin! I’m ah shloppy mesh!”—

everyone listened to the slish, shlick, slosh
of my fingers pulling out from your flesh;

your long, “huuugh.” One frowned, shocked like a grown-up
at our public displays of affection.

One looked away as I sucked the syrup
of your mess clean. Yes, I am a glutton

for certain things, certain queer alchemies.
Yes, you slouched with legs splayed on the bus seat,

glowing, indifferent to the commuters
stares. Let them call these ancient acts filth, sleaze,

shame. Let them. We are part of the night’s heat
— full of mad, wet prayer and obscene odors.

muddied drop

09 Wednesday Aug 2017

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First came spigoting; twisting inside you
to let the hazed swamp heat out. What was it?

Grinding of hips? A blowtorch? A corkscrew?
Something deep bruised your viscera. Spirit

of cum puddles and sparks, of lewd vapor
and scars. To treat you like fuck meat, sweetly

immature, is an act of faith. Skewer
you raw, on hands and knees, that’s prayer. Knock-knee

and splayed hip; your fingers warped the bed sheets.
What dripped was a muddied drop. We giggled

to be so nasty, goblins damned. Bare-legged
and backside, we, “shudder’d at it,” as Keats

would say. We have craved and beseeched and yowled
for each thrust — blood fueled by gin and acid.

welt

12 Wednesday Jul 2017

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I run my hand down the birch cane. Inspect
it. Slap it twice against my palm. Then: “¡Swish-

Crack!” The cane lashes your ass. Hard. Perfect.
You jerk in restraints. You had said, “Ravish

Me.” I run the tip of the birch between
your cheeks, touch the raw welt that has risen.

Whisper in your ear: One. In twelve obscene
strokes I will leave you bawling in ruin;

mewling, the way lost kittens mewl. “And now,”
I say, holding up the plug, “Eight inches

inside you.” I twist. “That’s three.” You gasp. “Six.”
You’re spread out wide. I push until somehow

all your muscles clinch up and what gushes
out leaves you in pelvis-grinding spastics.

honey boils

05 Monday Jun 2017

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Witness and recognize this; I’m RuPaul’s,
“Ladykins;” that which others will deny.

Prayer has its place. Worship is what enthralls
us back. I hear your confession and sigh,

what counts is devotion. We lick and probe;
a tongue thrusting out inside while honey

boils and you bite the sash of your bathrobe
with your low-beasty noise. Your, “¡ay, pappy!”

“¡Me voy a venir!” — I’m the slushiest
male; the sort of sissy that the gods bleed

bone dry; shaman of lisps and broken wrists.
You’re a buzzed butch — and you cum. Prayer and lust

are the same. All that need; like how we need
drag-king flings, how we need feminist trysts.

][][
Notes:
In Spanish, “Me voy a venir,” translates into, “I’m going to cum.” A drag-king is a female performance artists who dresses in masculine drag. Feminism is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

steam

31 Wednesday May 2017

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The next morning you’re a mess, literally.
Damn the shag carpet. There are fresh rug burns

on your chin, across your ass, on each knee.
They will fade soon, from raw’s red to slattern’s

brown; then scabs will form, delicate as lace.
Around your throat and on your hips bruises

throb, both blue and yellow, marks of embrace
that match my fingertips. There aren’t sutras

blessing our love; but all flesh aches, which leads
to suffering. Buddha would bless the itch

that we scratch. Under the shower steam flows
up our backs, soothing our cocaine nosebleeds,

letting heat soak into each scar, each stitch,
burning away all remorse, all sorrows.

Quote

that slapping nuisance

03 Thursday Dec 2015

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I can’t sleep. I’ve listened to you all night.

Over and over, softly through the floor.

This must be your art, your craft. Sodomite.

Pervert. Poet. And while I could say more

there are a thousand reasons why I should

stop here — I’ve wasted so much whiskey on

myself, I’ve bled, I’ve gnawed on green wormwood.

And you — with your, “Afternoon of a Fawn,”

and your beastly hands and cruel antlers —

You sing low. That noise, that slapping nuisance,

fills the night with voyeuristic heartache.

All art is illicit, it seeks pleasures —

In your pause, in your last note, that silence,

coming from below, keeps the world awake.

— Babylon Crashing

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acheflow

20 Friday Nov 2015

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Here’s release. You and me, we’re not like them.

They pulled away. You sniffed my open palm

as you touched your lips. My fingers, my thumb,

even my wrist were soaked. The low buzz-bomb

growl of my vibrator filled the backseat

of your mom’s car. The upholstery had crude

scars and new finger-funk stains, while slush-sleet

coated the windows — Acheflow — We pursued

whatever we could do between the breaks.

Your prom was a bust; your college transcripts

denied. You were a ball of stress. All fraught

until a toy made you squirt up earthquakes

into my palm. They blanched while your hips

buckled wide in the Gaspar parking lot.

— Babylon Crashing

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at times willingly

11 Tuesday Aug 2015

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“Delight in the video” — I don’t play

too many lover’s games. All that vanity

turned sour some time ago. Yet I obey

simple commands, and at times willingly.

It’s what you do in public. Curious

that you’ll take it far enough to almost

get caught each time, almost. It’s that boldness

that no one else sees in you. Like a ghost

you mark where you’ve been with dripping,

sticky fingerprints — After the vodka

tonics you type, “Hit Play.” The video

starts. Where are you? Pay toilet? Sitting

down, you smile — staring into the camera.

“This is for you,” you say, “watch: nice and slow.”

— Babylon Crashing