Tag Archives: erotic poem

bareback bones

13 Tuesday Nov 2018

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After the first cut these dry bones could speak.
Look. My arms have scars where the old bone-blade

pressed in; where I anointed this antique
to gods who demand blood. Once more I’ve splayed

open my skin, yet somehow remained chaste.
In the realms of love there are ghosts begging

for this. It’s hard to tell hell when distaste
is all that you can see in those staring

back. Bareback bones sopped fat with blood, my blood,
my gore galore, rancid wounds dripping want.

All my kindred are here: loveless, jilted,
spurned souls. We speak, we sing of all that haunts

discerning, semi-literate perverts …
brooder’s passion. Tryst between introverts.

both lust and doubt

14 Saturday Jul 2018

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Fuck-meat. Messy, this sort of love. Others

get to live out their kinks and queer cravings.

 

What do you get other than a loner’s

hoodie and wireless vibrator purring

 

between your cheeks? Why do others love sleaze

so much when it scares you? Unseen, you slink

 

around your prim bedroom. “If the Furies

didn’t need sleaze neither do I,” you think.

 

But did they? To be pounded, split, to own

both lust and doubt. You have sighs and quivers

 

that you want to share. If that isn’t your

birthright what is? The truth is in your moan.

 

You want to love depraved sons and daughters,

be their fuck-meat. Fuck the chaste. Fuck the pure.

awry

29 Sunday Apr 2018

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Would we conjoin? The well-cut and wicked
know how to fuck. But you and I? We’re crass

and ill-shaped — Flesh not meant to run naked
under plump green vines, wind’s wild pampas-grass;

asses not meant to be tapped. We were born
under the signs of phlegm and oddities;

less chic and more shriek. In all of their porn
nothing looks like us. That’s good. Others please,

we tire, swamp-corpse and bloat. Our carnal sin:
sloth. Our lewd god: nuzzling gone awry.

When you tell me, “your body will haunt mine,”
that’s a threat. We’re not grape’s whine: its juice, skin,

madness. We’re what’s left: hot dust, empty sky
twitchy things, the grotesque in the grapevine.

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.

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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