Tag Archives: erotic poem

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

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, Potawatomi, sonnet, Translation

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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.

laid bare

11 Monday Feb 2019

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Cyclones and bones blown all pell-mell. Sky-bound,
umber dust lifts your heavy skirts — debauched

with rage, rushed with umbrage, with the crude sound
of storm of sex of my tongue in your notched

plash first gush and then whirl. The earth’s domain,
red gold, laid bare. Mixed with ache aren’t we all

peeled down. On the side of a side road. Rain
on the car’s hood. In the backseat I sprawl

inside you, slouching in your cunt-soaked heat.
Curved thighs crisscross my neck. Conjured hormones

from ghost meat and bones blown high from their graves.
The wind brings us red rock, ozone, heartbeat,

rage. Your clit trembles. It’s what the storm moans,
the gods hunger for, what the cyclone craves.

old school

09 Saturday Feb 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Lift your skirts and face the wall. Such good pain,
De Sade’s pain, takes a cane to make your pawg

wobble. With three strokes I’ll break you, again.
There’s an art to the trounce, the wax, the flog.

It’s how I flayed «Z» into your tush. Blush
with what smolders under your petticoat.

First the gush of endorphins, then the rush.
We drop loony toons, microdot, blue goat

so that old-school worlds open. Once I kissed
you. That was wrong. It’s hard being discrete

when it comes to craft but splattering cum
like paint is absurd. A flick of my wrist

brings forth new terror. New wisdom. New heat
freeing you from flesh. Bondage is freedom.

gut-bone

03 Sunday Feb 2019

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Debauched, my pelvic bone recalls some things.
How she got off on my vestige tail stump.

Craving his 2-heart heart. Breaking bed-springs
in his 2-heart ass. Razing your plump rump

down to the ground, all savage child. “Break me,”
you said on our first date. I did. Twice. Sweat

on your breasts. Dried cum on your phat belly.
You crowed and cawed as I entered. Coquette

of the meat counter. Coquette of maimed flesh,
buff and dastardly. Passions are fickle, —

they change. My gut-bone knows this. My gut-bone
is down for — “Debauched?” you said. “That ain’t fresh.

It’s rad. It’s bitchin’.” Recall how your skull
bloomed as I turned your phat ass to pulpstone.

green air

26 Saturday Jan 2019

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Muggy shadow. What stirs the insect hum
of a late spring day. What bedfellows. What

beguiles stout matrons, stacked dowagers, slum-
randy house moms, thrice-crossed widows. What smut

blurs the balmy air, the rag trade to love’s haute
couture. I make a sleazy ghost, but sleaze

can still please: pleather gash, suede stain, a blot
of dried cum. There’s jail bait, that raunchy breeze,

in the dark corner of your soul. The bugs
muzzle their love song as I pass. Green air,

fables of green air; I’m what you leave out
in your prayers, what you need the most, what tugs

you home to stir your faith. I’m like nightmare,
like what the gods call love, like what you doubt.

mort douce

03 Thursday Jan 2019

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Haven comes in psychokick flick-knives, nails,
poor boy honey, joombye and beat-up doll’s

spit, the kind kids call: knee tremble details,
vicious buttercream, phat fanny bomb brawls.

Circle jerks and splooge shissom are code names.
We dance to Kunt Kustard trance, Cock Vomit

and their five finger solos. Roaring-flames.
Lusty-guts. Rump-shakers. Fabulous smut

is my bible, nancy high boy my priest,
roundheeled gal my oracle. Like acid

I lick both sides of the stamp. Odds be raised,
I’m still your lollipop stop, your greased feast,

batty rider. Clit club, a stud of blood
in your sweet death. Mort douce. Dog-knotted glaze.

faith

14 Friday Dec 2018

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Glutton, your mom warns. Good girls do not dare
to breathe or move or listen when the moon

calls out. Each night you kneel and beg in prayer,
luna-lune, for toe-curling fucks: typhoon

in strength, cosmic in scope, untold power
in your clit. You kneel by your dark window,

foreplay, leaning into the witching hour.
Foreplay as in what moons discard: their glow

fit to be worn by unicorn-tamers.
Don’t call this smut, call it faith: that someone

somewhere craves you as much as the moon craves
you. Faith that one day soon all your lovers

will come home. If that makes you a glutton,
so be it. It’s your faith that keeps you brave.

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.