Tag Archives: erotic poem

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.

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rumi’s a sky where spirits live

01 Wednesday Nov 2017

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If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?

Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?

Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.

When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us

Like this.

— Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)

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.

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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

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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