Tag Archives: erotic poetry

fusty luggs

20 Saturday Oct 2018

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To hunt for your cunt. To follow your spine
to the shrine of your ass wrapped in knickers.

Depraved. Shaved lips stretch as you recline,
draping heels around my neck. Worshipers

revere their sacred but I just cock-spank
your clit and call it prayer. To soil, defile

first one worships. The soul of all Love’s rank
and vile run riot in me. Will you smile

each time I sheathe myself in your behind?
Pull out to push in, again. Oui, chéri,

your son shall seethe when he sees me buried
balls deep. Call this position, “Gods Enshrined.”

My faith lies in all that’s pervy, curvy,
fusty luggs. Gods phat with children, married.

][][

Note:
“Fusty luggs,” much like, “Venus Observa Feminae,” is an archaic term for tribadism.

evermore

08 Monday Oct 2018

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So much repetition. You think I’m crass
what I do to your ass, each time I come

over. “That’s frowned on?” If I can’t trespass
why show up? You’ve been wearing my cum,

like cheap mascara, all day. — Now I frown:
“Not foul enough?” If your child could see you

right now, would she die of shame? Your nightgown
has. Each time puddles form and that funk-zoo

fuck-beast spice fills the room. How to explain
away this bruise? Those nail marks? That hickey?

Here I am, once more, knocking on your door,
“to fuck your shit up.” To spoil you with pain,

that drug of unnatural potency,
always in bad taste. Evermore hardcore.

furies

04 Thursday Oct 2018

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I, too, can’t sleep. I, too, dress in dark heat
and take a walk. Somewhere a jukebox croons.

Somewhere two kids fumble in the backseat
of her daddy’s clunker. Rain soon. Monsoons.

I love those kind of hurried fucks. Hoping
you won’t get caught. Hoping the seat won’t smell

of cum after. But … that need. Me needing
you. I can taste you in the air. Motel

neon. Passing cars. I can taste your need
all the way out here. How do people sleep

when such furies run through them? That low ache.
The sky’s violent passion. Love gone frenzied.

Scent of a wounded night. I walk, knee-deep
in lust. Drops fall but the heat doesn’t break.

giddy

03 Wednesday Oct 2018

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Kitten, run your fingers along my jaw.
This is an appetizer — The French say,

“Amuse Bouche,” mouth pleasure. As in: raw
ginger pushed inside, then sucked out. Foreplay

all day. Pleasure spent with kisses. Tracing
the seam of your jeans. I can taste your clit

through the wet fabric. A touch of teasing,
knowing that I’ll break you. You will submit.

Not now. Soon. Now your tongue is greedily
in my mouth, wrists straining against silken

ties, eyes wide. Each kiss hints at bukkake,
your face soaked with joy, giddy and drunken

licking my thumb clean from where I buried
it in you, all spit-glazed and cum-honeyed.

oblige

01 Monday Oct 2018

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Lesson Ten in, “Art of Love: Most Brutal.”
Chalk talk. “To penetrate.” Old school Latin:

Penus, “innermost part of a temple.”
Carnage. Ancient term for flesh. To ruin.

To ram. Tongues can force open the tightest
of lips while your temple burns. And it will.

You will. The lash marks are now scab and crust
that you’ll pick at. I mar. I scar. The thrill

comes, like you, with hints of lust run amok
as I lay the lash against you. You yearn

for sweet adrenaline, endorphins, fear.
Don’t choose dull safe love. Anyone can fuck.

But to be owned? Your temple wants to burn.
I’ll teach you to beg just so I can sneer.

honey-suckled

27 Thursday Sep 2018

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Bent like so — her wet, bushy cunt is just
beyond the reach of your mouth. My tongue swirls

against your hard bud. Swirl, twirl then a thrust,
sucking your skin in. You grind. You cowgirl

my chin. With two fingers quaver you spread
her, run them back and forth, sink them in, twist,

curl. I’m cock-slapping your clit. Your forehead
is slick from where she rested as you kissed,

honey-suckled her, tempest in your throat.
Honey-blossom, passion is so fragile

in our loneliness. Cashed out blunt, wineglass,
a line of poetry that you misquote —

It’s all good. You smile as you make her mewl.
I smile as I grind away in your ass.

gimme some

21 Friday Sep 2018

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Rueful for a dead lover. For three nights
I have been at the graveyard’s dirt crossroads

praying for a wanton haunt. No ghost-lights.
No arms that hold me down; kiss that explodes

in chill across my skin; voice in my ear
going, “shhh, baby.” I’ve abused this skin,

dripped blood and cum in the dirt; read Shakespeare,
Sappho, Blake out loud. All the discipline

I’ve learned keeps me coming back but I cum
alone. Each morning my Love-Crone candle,

Lilith root, Follow Me Ghost trick remains
untouched, sperm-sticky, contrite. “Gimme some,”

the song goes, “Dead girl/ Gimme some.” Rueful
for what must lay beyond these veiled domains.

potluck

17 Monday Sep 2018

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I am naked inside the room to match
my nude mood. I cannot rub the strangeness

from my sight as I pass the mirror. Thatch
of curls. Plump root. An ass to make Venus

jealous. I am a beast with sublime thighs.
You call me, “Daddy.” I call you, “Potluck;”

cumming with you is always a surprise —
Who else cock-slaps your face? With the havoc

of crude sex comes a crude enlightenment.
When you return from class I’ll press my face

in your ass, tongue your clit. May your grand mal
climax be rough like passion; be urgent

like love. I am vain but constant like grace
when you say, “Daddy, break your little doll.”

fatty batty

13 Thursday Sep 2018

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Naked under your oil-soaked overalls,

I lead you behind the filling station

 

to peel down, press you up against the wall’s

rough brick. You love ball bearings, oil, engine

 

grease, rough fucks while your husband drunkenly

snores next door. We use one of his condoms.

 

“A bit tight,” I admit as the frothy

acid begins to drip. When your cunt spasms

 

I shift to your “fatty batty” — molten

baby bhang and blue cheer. Your dreads hang down.

 

Your eyes closed. Your daughter will be home soon.

There’s an engine needing your attention.

 

Just now, though, you’re shaking, all pleasure-frown,

all unquenchable, all Saint Kitts monsoon.

murk

08 Saturday Sep 2018

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Fruitcake and sludge love, a love-smudge, dried crust

crusting my nails. Few ghosts come back with pride,

 

with tales. On our last shift you were tied, trussed,

crotch-rope spreading your pudendal cleft wide

 

under your scrubs. Release, in all its forms:

from me, from work, that cum-sticky murk smell,

 

cirque-slush fog. I know how a nurse transforms

with bliss of rope kissing her, “pumpkin shell.”

 

Bad joke. “Peter, eat her.” Very well: last

kiss, last shift through your cottons. Moist as cake,

 

as fruit — as the mistake we want and yearn

for, crusts our nails. In the future our past

 

falls from us — Call this the sort of mistake

that leaves behind only ghost-tales, rope-burn.