Tag Archives: erotic poetry

snog

06 Friday Apr 2018

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Susurrus: “a soughing of the waves;
murmur of flow.” Kissing you in the fog,

under stunted myrtle. When the flesh craves
more than just fingers and tongues, when a snog

goes on for too long – your jeans unbuttoned,
dew drops in your pubes, mica-flakes under

your nails – you make that lechery-moistened
groan. The sea cries in want and you answer

with your own cum-soaked sob, estuary
soaking your jeans. In those fifteen minutes

during recess – with dune grass, pear cactus,
with wet panting in us and susurrus

around us – we become the wind’s secrets
to the surf; children of chaos and glee.

mad sea

23 Tuesday Jan 2018

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There is always more to love. For you love
is a koi gliding through water: content,

at peace, blest. For me it is the clawed glove
piercing fish-flesh, feeling you wriggle, bent

double. Come, cum, pray: intense, phrenetic,
like a pretty piece of flesh — or a crushed

chrysanthemum — or the gothic chronic
that I roll for you. You have blushed and blushed,

swimming in circles. I do not love pools.
I love the mad sea. I love the forces

that no soul can control. Pierced and hoisted
high, fish, you crash back down. Seas have no rules.

Gape and gasp as all inside you gushes,
geysers, squirts such thick chaotic fluid.

scratch

10 Wednesday Jan 2018

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I’ll give you the, “root of suffering.” That
and the damn shag carpet will leave fresh rug burns

on your chin, your ass, over each knee, brat.
Sure, they’ll fade soon, from tart’s rosette to slattern’s

brown. The scabs will follow, crusty as lace.
And all around your precious throat, bruises,

both blue and yellow, will mark an embrace
that’ll match my fingertips. There aren’t sutras

for such love; but since all flesh aches, which leads
to such base urges, Buddha will know 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.

Notes:
The basis of Buddhism is a doctrine known as the Four Noble Truths. A loose interpretation of the First Truth is that all life is suffering, pain, and misery. The Second says that the root of this suffering is caused by cravings and desire … at that point I stopped reading.

where it was

03 Wednesday Jan 2018

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“Wo es war,” where it was leads us to it.
There were days as if it were not hunkered

in the distance; from gangrened to frostbit
to flesh in the cold. Where it was. Absurd

to think of it: beastly, feral, depraved.
Absurd to follow. “Wo es war,” and yet,

I do. There be dragons; all that it craved,
ravings. I crave for you: take the blade, whet

stone, carve such German words on my neither.
Twist me this where it was hunkered. Our tryst

begged. I follow. I rave. May memory
be my only brood; the past such future.

You lay with your ass in the air — I kissed,
you clenched; puckered again, I thought, briefly.

memphis levee

20 Wednesday Dec 2017

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Of course this is tenderness. Of course, this
shall hurt — tenderly. Memphis’ levee

cracked, as levees do. From pressure. The hiss
of sea, two fingers just so, that achy

need to let go. Let those fingers in. Deep.
But you said no. No. Let the pressure build.

Then, not yet. Then, fuck me. Let waters seep
around stones gone cracked, stone left unfulfilled.

Sea is passage yet you’ll find it a vast,
rough fuck. You, precious stone, go splinter-splish

this way and this. Tender be tide, we’re told,
all which sucks feeds, all which flows needs, aghast

that such levee broke. Old sea was brutish,
nothing rose from the depth, child, nothing rolled.

fat palm

18 Monday Dec 2017

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Cum drips from your pretty little asshole,
rimming your cheeks. You shift your hips as I

slowly pull out. Your muscles form an O
where my cock has been; until, with a sigh,

your bud closes, trapping my cum inside.
Such orgasmic haze, when the soul, who fled

returns and we giggle, I let you guide
my hand back. You’re seeping cum. Fingers spread

you wide and you pour. My own sperm, millions
of them, pool in my cupped palm and you lick

my palm clean. I keep putting bits of me
in you. Gleefully. These are good omens.

That’s good. What’s better: there’s nothing cryptic
about ravaging your ass. Gleefully.

dumb bone

17 Sunday Dec 2017

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Hunger. Always hunger. Restless. Never
still. The weeping ghost on the other

side of the door. I am elsewhere. Not here
but in need. Bent. Bulging. Dragging this queer

longing about. Hungers need to be fed —
witch-tongue, witch-word, words will do. What you said

about madness, ache, need. What you said. Words.
Your words sate even the dead, craze blizzards,

make dumb bones cum. I heft your words in hand,
finger their whip-like grooves. The world was bland

and then I read you. Now I am frantic,
lust sick. The way the hungry are. Hard, slick

with need. The sound that comes to you, a ghost
on the wind. You can feel this frenzy, almost.

hothouse

13 Wednesday Dec 2017

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Spankings seem cruel. But when you bend to bare
yourself to me with your ink—one word stamped

in black, “RUIN,” above your derriere—
when you drape yourself on my knee, thighs clamped

tight with tension; then, yes, this will be cruel.
So rough. So sudden. That first splitting stroke.

You know that I find whining sobs shameful;
only kids caterwaul. Drench the floor, soak

your thighs, if you must, but keep count of each
welted slash left upon your upturned ass.

Correction’s hothouse. Discipline’s garden.
Pain blooms as divine comeuppance; this bleach-

in-the-eyes pain, add a-touch-of-teargas —
that’s why you’re here, you and your prayer: RUIN.

bene faction

08 Friday Dec 2017

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We are unnerved by pleasure; it frightens
us when it comes. It comes. I call. I’m out

side your door. I come with waif’s weed, urchin’s
greed. I hunger the way that the devout

hunger for a balm to their holy mess.
Call us a holy fuck. Blunts shared between

two: alms, bene-faction. To kiss. To bless.
To claim. I’ve driven far. I want obscene

things. I want to ruin you. Now re-frame;
I meet you at the door, children on their

way to school. We smile. We are familiars.
Familiar is good. It’s still the same blessed flame,

chaotic nerves, fire. I will take either:
as fuck-friends or as curious strangers.

ruin us

04 Monday Dec 2017

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“Once more, but with gore.” For two weeks after
I kept my shirt on, changed the bandages,

daubed the stains. “Abuse me,” we say. “Yes, sir,”
we say. I’m more than besmirched. My glasses,

knocked all ahoo, cracked. My scabs, when I stretched,
peeled. “Sour me,” is more than a dare. “Ruin

us,” gets used a lot. Love, what is far-fetched
that one day I’ll just burn? What bursts molten

cannot be put right as it flows, as it flames.
What you demand just now leaves me distraught.

You know better. But this ends with my squeals,
shouts, pleading to the gods. The healer claims,

“troubled water, troubled soul.” But it’s not
soul that your nails cut, just flesh and flesh heals.