Tag Archives: erotic poetry

shadowlands

31 Thursday Dec 2020

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You will drip with pain. Seduction will itch

in you; an itch that leads to shadowlands.

 

The dark is the lure. I know what will bewitch

you and why your inner sinner demands

 

control. I don’t know, though, why you’d submit.

Married. Pious. At peace, you say. Those old

 

dreams, back when you were a slave to your clit,

must be gone. They’re not for me. You’ve controlled

 

what still runs riot in me; which is why

I don’t share each gasp, each cum-soaked finger,

 

each of my wet dreams about you. Divine

lust is dark, like faith. Once I would defy

 

the world to make you drip. You’re no longer

itch. You no longer call me, “rude boy, mine.”

revolveress

22 Tuesday Dec 2020

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Because rural roads have no lights. Because

rainstorms meant no one would follow. You parked

 

the car, turned toward me; as if menopause

ever cooled passion. I’d yet to be marked

 

with toff, hormones, my hex’d sex. Sleepovers

with your son’s chums left me all pearl-handled,

 

revolveress. Barking irons. Splatters

on your grip, your neck, your grin. Rains drizzled

 

on the bonnet while within you wiped from

your palm maelstrom. I said O and eased out

 

into ancient dark no one could follow.

You said, “Hmm?” Mishap: once I called you mom.

 

You laughed. Your gravestone calls you a devout

mother. Good. There’s no rain these days, just snow.

][][

Notes

Victorian slang has so many quaint concepts that never get the love that they deserve in this modern age. For example, a revolveress is a woman who, “uses a pistol with a great degree of surety.” (from, Passing English of the Victorian era, a dictionary of heterodox slang, 1885)

resolve

19 Saturday Dec 2020

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It’s not like we’re puppet and puppeteer;

I’m balls deep in yet you grimly retain

 

control. The sheath of your ass. The severe

gape left behind in your behind like pain

 

each time I nearly pull out. Each time you

grip the sheets so that your daughter, drawn by

 

your cries, crouches in the grove of bamboo

to watch the living play. We could still ply

 

her with love, let her sleep between us, but

you can’t see ghosts. Your world is her gravestone

 

and grim resolve; rough sex won’t return her,

or burn this pain out of you, meat puppet.

 

There’s no strings for that. When you cum you moan

out something like, “daughter, daughter, daughter.”

flares

16 Wednesday Dec 2020

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She was dead and encased her exquisite

curves in the sort of sequin disco-flares

 

called posh before I was born. Her velvet

tube top bled. Her long cadaverous hair

 

couldn’t hide the hole where the girder

had punched clear through. “Let’s do lascivious

 

things,” she’d said, rising. It’s hard. We linger,

hoping for love. The living see darkness

 

in sex and quail. The dead are beyond doubt

now that it’s too late. Randy ghost of ghastly

 

flares, you have spawned unease. If lusting for

dead things is freakish then let me freakout,

 

old-school style, with kisses, with sodomy.

Fuck’s crux. Putting the core back in hardcore.

zigga

05 Saturday Dec 2020

Posted by in A Girl and Her Submarine, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Hit it hard. A simple request. First time?

Charging batteries at night off the Great

 

Thatch. We were both filthy with diesel grime,

crude oil, acid flashbacks. We had to wait.

 

We sat up top. We passed the zigga back

and fro; enthralled with each Uncanny Queen –

 

Sappho’s term for starlight. Waves made low thwack

-lap noise in the dark. You made low obscene

 

noise, too. Smut puppet. Slush galore. A tongue

curling you up. Translucent trails all glow

 

in the waves. Surge dripped from your thighs. Hit it

hard. You clung to the sub’s drunk hull. I clung

 

to your soused conch. Writhing wraiths. Purge and blow

while Saint Elmo’s Fire played across your clit.

][][

Notes:

It would be grand to run away to sea in a submarine built for two (plus cats). Great Thatch is a derelict of an island, part of the British Virgins in the Caribbean. It’s named after Edward Teach (the pirate called Blackbeard). St. Elmo’s Fire appears as blue lightning, all squirm-dazzle in the rigging of tall masted ships, heralding an approaching storm.

làn-mara

23 Monday Nov 2020

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We’ve both seen seals bobbing on the ocean.

Any witchin’ that drowns sailors, cracks ships,

 

is good. Any tongue that makes, “làn-mara,” run

a gift. “There’s a harbor between your hips,”

 

Ma said. High tide runs fast there when your seal

wakes from dreaming. We’ve both heard selkies talk,

 

those gray women bound to men who steal

their skins. Our magic runs different: with cock

 

and cunt, with moon and tide, with your harbor

gushing. “Don’t tell Ma,” you said. “Don’t

 

stop.” I’ve drowned before. Your fat waves break

on my chin. The rim of your flooding shore.

 

The fog-lost lip of your cunt’s brim. I won’t

stop. Our witchin’ of the sea. Our sea’s ache.

][][

Notes:

Folklore from the Northern Isles of Scotland talk of the selkie, the seal folk, who are able to pass as human by shedding their seal skin. Unfortunately the selkie are also in the habit of forgetting to hide the one thing that gives mortals power over them so there are many fairy tales in which some complete failure embodying the worst aspects of manhood brings home a seal wife who spends all her time begging to be released and pining for the sea. In Scot-Gaelic, “làn-mara,” is the term for high tide.

fluttered

15 Sunday Nov 2020

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Now your soul returns. Consciousness seeps in

around the edges. Blink. Look down between

 

your splayed thighs to watch me watching you. Grin.

Blush a touch. When you said: “Make it obscene.”

 

When you said: “Are you still my big sister’s?”

I paused, poised over your plump swelling,

 

measured not in single centimeters

but in intensity, encompassing

 

everything, nestled soft, held safe by fat

baby phat lips. “I was but now I am yours.”

 

I’ve changed allegiances like that before.

Once she fluttered awake, too. “Horny brat,”

 

she called you. “Mine.” Go blind as the world roars

back in you, my lips tongue-smacking your core.

madivine

10 Tuesday Nov 2020

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“Bad girl, good vibes,” your mum said. For a week

you slept between us, the curve of my cock

 

nestled against that wet cameltoe streak

etched deep in your panties. Let neighbors talk.

 

They called her Madivine. Puberty came

round. So did we. First: “Cum in mum,” she said

 

each time I pressed to split your mound. Nicknames

flew: “Mo ve fi, bon vib.” Natty dread,

 

indeed. Madivine: a priestess loving

priestess. Pressing me in you, in your blind

 

other Third Eye deep between your hourglass

hips. The one your mum tongued awake. Tonguing.

 

Gasping. Reckless. Wrecking you from behind.

My hands in your hair. My lust in your ass.

][][

NOTES:

Natty dread is a Rastafari term for a member of the Rastafari community. In Haitian Creole, “mo ve fi, bon vib,” translates as, “bad girl good vibes.” Madivine (also spelled Madivinaise) is a Haitian term for a lesbian voodoo priestess [citation needed].

deboned

30 Friday Oct 2020

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It won’t come back. Dead flesh. Phantom limb’s poor

nightmare. Poor like bruised fruit before being

 

relieved of skin; or besmirched sheets before

the stain. Some blotted blotches keep living

 

after the surgeon’s saw. I feel your hands

even now roaming, waking parts of me

 

like a miracle. Who said gutted wastelands

can’t itch? can’t feel pain? Such crude ecstasy

 

shouldn’t matter but it does. All I can’t

have. All that’s denied. We rot and we rave

 

that we’re still gods, still deathless. I’m gutted;

deboned down to the bone, to the bone’s rant

 

that it’s still there. Or you, love. You don’t crave

me these days. I swell with longing, putrid.

fog

30 Friday Oct 2020

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Autumn. Bombs fall. No one has any fun.

Autumn. Your sister’s husband leaves for Prague

 

and she moves in, sharing our affection

and bed. A city under mountain fog

 

and war-time curfew. “You see how she is,”

you say, pulling her panties to her knees,

 

guiding me in. “It can’t be helped.” Her fizz-

slush-gush sound nothing like far-flung volleys

 

of gunfire. Autumn in Stepanakert.

Rockets pockmark. Bombs fall. Drawing closer.

 

Drawing near. “Yes ts’av yem sirum.” She boasts

of a constant pounding. “Make sister squirt,”

 

you say. “This way.” We three ghosts. “Make sister

cum.” It can’t be helped. We three horny ghosts.

][][

notes:

Stepanakert is the capital and the largest city of the Republic of Artsakh. As of yesterday (10/29/20) long-range Azerbaijani missiles fell on residential sections of the city, striking a maternity hospital and children’s center. In Armenian, «Ես ցավ եմ սիրում» (Yes ts’av yem sirum) translates into, “I love pain.”