Tag Archives: erotic poetry

stranglings

08 Wednesday Jul 2020

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Once there was three. “I don’t want to hear that,”
you said. Now there’s two. Lucy’s “Karen’s dead,”

gave me pause. For a year we shared a flat
and I slept betwixt them in our big bed …

except when Karen stayed out at the pub
or the club. Lucy from Leeds. Karen from

Kingston. A year full of big beat and dub
and, “Tottenham sheet.” Sex was the maelstrom

that Poe warned us of. Lust that, “unnerves strings.”
Love drug’s thrall. But you didn’t want to fuck

stranglings. You weren’t bi. You just left. You said
I think about kink too much … and fuckings …

and cum. True. Sex is chaos. Love amok.
Holy fuck with three now two, with one dead.

stirred

04 Saturday Jul 2020

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These thick fingers push into your layers.
Your skirt lifted. Buttons undone. My tongue

swerves as my thumb finds your clit. Deluge stirs
inside you. Floodwaters. For years you clung

to the notion that you were poison. Trysts
turned sour. Friends left. Love was what others had.

“Just ghost shadow,” you thought, “a poltergeist’s
sneer.” Now you’re alive and I the nomad

baptized at your fountain. I’ve traveled through
dangers untold and hardships unnumbered

to find you. You bubble. “Have you bathed yet?”
“No.” “Good. Lemme clean you up proper.” You

grind your cunt and ass until waters stirred.
I can taste your soul through your cum and sweat.

cucurru

01 Wednesday Jul 2020

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Toes curl. Heels lift off the floor. Reward comes
as I cum, as I stiffen in your throat ––

except English is bad at this. Problems
arise with description. To bulge? To bloat?

Rigid works. Fossilized? Not really. Hard
is what most say: hardcore, hard as a rock,

fat and hard with blood. In porn, cocks a yard
long are every small man’s dream. We get cock

from Late Latin’s, “Cucurru,” a rooster’s
crow. You brag of your perfect cock sucking

lips and needing a perfect cock to suck.
I don’t brag. I wait until your parents

go out. Your reward comes with words meaning:
“To gag.” “To splutter.” “To cum in havoc.”

munchies

29 Monday Jun 2020

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Your dad finds you in the bathroom, scrubbing
make-up from your cheeks. He doesn’t approve

of, “loose morals,” he says, “and women looking
cheap, like strumpets.” Each day you remove

all signs of what we’ve done while he’s at work.
“Pull out then ram deep,” you cried two hours

ago. He talks virtue. We go berserk,
fueled by chronic and munchies. He blathers

about sin. We invent new smuttiness
each time our tongues touch. He scowls. We giggle

on the phone. “Miss you!” “Miss you more!” He’ll glare.
We’ll meet after school; all wild and reckless

with our joy. “On my face, leave your puddle
there.” It’s still the only make-up you’ll wear.

titillation

27 Saturday Jun 2020

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Do you cry out, “I’m cumming!” when you cum?
When you lose your mind in that odd moment,

when gods can see you, does your orgasm
compel you to howl like it’s prayer? Ancient

forces prowl between us, waiting for us
to crest and climax while our cups runneth

over. I love titillation’s promise
that you, too, hunger for a little death,

petite mort; that under your striped school skirt
passion soaks your thighs; that your swollen slit

glistens and your clit, queerest of queer seeds,
waits for tongues. I’d howl, too, if I could squirt.

Call this prayer; when grace caresses your clit,
since grace knows all of your lascivious needs.

frenzies

25 Thursday Jun 2020

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High seas, indeed. The upsurge of bed sheet.
Curling ripple in the quilt. You hand back

the bong to giggle, “I can’t feel my feet.”
If there’s a theme to our sex life’s soundtrack

it’s that feeding frenzies are addictive.
I’m the shark that broke your surface, mouthful

of your menstrual blood. “Harder, I can’t live
without your teeth in me,” you slur. I pull

you down, gulp you down, until you drown, pleased.
It took years of frightful sex to find each

other. I don’t miss that. I was famished
searching for you. Now I’m sated –– your greased

inner muscles squeeze my tongue. Your stoned speech
slurs. You’re all Seven Seas that I’ve ravished.

promised

24 Wednesday Jun 2020

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“I’m a grouch on a couch, full-blown grumpus,”
you moan. “Lockdown sucks.” Friendship will never

tear us apart; though sexting between us
almost did. I wanted a fuck-daughter.

“I lack discipline,” you’d write, sending me
photos of the hot figure-eight you’d traced

across your panties. “Times infinity.”
Apparently you’ve found it. I erased

everything you’d sent me like I promised
to do. There no shame in having second

thoughts. I’m poor father material, but
I can take pride in you. Somewhere lust must

wait for me to come, horny and orphaned,
wanting more from me than just a sonnet.

rex

23 Tuesday Jun 2020

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In the glow. Pillow talk. Cuddle. Our legs
shake, but slow. There’s metaphysics to sleaze.

Each thrust begs reaction. Each echo begs
return. In gasps. In rasps. In melodies.

The Twin Blasphemies made me sing your name.
The Pale Night Gnawing Worms helped drag those sounds

from me in tatters. Rot’s Labyrinth then came
to bound down the sounds, while Saint Jude’s hellhounds

intoned the rest like prayer; by rex, by hex,
by your climax. You say that its surreal

to feel me under you, seeing that gleam
in my eyes, knowing how we want this sex.

We do. Me. You. All that gleams in my skull.
All the nightmares that you soothe into dream.

venom

22 Monday Jun 2020

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“But how?” you hiss. How? Your split-flower swells
purple with my tongue in it. How you curve,

grip the sheets, come undone. How hunger spells
leave me famished. I could lap at each nerve

in your clit, leave you both fazed and flayed, slow
ravage –– no? Yes. I’d still devour your heart.

Still lick you away until your ego
dissolves, your mind goes blank and the gods start

buzzing in you. The point of this poem
isn’t that I can, but that I will. Juice

and sauce and sprinkle. “I’m a slutty brat,”
you hiss. Yes, we know. The only venom

in my tongue is what I say to seduce
you. My cum chum, pussy willow, cunt cat.

bonne chance

20 Saturday Jun 2020

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Call me loose change, your coming attraction.
I’ve gone from Harlot Chic to Tart Deco

over the years, working the Freak Show Fun
Tent as a wild ride. My Story of O

pop-up kid’s book came with rope and harness.
In school my pelvis served as a playground.

My come hither grin drove the furious
search for new penicillin. College-bound

with my Erector set, my lips won Best
Blow Dryer of the Year. My tongue got banned

as a controlled substance. I still think pox
as a badge of honor. Don’t get depressed;

just wave, bonne chance, your panties in one hand,
as I walk this odd world where sex still shocks.

][][

Notes:
Story of O is an erotic novel (1954) by French author Anne Desclos under the pen name Pauline Réage. It deals with love, dominance/ submission and erotic torture. In French, bonne chance, simply translates as good luck.