Tag Archives: erotic poetry

debauch

10 Wednesday Jun 2020

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Prayer, I say. Porn, you counter, reaching out
to rub my cock against your cheek. Disgust,

you gasp, down on all fours. I’m your devout
priest, my cock pressed tight against your tightest

hole. So slow, being filled with such spirit,
inch by inch. You arch your back and struggle

to breathe as I press deeper, as I split
you wide. Your dad said only a devil

would want all these wet shocks and aftershocks,
would want to moan, mew and writhe as I stir

inside you … like the porn you hate to watch
when we watch it together. Your dad mocks

what he doesn’t know. For me this is prayer;
your high priest when we praise and we debauch.

naked

08 Monday Jun 2020

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You caught your son at it. Your daughter told
me how she does it all the time. The first

time I tried it I was shocked to behold
how I must look to others. “I’m the worst,

grotesque naked. No one wants to see this.”
But you did. That also shocked me. “xHARDxCOREx

Camwhore,” you teased, half a world away. Bliss
didn’t feel like I’d hoped it would as more

and more cum splattered on my thigh. “Maybe
one day,” you replied when I asked you why

you weren’t nude too. That’s fair. As safe sex goes
it’s dope, but for you, I see, not guilt-free.

Without bliss all this is absurd; like my
O-mouth, my shaking hips, my curling toes.

twice

05 Friday Jun 2020

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In some films, when someone cries out, “I’ll suck
out the poison!” the wound is always here ––

on the ankle. They make their, “cooties! yuck!”
face, so it’s sincere. Snakes never bite near

cocks, ass, underboob. Just the chaste ankle.
I like yelling, “I’ll suck out the poison!”

too –– when we’re out in public. These nipple
biting snakes are bad news when they fasten

their fangs on your inner thigh, neck, G-spot.
Since I’m eager to save you I’ll suck twice

as hard, twice as long. Odd you keep getting
bit when we go out. Does poison run hot

in you now? Others call this sin and vice.
Let them. We both know this is life saving.

razzles

03 Wednesday Jun 2020

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A small smudged death around the lips. A smear;
a vile small smear. Meanwhile, the rest of us

have more haunting tasks. Mascara-like fear
flaking around your eyes. Rise. A painless

love is no love at all. Wise know these scars
never heal. What are scars but our bodies

keeping the dazzling in? All that mars
beauty is beauty itself. Ties what frees

us frees us. Others cry, “why hurt us?” You
sigh, “why not?” It’s not your spit-speckled grin

that I stare at as you gag down my cock,
it’s your eyes. Here lies what matters. Here, too,

lies what the false fear when they call love sin.
Their love dries to a smear, ours razzles, shocks.

grape

01 Monday Jun 2020

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Hi Tech changes. Some sins get left behind.
Of the endless hours of VCR tape

there’s just one left, with the, “be kind/ rewind,”
sticker on top. You thought, “Tentacle Grape,”

a droll name for our sex act; while, somewhere,
Oscar Wilde rolled his eyes. Now everyone

has a cam, and what you called our, “nightmare
bliss,” pales compared to all the hard-core fun

posted on-line. No one can even view
this, our last carnal act, which your husband

might be glad about, if he knew. “He don’t
know,” you said. It turned out that wasn’t true.

These days I’ve yet to find you in dreamland.
True, I could send this to you, but I won’t.

owlet

31 Sunday May 2020

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Wrapped tight around my wrist? I stalled at first.
Fistful of rough love? As pillow talk, sure,

but I’d break you. Slow brain’d, heavy limbs, cursed
with crude taste. Bliss is something to endure.

Called you the nickname of my dead daughter
once. I shudder at what else I might say

while in heat, rutting. “Who’s the cum dumpster?”
you’d asked, unaware of my past. We play

games that require trust, but there’s one secret
I can’t divulge. How else do fairy tales

end but the Princess impaled on a fist?
One more broken daddy, Princess Owlet.

You ain’t her, star-child. I’ll endure with my nails
clipped, with you, lover, wrapped around my wrist.

balampalampam

30 Saturday May 2020

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Behind the closed garage doors engine oil
fumes, touch of ganja, dust on the wainscot,

on a workbench piled high with odd gargoyle
lumps, unfinished tasks your husband forgot

about years ago. We’ve come here to play;
the grease spot on the floor mirrors our own

messy thoughts. Hair in rollers, negligee
cast down, my cock buried in the well-known,

well-loved well of your balampalampam.
This is, “kunou-monou;” what the obeah

vow, old-school sodomy. At sixty-five
strokes you shout, at ninety-five you melt. “Damn,

boy-boy,” you groan. “Damn, cum in me.” If we
sin its through love. If we love we survive.

][][

Notes:
I use Barbados slang in this poem. Balampalampam means a very large ass. Kunou-monou is a bewitching spell. Obeah is witchcraft.

snip

29 Friday May 2020

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Even as a kid, “Exile,” was a strange
and far out term. To lose your home was just

careless, I thought. But it’s happened and change
is my undoing. I pray but no lust

or gods dwell in this snip of Michigan.
No long lonesome train calls at three a.m.

No wet dreams or devils to stamp cloven
hooves and call me, “mine.” As far as Bedlam

goes, “Beer City, USA,” sucks. Perhaps.
Exile? That word. I don’t think it means what

I think it means. Isn’t this nostalgia
for times of plenty before your collapse?

Only you, fool, cast yourself out. Uncool
but true. Chastity keeps me wry and cruel.

soweto blues

28 Thursday May 2020

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“Bibi,” was all the Swahili that your
grandchild knew. Here, in Babylon, married

to a banker, you liked it bent over:
slow and hard and deep. Our weekly trysts freed

you from a deranged world where, “Soweto
Blues,” was just a song. At fourteen I had

no words for it, but deep and hard and slow
made your hips shake, made you cry, made your sad

eyes flood. Bibi, you moaned but at fourteen
your pain and pleasure all sounded like grief.

Even now I hear, “Soweto,” and hear
you cry as you came, pressing me between

cum-curled pubes. If that was joy it was brief
in a deranged world euphoric for fear.

Notes:
Soweto Blues is a protest song, sung by Miriam Makeba, about the 1976 children’s Soweto Uprising and police brutality that left over 170 protesters dead.

harvest

27 Wednesday May 2020

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With laps and droll slurps your harvest glazes
my chin. Chaos is life blood, you claim. No.

Chaos is fitful spasms, moon phases
that leave you to burn. Blood-fire, my psycho

killer, qu’est-ce que c’est, requires controlled burns;
like jazz, like bop, like, “a loo bop a lop

bam boom.” Caramelized, your uterus turns.
I peer over belly and breasts. To stop

would be crass. Cupping your ass in my hands.
Bringing you to my mouth. This is life blood,

indeed. I feed on bam boom. Your harvest,
best friend, expands you. My hunger demands

rough love. Who else has done this for you? Flood
and flame. Chaos and cum. First lick. Last thrust.