Tag Archives: erotic poetry

dillin’ doe

25 Monday May 2020

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Voices cry out. Still hard, I clamber out
of bed to peer through the window. A thing

crouched out there, barely human, is about
to die. There are gods of pain whose blessing

only come through guttural moans. Awkward,
blind in the thrall of climax, submission

is the nightly struggle that the coward
cries out about. In the dark I listen.

Wrists pinned, back arched, behind me you struggle
against what binds you to this bed. You’ve cried

out, dead thing, too. Union denied each time
you can’t cum with hot wax and a frightful

dillin’ doe in you. Outside something died.
In here fear divides us from the sublime.

][][

Note:
A “dillin’ doe” is an old-fashion term for dildo.

slow hand

22 Friday May 2020

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Make it tender, you suggest. I stop. Think.
Shrug. A tender love poem? It could be

done, I suppose. But why? Love without kink
is love in name only. It’s like the sea

without waves; the only way you might drown
is through boredom. You must be difficult

in bed, you sigh. Perhaps, I say, then frown.
But who will ever know? Like the occult,

few have experienced my mysteries.
I leave vague tenderness to those begging

to get laid. I know a slow hand can please
when it’s a fist. Love lies in defiling

and sin; what you call ruin and hardcore.
Love lies in all that you fear to ask for.

after birth

21 Thursday May 2020

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Magic in the afterbirth, which I ate
the day that you were born. I was shadow

that the midwife brought in. It wasn’t fate,
you see, that brought you to me. We both know

that you’ve been in me all this time. This makes
me your grotesque parent. Born blind, second

sight is a gift, like that itch that still aches.
All this time you thought that you were destined

to be forgotten. Who would want a freak
like you? Desperate, sullen, you’ve search your earth

and dreams for something else. I’m still the shriek
that wakes you wet, like the day of your birth.

Only, though, if you want this. No is fine.
Without consent no god would call you mine.

know

17 Sunday May 2020

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This world is full of lost daughters, vanished
daddies, misplaced parents who never learned

love right. Some of us got praised, some punished,
when we followed our hearts. What our hearts burned

for was not shameful. Others disagreed,
they could not see how orgasms were keys

to our soul, how bliss freed us, how our need
to cum was also a divine gift. “Sleaze,”

they called it. “Sin.” True, passions can corrupt,
but so can hearts and daughters and daddies.

I’m proud of you. The struggle is real. So
is your faith. Be true, dear heart, and worship

to make your soul glow. Not with sin nor sleaze,
but with praise in ways only you will know.

ill incubo

15 Friday May 2020

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After detox, “fun,” changed. It wasn’t booze
that I missed. It was fucking anything

that moved. Self-preservation? That excuse
got lost on the dance floor. Now, sobering

up has left me adrift. Once I wanted
to save the perturbed; pitied those who’ve knew

this just as a curse. What ran in my blood
was lust for it all … if it were taboo …

if I were drunk. Now, now, now I can’t be
bothered. That’s bleak. Once I’d have told you, “dare

me; – we’ll put the ass back in massacre.”
I still have, “ill incubo,” inked on me.

Sober now I’m no one’s Bi-bone Nightmare,
Cosmic Casanova, Randy Hotspur.

Notes:
In proper Italian grammar, “il incubo,” translates as, “the nightmare.” An incubus is a demon believed to have sexual intercourse with men and women while they sleep. Three days from now (5/18/2020) will mark 27-months sober for me.

call us

13 Wednesday May 2020

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The world shuns perverts. Perverts shun the freaks.
Freaks shun us. That’s fine. Not all of us need

boys or girls, bumpin’ uglies, the techniques
taught in, “The Kama Sutra.” Others plead

for love. We watch our video nasties:
“Glory-hole Devil Dolls,” “Ejacula,”

“Wankenstein.” We sleep alone and we please
no one. We’re so far beyond the stigma

of Slut that we’ve ascended. When we cum
it’s raw-bone enlightenment. Others whine

when their lovers are unfaithful. We grin
and sing: I. Me. Mine. ¡Ai! There’s the freedom

others can’t even dream of: I – Me – Mine.
It’s why the perverts and freaks call us sin.

under tongues

10 Sunday May 2020

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You long for stranger’s lips on your wet splayed
lips, a mouth on the mouth between your hips.

I yearn to learn each Old World term that made
your Ma squirm. Songs of sighs. Which word still drips

from your Bibi’s thighs, though tyrant English
tried to damn it? Words can be colonized

and then redefined, called sin and banished.
Words for cum, sensuous sucking, clits baptized

under tongues, parted lips. If I sang them
while your baby-phat nectar soaked my tongue

would you be my translator? Forbidden
words, deep, biting, dripping, like the mayhem

found in a poetry slam. – Words you shun;
words that make you blush and gush as one.

fractious

04 Monday May 2020

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Most of our lusts are hell-bent. Hot breath in
our head. Chaos flurry. Keen for a leer,

vile look, fractious love. They say that sin
is man-made. We get off feeding our fear.

We all have shreds of it riddled through us.
I felt yours when you came over. Nightmares

full of husband’s fists, mothers of violence
are just dreams. Some are as toothless as prayers

against rage. I’ve raved and craved that hate, too;
but my rage went inward. Ate me in ways

that you never will. Violence born bliss
still shames me, anchors me, sucks me in, spews

me out. Why such a craze for the male gaze?
We who insist that we’re above all this.

misdid

02 Saturday May 2020

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Flip the Bird was a bird, from Leeds, no less
and since it was the 80s – a junkie,

to boot. Junk is droll, you’d said of the mess,
when I finally pressed, your panties barely

hiding that odd smirk. Not the worst tattoo
that I’ve had to stare down while staring down

inside someone. “Perv much?” in faded blue
ink gave me pause. Once. Sex with the class clown

tends to be desperate: all your pussy-fart
jokes, that eyesore, Flip, your constant reference

to our age difference. I get it. Life sucks
for the misdid kids. I’m not smart. My heart

means well, but I remain a perv, class dunce.
All I have is mercy and messy fucks.

harbor

25 Saturday Apr 2020

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Storm-sheathed. I slip the squall back inside. Why
this rage? Cloudy outburst; your plum boughs bounce

on the bloom. Moody, you called me. Each thigh
splayed, now settle down – and watch how I flounce

on the floor each time you grind your crevasse
across my face. We all need harbors, space

to cool. Ride me like that leather and brass
gizmo, your wet glow maker. Grace. I’d trace

the way with tongue, but, amour, I’m cocksure
I’m broke. No excuse. If you must bend

in my blow, storm crow, where others fissure
and snap, that’s my fault. If you must endure

love then it ain’t. Just a gale without end.
Just one more tempest that you can’t harbor.