Tag Archives: erotic poetry

fanny

10 Friday Apr 2020

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“Hurts,” you hiss, hoping the moppets won’t hear.
They sleep next to us. This is not new pain,

strange and supreme; just stretching, what Shakespeare
called, “the full length of my wit,” like cocaine

and all of our needs, deep in the, “marl’d earth,”
of your fanny. It’s the expansiveness––

what fear and endorphins bring, this rebirth
between gasping breath, dark realm of Eros

––that I adore. Like wit, not everyone
gets it; my sliding down, squeezing balls deep

in you. I’m a hungry ghost. You’re famished
for love, all love; even as your children

wake, to stare at you twisting in your sleep––
blind that one more time you’re being ravished.

brawling

09 Thursday Apr 2020

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Little death around your lips makes your smile
somehow sad. Little cum on your chin, eye

liner smudged, your love-bitten throat: I’m vile
to my toys, the ones who say yes, the shy

ones who feel a bit queer. Vile with a touch
of slash-and-burn joy, brawling bliss. I’ll salt

the sour earth that you’re buried in. You’ll clutch
at my hips, gag-spit at my cock’s assault

on your throat. I make a foul god, bad dad,
beastly boyfriend, but a good friend to those

who laugh at this. You say sex. I say soul.
We write about all that we’ve never had.

Little death, I’m shy; tad queer with sorrows,
tad sad only words let me lose control.

crud

03 Friday Apr 2020

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As this virus defies us, last night,
alone, I inhaled dust, specks of fungi,

toxins, traces of you in the moonlight ––
gorged on my engorged flesh. Last night, with my

boxers down around my knees, my debased
body wound tight, my hand encircling

my cock: such sweet flesh, what you’ll never taste
again, what you called my one, “redeeming

quality.” At least I have one. Impaled
on my pale flesh I can still taste the blood

when you bit my fat lip and made me mewl.
That was fun. But this? Last night I exhaled

air and much more. Odd, I thought that the crud
that’d take me down would be far more carnal.

¡pink grrr!

01 Wednesday Apr 2020

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Teach what you know, indeed. For her Poet
was High Priestess and verse came when she came.

Sex made metaphors: “Poetry makes Smut
makes Prayer” — a Mysticism without shame.

I found, midst office hours, with a ¡Pink Grrr!
phattie and her, “Soulgasm,” that each thrust

caused a low, “ack,” skipped groove growl, inside her:
like my name cut off,: zack-zack-zack. “All lust

is a gift,” she claimed both in class and each
time clouds of sperm-fission burst in my verse,

in her ass. — MFA Teachers are odd
gods that way; but they’re not wrong when they teach

just how climax gushed out a universe
in our verse, in us, no matter how flawed.

delish

28 Saturday Mar 2020

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Money, cum bunny, is what we don’t have,
but I’ll show you just what two fingers worth

of your drizzle buys. KY jelly salve;
redolence mixed with that delish wet earth

skunk funk as my cock moves from the inside
of your gaped asshole to your step son’s mouth

and back again. Hogtied but not denied.
The rump’s phat pump. Tura Satana’s South

Side Ass Wreckers, her Anal Delinquents.
Who needs trash cash for that? Give me an itch

sweet like jam – violet with jelly. We awe
ancestors … raze progeny. Our fragrance

is thick with booty, not boodle; not rich
snitchs playing at being dope outlaw.

clapperclaws

27 Friday Mar 2020

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Miss Thing, you never told me where you’re from
or why the living, each night, barred their doors

against you. They called you: Cthulhu’s Mum …
and She Who Rasped and Gasped. Back on all fours,

your six breasts pressed to my chest, your two tongues
circled my skull … back when your mammalian

parts bloomed slush and sucked the air from my lungs
… you were my titular titillation;

the tar dope tang of the ball-gag; funky
razzle-dazzle of blackholes. Not all mums

get to fondle me like you do with such
clapperclaws. Whatever you are show me

more, Miss Thing. I know that odd wisdom comes
from odd places … so does your heinous touch.

stank

26 Thursday Mar 2020

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Virus comes in ire, in mayhem green
voluptuousness. “Enfermedad verde;”

the squirm worm of our blood, sputum and spleen
turns from cyst’s mauve mist to muck’s facetiae

sheen. All winter long we were surrounded
by others and their intellects — vast, cool

and unsympathetic — until their blood
turned deep stank, septic. Irony is cruel

that way, like Ruth’s “where you go, I will go;”
except it’s viral chaos that dogs you.

Enfermedad verde. — Fatigue and dry
coughs don’t inspire bliss; focus is, I know,

hard with fevers. But bliss will see us through.
Bliss keeps urging: “Don’t die — try, lover, try.”

Notes:
In the film, Fried Green Tomatoes (1991), Idgie declares her love for Ruth by reciting the passage from the Book of Ruth: “Whither thou goest, I will go. Where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people.” Facetiae is an old Victorian term meaning pornography. La enfermedad verde translates (I’m told) as the Green disease.

posh ‘n becks

24 Tuesday Mar 2020

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“Bad lad,” your father calls me: “Hooligan.”
Each time you come home smelling of skunk weed

and gin he sighs. Each time you nurse your son
and he spies all the hickeys that my greed

left you get Da’s foul scowl. I’m, “off my tits,”
I guess, putting the “cock” back in Cockney;

the cor in your blimey. Thrupenny bits.
“Bum and brat mum,” he calls us. Yet Baby

Danzig doesn’t howl like a haunt when I
bend you over his crib, sopping up two

fingers worth of your drizzle from inside
your drenched frillies; just when Da floats by,

sad old ghast. He hates our, “posh ‘n becks;” you
being my hard shag, I’m your roughest ride.

swaffelen

14 Saturday Mar 2020

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Virus and the silence of night. Wham, bam:
the song went — but from your open window

there are no voices. Kink from Amsterdam —
Bunny Boiz who beg for the peg; Bravo

Gals who throw their weight; all those beta brawls.
All that gone. Plague-time and the Freaks suffer.

No, not especially, just each one who mauls
you with a brutal hand. Call me, Father

Confessor; I heard you. I heard slapping.
Swaffelen, I thought. I heard your baby

talk peeps. Now nothing comes from the dungeon
of your bedroom. Silence is threatening

when you can’t sleep; when you’re one more Daddy
who just up and died and went to heaven.

Note:
Swaffelen is a Dutch term meaning to cock-slap one’s penis against an object or person. It was named as the Word Of The Year in the Netherlands and Belgium in 2008.

fivefold

14 Friday Feb 2020

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We’re no burgundy brew crew; derisive
of how slow liquor takes to reach your clit.

We’ve clinched quicker means. Your conservative
spouse and his church clan claim, “effeminate

brats,” like me go straight to hell, boy. The glee
and joy we got each time we rolled your old

cuckold, sloppy drunk sick upstairs, while we
capered (plunged and hit deep, frothed your fivefold

lips, reared back to plunge again) like the brat
cats that we are: witch’s brats. Fuck buddies

with the Black Arts. Lovers of corpulent
terrors. Your husband can’t even, “begat.”

We’re progenitors of beguiling sleaze,
eldritch sex acts, love both odd and ancient.

][][

NOTE: Contrary to popular belief, a “witch’s brat,” is simply a male, of any age, who studies the dark arts under the tutelage of a licensed necromancer. Niccolo Paganini, the 17th century violin genius, was called, “The Devil’s Stepson,” and the “Witch’s Brat,” for his demonic and amazing musical virtuosity.