Tag Archives: erotic poetry

pane

25 Monday Nov 2019

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Mist moved beyond the tree tops. “Let’s resume,”
you said, guiding me. We’d hid from the snow

after school that day up in your bedroom—-
with your mom downstairs. You bit your pillow,

keeping your groans in. Off in the forest
dead things rattled; a wet dream, all rime wings,

toothy gristle, stirred. Hoarfrost and dark lust
make for some corrupting magic; somethings

good grades can’t save us from. You soaked my palm
as you curled and jerked — letting a touch more

chill in. Chill and conjure. Even your mom,
sensing cold queer power, paused at the door

while frost and nightmare pressed against the pane,
watching you watch me lick you clean again.

venus red

21 Thursday Nov 2019

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After the movie I scratch dried cum from
your dress. I might be a sloppy fuck-toy

but an indiscreet heat made the maelstrom
in your cunt rage. I know that you enjoy

the storms your body makes. “Mama told me
just bad girls do this.” On our second date

your neck bloomed with a venus-red hickey.
On our third your toes curled. Boring and straight

were your classmates. “I’m a storm-witch,” you said.
“I make my cunt typhoon.” No one at school

got you. “They think I’m weird.” I understand.
I felt the Wyrd in you, too; that wild dread

for the forbidden, a greed that’s not cruel,
a thirst for all that’s beyond this wasteland.

NOTE:
One definition of Wyrd is the Teutonic term for Fate. As Beowulf said: “Everyone in this life will go lay themselves down on the bed where Wyrd has decided to nail them.”

grisly sex

17 Sunday Nov 2019

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For my birthday I give you a butt-plug.
Rubber and wide. “It’ll stretch you open,”

I say, as you hunker down on the rug,
pulling off panties stained with my semen.

All day at school you wear it, feel it throb
deeper each time you sit down. After class,

after your clit’s havoc, you want macabre,
grisly sex. I’ll pull the plug from your ass,

I’ll leave a gaped dark O where my cock shall
go … now it’ll fit when I press myself in

you. I want to fill you … full. “Naaa,” you say.
“What?” “Sodomy is eur sin: naa anal.”

That was that. Still, shame that for me it’s sin
that keeps sex from being a straight cliché.

Note:
This is a re-write of a poem that I had written a couple of months ago. I know not everyone enjoys anal sex but I will admit the reaction I got surprised me: “Ahm naa ganin tuh wark aroond wi’ sum metal up me arse.” I had never realized she spoke with such a thick Geordie (Newcastle) accent.

scoundrel

12 Tuesday Nov 2019

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If you love someone, set them free, we’re told.
If they come back then you’re not the villain

they claimed you were. Your: “I’m being controlled,”
seemed an odd grief, since your, “I won’t question

what you want, just use me,” started every
letter. Your mom in Tulsa said that I

was a scoundrel, making you do pervy
things in public. Perhaps. I won’t deny

that I loved your genius for not getting
caught in a world that calls what we do shame.

Yet your last words said how you loathed sexting.
Odd … but reason enough to stop this game.

Perhaps I’m bad. Perhaps you’ll learn to burn
on your terms. Either way, I won’t return.

impulse

09 Saturday Nov 2019

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There are other ways to satisfy you,
love. I was made for two things: poetry

and wet carnal heat. I’ve met others who
recoiled the one time I asked if they’d be

my well-fucked muse. I only ask it once,
love. If scratches and bite marks are not what

you want then go in peace since the essence
of a muse is impulse; do what’s asked or not.

I’m not asking for a martyr, just pain
induced orgasmic pleasure; a fuck-toy

willing for something new. Cum and sonnets
are what I offer. That and seven cane

strokes on your curved ass. Be bestial joy
in black boots, inspiration and corsets.

cabinet satyrique

07 Thursday Nov 2019

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After a while guilt goes, depression leaves
and you become attractive once again.

You weren’t always this beaten soul who grieves
and blames just herself. You were a tribesman

of Pan, a priestess of Lilith. The world
saw joy in you, in what you haven’t felt,

you say, in years. This Hell, this Underworld
of yours, it can’t hold you once sorrows melt

and pains vanish. Outside, at dawn, a freak
with an antique box waits for you … count me

among your loves. Pleasure is our birthright.
It’s here, in this, “cabinet satyrique.”

It’s here, when both our tribes come together:
butch-armed tribad and fey-boy sodomite.

swollen

06 Wednesday Nov 2019

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I thirst where you seep. Where others haven’t
touched you. Where you don’t touch yourself either.

I love the wet grace found in cock and cunt,
in cum and kisses. All that flows, lover,

is ours. Bathe your body in river mud.
At night, on the bank, under a full moon,

between your raised hips, feed me your moon-blood.
What your body doesn’t want I’ll take. Cruel

to waste such a gift and deny my thirst.
Who else has stirred such swollen wet passions

in you? You seep like damp honey coating
my tongue. Soon, lick after lick, you will burst

into waves. Drown me. Cum like a fountain’s
geyser. Shake like a quake in the ocean.

tongue

03 Sunday Nov 2019

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Lilith — First Mother, First Lover — you play
roles. Let my tongue find your soul and your toes

will curl deep in the woods. I still search, pray
and call on you. Sometimes I hear echoes

of your pleasure. Sometimes it’s just a cool
light in the green darkness. At the crossroads

your owl took my words. I still think it’s cruel
that you never came, though the complex codes

of your prayers confuse me at times. My grasp
of your Armenian tongue is, “shat vat,”

at best. Perhaps I’ve forgot my own role?
I’m built for faith and pleasure, not grief. Clasp

me to you, love. Spread yourself wide. Now squat
over my face. My tongue will find your soul.

NOTE:
In the Armenian language, the term, “very bad,” is “shat vat,” (շատ վատ).

pleasure off

26 Thursday Sep 2019

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Without rest, I said. Urgent. I’ve day-dreamed
enough for two. “Yet it’s just you. What changed?”

That’s the thing. Nothing. I had hoped. It seemed
different. Everyone thinks they want deranged

passion … until they finally have to act
on it. Still, no means no. That’s what matters.

“You could wait.” I did. I let things distract
me. I’m saucy, not cruel. This world pressures

us. I won’t add more. Instead I’ll lick dried
pleasure off these fingers. Inspiration

must sleep somewhere else and I have defied
the gods long enough hoping for passion,

frenzy and someone who loves cock and cunt
as well. —Urgent, I say. —This is urgent.

devotion

17 Wednesday Jul 2019

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They don’t bring horned gods home. In forest, in
trance, garbed in garlands … a slow cavorting

flame in lush curled-black leaves. There’s no sin
to be the chosen one, no crime pricking

yourself on flesh callous as oak. Do you
still think of what we did as devotion?

Do your nipples still stiffen thick? Mine do.
Gods are man-made. I’m no different. Most shun

these acts in time, for I burn a queer fire,
my tongue pressed in the middle. I’m at odds

with how I was born: abandoned in green …
I don’t serve faith, only function. The “sire”

in your desire, which dies, just like old gods,
once it’s no longer so strange or obscene.