Tag Archives: erotic poetry

groove

22 Friday Feb 2019

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You got klittra on your fingers from rump
shaking on your kid’s hobbyhorse saddle,

cracked curved horn. Glitter oozes at each thump,
spews the bump stroke. One sick beat — bestial,

a touch demonic, a touch of Sodom —
gets your cunt all catawampus. The groove

that spins you through space to cataclysm
orgasms is the same groove that you move

schlip-schlap against the rough saddle. No one
has seen you this high from what a blissful

state can do, heard the bwow-chcka-bwow bass
in your clit that means you are the shaman

who cums, returns and nuzzles the puzzle
of how through flesh the soul embraces grace.

NOTE:
In 2015 the Swedish government officially made klittra, a combination of clitoris and glitter, a legal definition for female masturbation.

jikʼeedgo

18 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Navajo, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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Some sacred texts of smut are smooth as ash,
afterglow’s fire — lightning’s ozone — desert’s

rain. Some are scraggy. Your mom calls it trash.
The nuns call them sin. Holy acts of perverts:

-psycho- -porno- -jikʼeedgo- toothed and notched.
Certain words crack doors wide. Your butterfly

cacti knows this. So does moon blood. Debauched
flesh flow. Sticky chin. Certain words defy

grace and good taste. Words be nasty with want.
These are our myths. Our filth and bawdiness.

The chaste fear this. They are sick in their soul
without either consort and confidant.

We’re rough, we’re smooth, we burn like a furnace —
this makes us blessed, makes us love, makes us whole.

NOTE:
Jikʼeedgo translates into the act of fucking in the Navajo language (Diné bizaad).

crooked

16 Saturday Feb 2019

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When dark fell the dog recoiled in disgust
at the -scritch-scratch- outside of your window.

My voice, all curved ice thorn, called in a gust
of wind for you. The young village widow

and the vicar’s wife both said that I’m one
of the angels cast down in flames. I’ve hung

with Baal’s crew before. They’re dull. No passion.
Night-clad among dark trees give me your tongue.

Under dark skies I’ll bury jackal bones
in you, raise your petticoats, your hackles,

suck your clit dry. Starved thing, invite me in.
I know what lurks in your bones and hormones,

in the dark of your soul and the muscles
of your cunt. I know your crooked, lewd grin.

burn

05 Tuesday Feb 2019

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I still swear to you by scourge and blowtorch
that at the next stroke you’ll bleat ugly sounds.

Ugly deeds call for the grim “K” of scorch,
quetch, crave. Flick of a supple cane astounds,

raising welts and devils. Call this art brut,
raw burn, a perfect howling pitch locked

inside you. I’ll free it. Others live mute —
waiting for that, “one day.” I know they’ve mocked

your dire itch, your distress. But they don’t cum
when I call you. Bend down. Lift up your dress.

Trust me: I might be cruel working stiff but
I get the job done. Like prayer. Like venom.

Like the song that tells us how to transgress
with the pain that drives both saint and poet.

lure

04 Monday Feb 2019

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Poppy milk: in ill sleep you stood there: curved,
blithesome, cocky. To see you naked, once

more, I almost woke. You were so reserved
alive, it took laying down lip, essence

of moon rock, just to get you off. My brief
grief stayed, lasted — even as I tended

your grave. No one shall tend to mine. The Thief
of Seoul shares my bed now; but sugar-mud

isn’t the same, even among gods. For ache,
omen close to bliss, I keep hunting. “Hunt?

You mean cunt, you mean cock,” you said. I mean:
fear some dreams. I mean: from lust’s lure heartache.

Your night fever tightens around me. Blunt
ghost, you’re all nightmare, my milk’s morphine.

night piece

01 Friday Feb 2019

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Your eye and Lesbia’s gaze. Where my spirit
and flesh fused, jizz oozed down your face, your clothes,

scraped knees. All this night piece boy grease this strut
of one who sucks godheads. The tomcat knows.

Cats love ruin. Spray-paint’s “fuck grief/ give head”
scrawled with carrion’s love of beef behind

you in glitter pink. “Skull fuck me,” you said,
mouth full of soul. Rasp of tongue on lust, blind

and big like charnel. Scumsuck. Shum ticky.
Ravished gaze. Bloodshot: cum in your lashes

gives you pink eye. I measure this not in
virtue but itches. Choose my salt-honey.

Choose smut. Choose my love. It’s slow. It oozes
into your twilit clit, my godhead’s skin.

NOTE:
“Lesbia’s gaze” comes from a poem by Edith Wharton. “Shum ticky” is a song-title by the fabulous Laura Love.

shit’s tits

31 Thursday Jan 2019

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Down on Valencia Street, in the back
room of Good Vibrations, the sales person

showed us a snap-on, double-dong in black.
“I sell a cum-load of these a month.” “One,

please,” you said. I’ve crawled on bloody knuckles
through Love’s little land a way — far enough

to know that you’re my spirit guide, Virgil’s
map of hell. “Harder,” you said. “My muff’s tough,

shit’s tits.” Love, never let me grow so old
that I think I’m righteous, one who bewails

sin, who fears sex. With faith and lube the first
black half-foot slides into you. I’ve been trolled

by sick zealots before; their heaven pales
to hell, as if love could ever be cursed.

marrow

30 Wednesday Jan 2019

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If I do, what then? True, I’m a false saint
of sluice, of vacant stares, of these pain-drenched

bones that will heal your ills. Touch my pink taint
with your blue-ebony hue. Touch what quenched

you when I bent you double, flipped up your skirt
and ran my tongue down your cunt. Devotion

is for the upright. Why pray when you squirt
and flow just as hard on the floor? My fun,

my bad, my grace. Don’t trust me; my deceit
goes all cock-skunk in a cloister. Go pray,

be chaste. It’s just your soul at stake, princess,
pith and marrow. I’m damned like Lilith’s clit,

like your clit if you come to me and say,
“Save me,” if I nod: “So, it’s come to this.”

ooze

28 Monday Jan 2019

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Tender? I make a poor first fruit. Green shoots
scarred to buggerclaw. You fret with kissing.

I with the bruise left when you knelt, peach fruit’s
spread. I gripped your hair in a knot, basting

down your throat. You tell of picnics, fat bees
droning, spring-time’s fete. I of back seats parked

in vile parking lots; two beasts of pain, grease,
cum, while a cop taps on the hood. I’m marked

to be broken. You’ll break me. Not ribald,
not curt, but tender. If redemption comes

in a kiss, in nothing more, then we’re doomed
since I ruined your faith, your bee-dazzled

glade. — You bit down on what felt like spasms
that burst inside: love that oozed, that mushroomed.

inferno

25 Friday Jan 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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I note how in rehab you sound drunken
with awe while going on about how sex

was fun back in Nineteen-seventy One.
Fun ain’t a word I use. “Savage.” “Complex.”

“Impaled.” Break me double until you feel
my heart beat under my ribs. Connected,

with cock, with fingers, with mouth, with that squeal
squirting, flesh tethered flesh. “Rage fuck.” “Blood

brutal.” “Holy like sin.” Still, you fear hell
so you got some quick faith, some religion —

that’s not my fate. Sex is the Inferno;
Lilith, the guide. Perhaps, in some motel,

somewhere, sex is fun. I don’t know. Your fun
has brought me only pain, ruin, sorrow.