Tag Archives: erotic poetry

4-sight

28 Friday Dec 2018

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There was no ark, no broken seal. The dead
clock this world but not like how I was taught.

“Oi git overstrung, freaked oyt, too,” I zed.
“Oi’m fired up. Oi’m fucked up. Oi’m overwrought.

But Oi’m perfect, otherwise.” Other … wise.
4-sight. Savoir faire. It’s there: that finite

tense that we both sensed. That manic demise
that no laws, lit or holy writ can right.

We don’t know and the dead don’t claim the truth.
The dead just are — absurd as negative

numbers, absurd as love. Call their wisdom
the same when my knees bend, cheeks bulge, uncouth

jaw pops with your climax, with what you give;
no arks, no laws, no writ. Just soul. Just cum.

defleeced

26 Wednesday Dec 2018

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In the bathroom you lather her snatch-thatch
until the hair hangs, soaked in suds. Mirror

ready. Razor in hand you kiss the scratch
and bruise you’d left. You play rough, big sister.

You break toys and crow when you taste her ass
on my cock face flushed while gagging me right

down your throat. You called her up after class,
told her that she would be spending the night

in your dorm-room. Now amuse me, you tease.
Show her what happens to bratty Littles

who go all catawampus. Shave her smooth.
With her girl-curls sluiced to the floor you squeeze

defleeced flesh letting drawn-out cum-tendrils
tie you to the clit that you suck and soothe.

ghastly

26 Wednesday Dec 2018

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After your mom goes to bed you slip out
of the trailer so that we can nuzzle

and pet in the red dirt. Lower-lip pout —
O-lip moan. Kisses and pheromones. Dull

ache of cock pressed against the camel toe
in your cotton. Creosote and sage. Kiss

with my tongue in your mouth. Rust moon’s glow.
“Middle school,” you hiss, “was never like this.”

All that stands between us is a condom
and the cloth of your Pinkie Pie knickers;

a left-over from your ghastly, “lost year.”
Not like this. Not now. Pain gives us freedom.

Not like that. This. Kiss me more. The sky blurs
as we bleed, crossing through this queer frontier.

demivierge

24 Monday Dec 2018

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Lady Frigg: there’s no shame when the gods touch
us. Hand on a mutton dagger. Fingers

in a velveteen mine. What they call a Dutch
Jacking, Fifty-nine, Mutual Pleasures

is what we do, every day, after school.
Fertile demivierge: all that’s in repose,

ready to be woke, is in us. Flesh fuel.
Dungarees around your knees. Your curled toes

quiver as I work in a third finger —
stroking what lies within. Like a heart-stone

or a seed-fruit our gifts are limitless
here in your bedroom before your mother

gets home. Tiny deaths spring up. Endless moan
as the gods fill us, vast and numberless.

Note:
DEMIVIERGE: A French term meaning, “an adolescent who, though still technically a virgin, has engage in other sexual activities including mutual-masturbation, oral sex and heavy petting.” (from, sex-lexis, an on-line erotic dictionary)

olisbos

23 Sunday Dec 2018

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Would I might rouse the jelly-boy in you
which throbbed, quaked, pulsated in your knickers

last night. A dill-doll. A purple cork-screw
with all the battery-power of mother’s

little helper. Greeks called it, “olisbos” —
born from where the ghost of Sappho’s cosmic

songs caused storms, carved the island of Lesbos.
I like it best when we’re out in public;

you slip it out and head to the restroom,
gone for ages. Once I heard your fuck-please

keening groan mixed along with Cunt-Bugger’s
(pet name) dreary drone. Last night cum, froth, spume

glazed its sides. This night with its batteries
dead you feel a touch too raw for pleasure.

scurrilous

20 Thursday Dec 2018

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It was odd: taking you to high school prom
though I was in college. That dress: ruffles

galore. You had licked cum from off my palm
moments before but in one of the lulls

on the dance floor while Wham!’s Careless Whisper
dropped I felt scandalous. Rites of Passage,

indeed: with acid from an eye-dropper,
with wine, with pot. Dried cum caked your cleavage

and ass, your fleecy cunt under your dress.
If I must praise anything I shall praise

us: a shy wanton and a sex-starved nerd
and our last night. Neither of us could guess

how soon we’d part: I’d start my Vegas-phase
making porn and you enrolled in Harvard.

wanna

19 Wednesday Dec 2018

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A spring is freed within a cave, a pearl
polished. Two mouths both open. Your morass,

thicket of curls, leaves cum-smears as you curl
over, spasm, then curl again. Cut class,

I said. Afternoon’s after-shocks teach us
all we need to learn. Your dad calls, urgent

that you return. “It’s my turn,” you say. “Mess
you up twice, boy. Make you dumb with brilliant

vice. Make you fall in love with sin, again.
Make you wanna please.” With heat like sauna

you guide me in. Fingers atop your pearl.
Fingers between us; an oak tree root in

your mussed-up morass. “Cunt’s floodgate gonna
bust,” you warn and your toes begin to curl.

aslant

19 Wednesday Dec 2018

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After dinner your mom pours the coffee
while the grownups gossip. You take me up

to your room. We sit on your bed, your knee
pressed up against mine while distant grownup

voices come from down the stairs. “They’ll hear us
if you do that,” you warn. “I know I’m … loud.”

More than just loud: each time you’re a circus
of sound. You cum with the noise of a crowd

brawling. Hormones tow us. Our bodies
aslant. Sex spray. Lovesick sparks through your clit.

Once your mom caught us; called this sin. Parents
are odd ducks. It’s all sin to them. Your cunt’s

muscles flex. They know we’re both freaks, misfits.
They know if I move you’ll shout: “More sleaze, please!”

love-tide

18 Tuesday Dec 2018

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Plea to the sea. Lure of cure in rapture:
you took a photograph with your brassiere

unhooked, sitting in front of a mirror
to watch me, inch by slow inch, disappear

into your split-slicked need. We sat with spread
hips. Your hair covered my face. Lips steady.

Camera snapped the moment the dark seabed
boiled slag up in you, filling the cowrie

of your cunt with the hope that I might fuck
away your wound if I could. There is pain

only sea sprites can cure, like the violence
in your pix: like how love-tide flows amok

in us. We keep fucking, trying. Again,
always again. Just once, O gods, just once.

funk

15 Saturday Dec 2018

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The air is getting thick and you won’t come
here. Ah, you cum but not here. You female

presenting nipples you. One day that dumb
joke will be a headscratcher. With fox-tail

anal beads, with zest and tongue baths, the thatch
of my snatch shaved to rubble. Your people

are not my people. They still farm. They still scratch
the earth and make it bloom. Mine are brutal

the way that I’m brutal. The way I’ve sunk
my hands in your hair, guided myself down

your throat, heard you moan and then felt you choke
on air thick as sin. No more hardcore punk

funk, you said. Freedom, I said, is to drown
in cum is the first step in getting woke.