Tag Archives: erotic poetry

perked

24 Thursday Jan 2019

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I taste of mud, pert meat, the moon’s eclipse;
being born still and cold until Lilith

breathed life into me, wrote the word, “Emeth,”
on a stone and placed it between my lips.

I still shimmer as I pass through heated air,
though my lisp anchors me here. One day soon

you’ll kiss me and taste the wasteland’s dark moon
while on your knees, while tonguing my curled hair.

Lockjaw and spittle. “Lilith’s Pet,” you said,
staring as your nipples perked. Like footprints

trampled in red mud, in blood, my kiss shall
leave its mark, tell you that I was born dead

in dearth and plague. I want to see you wince
taking me in, like sin’s gin, raw’s mescal.

][][

NOTE:
According to Jewish folklore, Judah Loew ben Bezalel (a 16th-century rabbi of Prague) created the automatonic Golem by shaping it from river mud and writing the word, “Emeth,” meaning truth, on its forehead.

boisterous flesh

17 Thursday Jan 2019

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Jaded, moi? All this still shocks, awe still shrouds
my bones. I have traipsed while on acid trips,

stood at the edge of fens with squall-gorged clouds
rolling in and thought of you naked, hips

deep in mire. Landscapes should all have a nude
you in them. —Savagely muddy. —Vicious

with wild needs, wild need. What unabashed mood
prompts us to bare witness? Our boisterous

flesh loves the earth and sea. I love your flesh.
Greens of hills, browns of marsh, gray bog swirled;

I still adore this despite my lewd thoughts,
always lewd thoughts. Love, these storm-fresh

skies still bring joy, though I’m far from my world
of Crones and Amazons, Queens and Sexpots.

off the lost coast headlands

17 Thursday Jan 2019

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Strong winds, then squalls. Rain scooting over sea
while fog swallows me up, leaves me lagooned,

warped in wild-haired gray. The split-plank jetty
groans in the storm. I mean to be marooned

here, too. Waves, billow daughters, have promised
to have me one last time. They care nothing

for man-made gods, tedious laws. Their lust
is the sea’s — pure as fucking and drowning,

rough faith. You should be here. The sea has no
use for cum, not like you — streaks splashed hardcore

on your cheeks. What waves want is warmth, the spark
that moves love, moves my flesh like tide, lust’s flow.

I’ve been swallowed by you just once before —
now I’ll leave my heat mixed with rain-stained dark.

suckerish

13 Sunday Jan 2019

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You filled my mouth with copper, blood and brine.
Under your skirt, tongue in your moist split mound,

“t’avshya vosku hank’” — your velvet goldmine.
We’d been dancing, a waltz-grind. You had frowned

when the kissing stopped. Romance requires
restraint. Rise and fall of hips, amazing

pangs no nun ever warned about, desires
obscene. I didn’t notice how sopping

you had become until your thighs rested
on my neck. Gyumri is full of despised

daughters. I too am cast-off, suckerish
for the shamed. In with copper, brine and blood

I taste your mother-lode. Pleasure surprised
you. Your giggle was more than I could wish.

NOTE:
Gyumri is a city in northwestern Armenia where I lived for two years as a Peace Corps volunteer. Despite some progress in recent years women are still viewed as second-class citizens by many in that country. “T’avshya vosku hank’” (թավշյա ոսկու հանք) is the Armenian equivalent of “velvet goldmine,” Victorian slang for cunt.

dickory

13 Sunday Jan 2019

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Coddy-moddy, fanny-nosh. The priest swore
it sin. Dickory-dock is prayer, I swear.

“I’ve done this,” you said. “I was ate before
I was seven.” You pouted: “No — not there.

Yes, like that.” I undid, unclasped, unbound.
I let fall until you stood stark in front

of the window. There are bodies hell-bound
in the dark that crave to be seen. Cock, cunt

and all-flesh in extreme. Who was the first
to want you? worship rough in your altar?

leave you sloppy? For years I was thirsty,
but then you found me and settled my thirst

— now I savor returning this favor,
this prayer, this sublime kiss that sets us free.

mustachio

11 Friday Jan 2019

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Just now we shall have bit of snug bit
of sniff: get my nose in it, in you. Breast

bondage, tit torture: with wax, teeth and spit,
with cords holding you still. I am a guest

here. Ill and lewd we walked the spit of land
between the Eel River and ocean. Gulls

and sea lions basked. Beyond the low farmland:
redwoods. Once, buried up to my knuckles

in you, we hid near tide pools, the billow’s
roar, your hiss, your husband dozed, his bong cashed.

Under your shirt: last night I marked my greed
and need. Just now I lap your lips, your toes

curl, sand caked. I’m a bad friend, all mustached
in your pubes. We both count on that, indeed.

kiddywinks

04 Friday Jan 2019

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Voluptuous under flannel. Daggers,
stones and diesels; filling all that you wear

with joy. On the prowl. On the side. Lovers
of love, this is the truth about that dare:

dick-slap our faces. You, Keiko and Drew
crouched on the floor, upturn grins all aglow.

Vodka, ganja, Truth or Dare left Day Two
of our acey-deucey, bifocal blow

out a blur. Blouses on the bed. Born of?
Born for? None of that matters. The soul gleams

beloved. Kiddywinks and saints of Stonewall
nurture us: love is love is love is love

even when standing above you. With jeans
loose I blushed then let fall for one and all.

phase

02 Wednesday Jan 2019

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Back when cars exploded for no reason
and T couldn’t stand no jibber-jabbing

I blew my chance. Not in some cheap hyphen
ass dumb punchline but in you. Blitzkrieging

fingers in your curls plastered to the sides,
your skin dark opal. Dumb star-crossed children,

your dad said. We were clean as doom. Our prides
crimped to the max, feathered, teased with strychnine,

lye, waste. Your dad said that I was: bad news,
confused, going through a phase. Like a “Damn-

A-Team-Cars-Blowing-Up-If-Looked-At-Wrong”
phase. To pity fools, to taste cum and booze

on your breath. To recall your purse held: Wham!
cassettes, used condoms, our cashed baby bong.

new year’s new day

01 Tuesday Jan 2019

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Quenched yet parched. Cold had heated its perfume
so that my cat screamed. The haunt appeared clad

in hot winds. Juicy bones in my bedroom.
“You’re bad for wanting me to do this!” Bad?

Sulfur was in its smooches. Negligee
from a Sears catalog. You don’t know bad,

waif love. This time of year my runaway
blows mean loss and more loss. All this nomad

flesh means never enough. I’m the mortal
that the dead warned you of. Divas of notched

sable fur ask: what’s so bad about carnal?
New Year’s first day: debauched debauched debauched.

Haunt, I love you so. First make an obscene
sucking noise, then I suck all your bones clean.

new year

31 Monday Dec 2018

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Into your crass I came; hungry, not starved.
Cold heat within me was hard proof that you

were the sweetest thing under this roof. Carved
from the same root we are: satyr’s seed, blue

dahlia, maple sweet. It was at the inn
while in your end that our fire without rest

burned with merriment. Praise this sin while in
you. Praise your owl cry for more. Let each blessed

stroke cut us off from all other teenage
wastelands, beloved. Storm lights in our window,

burdens left by war gods, your breast cancer
— none of it matters. We let love rampage

in us. We praise the freak, love’s wild weirdo,
death’s new year — we’re ripe with hints of slaughter.