Tag Archives: erotic poetry

all-wants

13 Thursday Dec 2018

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There was just one shop in all Yerevan
that sold thongs so you took your mom. She knew

that you’d come over, sit on the divan,
show off your steal. Fabric almost see-through,

crusted and curled from spliffs and sex that wrecks
each day after school. The only English

you knew were the words to Khia’s, “My Neck,
My Back,” which were enough. You said you wished

you had friends who would play this rough. Neighbors
gossiped: they heard your glee, biting the sheets,

shaking like fever. Once that was enough.
Once you were all-wants and I all-pleasures,

breaking free from a world that still mistreats
lovers, shames daughters, calls our love mischief.

curs

12 Wednesday Dec 2018

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Foul and depraved. Some might say, bestial.
A hint of skull-duggery. A slap dash

of skull-fuckery. That nightmare: jackal-
headed ghast with a touch of cock, a splash

of cum, one who makes your nipples pucker
pushing six– ten– twelve inches down your throat.

Haven’t thought of that fiend with a swagger
in years. Yesterday your sister’s buck-goat

eyed you with lust. Today it was the curs
next door. Awake or asleep you’re crudely

used. Some say that we do this on purpose,
so that naughty thoughts might make us monsters.

Grace comes when we admit that we’re horny.
Denying that is what’s monstrous.

choke cherries

11 Tuesday Dec 2018

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Deluge of wasps swarm. Their storm sound is huge.
When I feel hot, I flip a lid. It stops.

Complicit in your own misuse I rouge
your twinge, cum-cake your ache. I have the top’s

need for chaos in love. Though wasps flock
when touched I derange, let love bludgeon

me to confess: like witches and warlocks
my art comes from dark flame. In a garden

always in decay, where bile-born insects
swarm, go find choke-cherries. In the temper

and the tantrum find what gets you off bent,
flips your Id, fills you with buzz. All infects

are good, all wounds holy. Our vast sound. Slur
as I acquiesce. Slur as you consent.

bedazzle

09 Sunday Dec 2018

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When I said I’d go all Old Testament
on your round asses I didn’t mean Lot

and his drunk daughters and lack of consent
I meant the time when the Nephilim begot

(archangels rutting like beasts) with daughters
of Eve, sons of Adam. Fallen angels

of lore were always gore-crazed cock-suckers.
I’ve leaped balls-deep. I’ve pounded your entrails.

Back and forth between you weeping siblings
with acts that bedazzled even odd gods.

Did I say: cry? I meant: vulgar, hard-boiled
O-lipped fucking frenzy. These scars where wings

once stood, I lost them proudly loving all
that can be corrupted, tempted, despoiled.

][][

Note: In folklore the Nephilim were fallen angels that took “daughters of men” as lovers before the Deluge, according to Genesis 6:1-4.

cram

08 Saturday Dec 2018

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Puberty was rough though I am rougher
still. You mumble, “gotta pee,” half way through

being fucked senseless. Strapped in place, collar,
blindfold, clit clamp. The wind in the bamboo

moans low. You’re low, too. You’re stretched. You take it.
Why are parents blind to children’s despair?

This urge, overflowing. First: “Will it fit
inside me?” Then: “Sooo deep!” Lastly: “Right there!”

and, “More!” Homework, after-school clubs, cram class:
all that can wait. You sit on the toilet,

dazed from bliss. It’s the one moment today
when you’re not heartsick. It takes sick love, crass

and raw, to touch you, make you mine, moppet.
Roll you chronic, thick. Fuck you like doomsday.

genesis

07 Friday Dec 2018

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Manic madness is not divine madness.
It is exhaustion. It’s the short circuit

that keeps me up at night. This sleeplessness
leaves me clumsy in a world that loathes smut,

sublime and honest. “A woman denied/
and the hills are alive with celibate

wives,” so sings the song. You grind down, astride
my chest. Even through your frayed jeans you wet.

“What’s it like?” you ask. Lunacy. Your woke
pubic bone. “Never?” “No, but I want to.”

I want, too. Prove the slut-shamers wrong. Stroke
you through your jeans. Finger-fuck this taboo.

I love heat, genesis lust, all that comes
with needs, eagerness. I love all that cums.

foxfire

02 Sunday Dec 2018

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Your mum loves anal, too, you know. Request
for your breast as you undressed met with morose

pause, flushed flesh. Your whole soul I’ve loosened, pressed
your yaw to my maw, lubed in acts of gross

indecency. She stands outside your door
watching, you know. Once she walked in on me.

“You are hopeless. It can’t be helped.” Hardcore
spermatic fizz, jazz jizz, dribbled as she

swayed. Tonight is the hour to baste your mum’s
flower, that gape that devours girls and boys

up whole. Adorned with sex flecks, cum crumbs,
call her, tell her that tonight you’ll share toys.

Tonight we’ll get off on rage, blue foxfire.
Tonight we’ll all put the ire in desire.

dead-eye

27 Tuesday Nov 2018

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Felt your throat close around my flesh, potent
and deep. You rolled her, drunk her dry. To flare

up in you, drive your mouth against her cunt
with each thrust. I grabbed a hank of your hair.

You grabbed her thighs. She grabbed her breasts and cried,
“There! Fuck yes! There!” I could taste her on you,

cupping and sucking your face. We baptized
the bed in splattered red and blew. Virtue

lies in bluntness. “My tongue. Your clit. Your cock.
My ass.” Is cool kink endless when slung low?

What’s changed? I still love words more than others.
You’re still forfeit in a Detroit cell block.

She’s still dead. All of this was long ago.
Intolerable. Dead-eye. Lost as lovers.

licious

26 Monday Nov 2018

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You loved your jokes — “You feeling Mary? Yes,
she begged us not to stop.” “Grace cums. How? Hard.”

— like you loved blunts, cunts, a cumslut’s caress.
Strange girls and their moo juice was your reward.

Mothers’ udders dribbled drops. You wisecracked
that spoiled clits were mere child’s play to seduce

once you put your tongue to sloppy use. “Stacked
shorty,” you stressed. “Vicious licious.” Your juice,

with a snap, boils over. It’s in the laugh.
Suppose one day this ends? Without a bang

but a whisper? You will still have my lisp,
my snort, my rough chuckle. My better half.

All I wasn’t. With blunts and cunts. Girl gang
banger. Gone in laugh. Not with twang but wisp.

rant and rave

25 Sunday Nov 2018

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Behave like a slave, like someone who needs
to be ruined, stretched then roughly controlled.

Behave depraved. Crave that you’ll get nosebleeds
when you think of me, of how I withhold

pleasure, like a dark ant-show that infests
your dreams, like my mom’s dead sister, putting

the aunt in haunt. Cock-block. My name suggests
mild bliss, but I’m plague, scourge to your longing,

taut ghost of nights to come. They have reviled
me, called me ruffian in rhapsodies …

and yet. Deep down they want to be defiled,
shockingly used, too … made Aphrodite’s

shockwave. Princess, we both know that a slave
knows how to rant, knows where rave falls in crave.

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