Tag Archives: erotic poetry

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.

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.