Tag Archives: erotic poetry

baalim

15 Thursday Nov 2018

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Call it a quirk. To be hog-tied, unfit
to wait; for rope, for passion, for a throb

between your legs. Scorn the horny half-wit,
far too awkward for a kiss or blowjob,

whose needs go unmet. There are fuck buddies
in this world. There are those who have neither.

Cleaver of Asses. Baalim of Quim. Sleaze
comes in threes; three little deaths, three stranger

acts, three reasons why I’ll wreck you in bed.
Once for our lost time, once for knowing more

about grief than bliss, once to teach you how
to cum like chaos. Feel this sublime dread

that you’re raw meat and I’m pure carnivore
greedy for treats. Right here, lover. Right now.

swale

14 Wednesday Nov 2018

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Dog days ablaze. Near the school bus, sleazy
grass stains, both your skirts were pulled to your hips.

The nun said that this was a sin: the three
of us kissing, fingering phat girl-lips,

eyes glazed. Quinn was mellow and mild. You: mad
with haze. And me? Still don’t know who I am.

Say that Love led us to this sad triad,
nervous threesome. Besties. Say that to damn

one’s soul is to give up to temptation.
Like this? We gave up everything, like so.

Perhaps we were bewitched and bedeviled —
Quinn came, you came, I came — for where lichen

and moss clung to the swale’s grass the shadow
of the nun fell on us and hell followed.

slurred

12 Monday Nov 2018

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Strange how a nerve can ruin one’s sex drive.
For a week I lay on my back, tendons

frozen, muscles in knots, pinched nerve alive,
burning. All those stories of sex demons

who feed on the cum of the sick are bunk.
I slid out of my head in pain. Nothing

happened. No one appeared in my punch-drunk
fevers. For a week I lay there: crying,

praying the pain away. As if. It’s why,
at that moment, if I could have bartered

my soul away to end all this I would’ve.
It’s a sad day when even succubi

pass you by. My tongue rot. My vision slurred.
My mind forlorn over love … sublime love.

Note:
I’m on day 14 of dealing with a pinched nerve on the left side of my back. Hot and cold compresses, messages and the like do nothing. The pain has been slowly making its way up my neck, across my shoulder and down into my biceps. There is no way to get comfortable, no way of easing what is constant and unchanging, no escape. As the poem puts it, I am slowly sliding out of my head but not in any dandy shamanic-like manner. All I have is that ill-stomach feeling, like when I broke my arm and could do nothing but stare ahead in horror.

groped

06 Tuesday Nov 2018

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Beneath the touch of urgency your clit
throbs and aches with need. I want to take hold

of your foot pressed against my hip, join it
with the one on my shoulder. Uncontrolled

carnivore’s greed leaves me giddy to grope,
to be groped. “Honey from your cup,” so bragged

the song, “makes me erupt.” That and the rope
around your wrists. The way your lips get dragged

out at each pull, in at each twist. — Your eyes
roll up. Your jaw hangs down. Your hips are round,

pierced through the center. Twice. I’ll leave a mess
in each. I’ll run roughshod between your thighs,

wild with the act of ruin, as I pound,
and I pound. It turns me on, I confess.

pungent

01 Thursday Nov 2018

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Corset cinched. Set your breasts upon a ledge
pressed in lace. Your nipples just visible

but one kiss will bring them over the edge.
Will you pout? Will you dare me to gargle

your cum? Read your clit like braille fat on
my tongue? Half undressed, you writhe, impatient

your folds dripping with anticipation —
for lips to inhale you, breathe your pungent

lust, make you sloppy just thinking about
grinding down the itch in your pubic bone.

It’s where my tongue goes. Why you get fingered.
This is my need to suckle, make you shout

as I quench a thirst as of yet unknown,
feed a hunger yet to be discovered.

kakhard

30 Tuesday Oct 2018

Posted by in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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After school I fingered you senseless. Filled
your mouth with more than quarrels over craft.

Left you soppy and brooding with my spilled
seed smeared across your lips. That word, I laughed

at what you called me: “kakhard.” It means witch.
Perhaps. I have blasphemed in the churchyard

of your arse sure enough. Made your clit twitch
with just my stare. Perhaps I am, “kakhard,”

and these dark Armenian arts the spell
that has ensnared you each time the school bell

rings, each time you knock on my door. Each time
kissing turns astonishing and sublime

while I lift the hem of your pleated skirt —
More. Touch me more. Make me hurt. Make me squirt.

Note:
In Armenian, “կախարդ,” is the word for witch.

who

27 Saturday Oct 2018

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I curl my fist inside you feel the slow
wet flow begin. You gnash and thrash and soak

my wrist until your voice is raw, too, though
I still keep it in. At times you mewl, “Choke

me when you fuck me.” At times I do. Lips
sloshing between your hips, your curlicue,

lathered teat: curled clit with spit. Acid trips
don’t last as long as I do down on you

while your spine shivers, mouth O, your haunted
eyes go blind. Few taste this sweet. Few can fit

me as you do. First below. Then above.
Round and around. First the flow, then the flood.

Who owns you? Whose teeth nibble at your clit?
Who taught you that depravity is love?

fusty luggs

20 Saturday Oct 2018

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To hunt for your cunt. To follow your spine
to the shrine of your ass wrapped in knickers.

Depraved. Shaved lips stretch as you recline,
draping heels around my neck. Worshipers

revere their sacred but I just cock-spank
your clit and call it prayer. To soil, defile

first one worships. The soul of all Love’s rank
and vile run riot in me. Will you smile

each time I sheathe myself in your behind?
Pull out to push in, again. Oui, chéri,

your son shall seethe when he sees me buried
balls deep. Call this position, “Gods Enshrined.”

My faith lies in all that’s pervy, curvy,
fusty luggs. Gods phat with children, married.

][][

Note:
“Fusty luggs,” much like, “Venus Observa Feminae,” is an archaic term for tribadism.

evermore

08 Monday Oct 2018

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So much repetition. You think I’m crass
what I do to your ass, each time I come

over. “That’s frowned on?” If I can’t trespass
why show up? You’ve been wearing my cum,

like cheap mascara, all day. — Now I frown:
“Not foul enough?” If your child could see you

right now, would she die of shame? Your nightgown
has. Each time puddles form and that funk-zoo

fuck-beast spice fills the room. How to explain
away this bruise? Those nail marks? That hickey?

Here I am, once more, knocking on your door,
“to fuck your shit up.” To spoil you with pain,

that drug of unnatural potency,
always in bad taste. Evermore hardcore.

furies

04 Thursday Oct 2018

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I, too, can’t sleep. I, too, dress in dark heat
and take a walk. Somewhere a jukebox croons.

Somewhere two kids fumble in the backseat
of her daddy’s clunker. Rain soon. Monsoons.

I love those kind of hurried fucks. Hoping
you won’t get caught. Hoping the seat won’t smell

of cum after. But … that need. Me needing
you. I can taste you in the air. Motel

neon. Passing cars. I can taste your need
all the way out here. How do people sleep

when such furies run through them? That low ache.
The sky’s violent passion. Love gone frenzied.

Scent of a wounded night. I walk, knee-deep
in lust. Drops fall but the heat doesn’t break.