Tag Archives: erotic poetry

giddy

03 Wednesday Oct 2018

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Kitten, run your fingers along my jaw.
This is an appetizer — The French say,

“Amuse Bouche,” mouth pleasure. As in: raw
ginger pushed inside, then sucked out. Foreplay

all day. Pleasure spent with kisses. Tracing
the seam of your jeans. I can taste your clit

through the wet fabric. A touch of teasing,
knowing that I’ll break you. You will submit.

Not now. Soon. Now your tongue is greedily
in my mouth, wrists straining against silken

ties, eyes wide. Each kiss hints at bukkake,
your face soaked with joy, giddy and drunken

licking my thumb clean from where I buried
it in you, all spit-glazed and cum-honeyed.

honey-suckled

27 Thursday Sep 2018

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Bent like so — her wet, bushy cunt is just
beyond the reach of your mouth. My tongue swirls

against your hard bud. Swirl, twirl then a thrust,
sucking your skin in. You grind. You cowgirl

my chin. With two fingers quaver you spread
her, run them back and forth, sink them in, twist,

curl. I’m cock-slapping your clit. Your forehead
is slick from where she rested as you kissed,

honey-suckled her, tempest in your throat.
Honey-blossom, passion is so fragile

in our loneliness. Cashed out blunt, wineglass,
a line of poetry that you misquote —

It’s all good. You smile as you make her mewl.
I smile as I grind away in your ass.

gimme some

21 Friday Sep 2018

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Rueful for a dead lover. For three nights
I have been at the graveyard’s dirt crossroads

praying for a wanton haunt. No ghost-lights.
No arms that hold me down; kiss that explodes

in chill across my skin; voice in my ear
going, “shhh, baby.” I’ve abused this skin,

dripped blood and cum in the dirt; read Shakespeare,
Sappho, Blake out loud. All the discipline

I’ve learned keeps me coming back but I cum
alone. Each morning my Love-Crone candle,

Lilith root, Follow Me Ghost trick remains
untouched, sperm-sticky, contrite. “Gimme some,”

the song goes, “Dead girl/ Gimme some.” Rueful
for what must lay beyond these veiled domains.

potluck

17 Monday Sep 2018

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I am naked inside the room to match
my nude mood. I cannot rub the strangeness

from my sight as I pass the mirror. Thatch
of curls. Plump root. An ass to make Venus

jealous. I am a beast with sublime thighs.
You call me, “Daddy.” I call you, “Potluck;”

cumming with you is always a surprise —
Who else cock-slaps your face? With the havoc

of crude sex comes a crude enlightenment.
When you return from class I’ll press my face

in your ass, tongue your clit. May your grand mal
climax be rough like passion; be urgent

like love. I am vain but constant like grace
when you say, “Daddy, break your little doll.”

fatty batty

13 Thursday Sep 2018

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Naked under your oil-soaked overalls,
I lead you behind the filling station

to peel down, press you up against the wall’s
rough brick. You love ball bearings, oil, engine

grease, rough fucks while your husband drunkenly
snores next door. We use one of his condoms.

“A bit tight,” I admit as the frothy
acid begins to drip. When your cunt spasms

I shift to your “fatty batty” — molten
baby bhang and blue cheer. Your dreads hang down.

Your eyes closed. Your daughter will be home soon.
There’s an engine needing your attention.

Just now, though, you’re shaking, all pleasure-frown,
all unquenchable, all Saint Kitts monsoon.

murk

08 Saturday Sep 2018

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Fruitcake and sludge love, a love-smudge, dried crust
crusting my nails. Few ghosts come back with pride,

with tales. On our last shift you were tied, trussed,
crotch-rope spreading your pudendal cleft wide

under your scrubs. Release, in all its forms:
from me, from work, that cum-sticky murk smell,

cirque-slush fog. I know how a nurse transforms
with bliss of rope kissing her, “pumpkin shell.”

Bad joke. “Peter, eat her.” Very well: last
kiss, last shift through your cottons. Moist as cake,

as fruit — as the mistake we want and yearn
for, crusts our nails. In the future our past

falls from us — Call this the sort of mistake
that leaves behind only ghost-tales, rope-burn.

blood-cream

01 Saturday Sep 2018

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In sight — it must be right. Feeding spectral

menstrual blood to me in a High Sex dream.

 

Gobbets from off dead fingers. Your menstrual

flow, these queer pheromones, love supreme

 

charm, still survived with your breath. This surprised

me. You’d died at nineteen — lust must feral.

 

I’d placed on your grave a lodestone baptized

in my blood and cum, spirit salt, candle

 

wax and prayer: “we will all the pleasures prove.”

You heard, followed. In dream magic the ground

 

is wet with your chamber lye, sky a flow

of need, binding me. Now feed. Your floods move

 

through me. I know. Blood-cream. I dream and drown

all numb. I know. Your dead girl’s cum. I know.

tempered

26 Sunday Aug 2018

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Strop me twice. Make it hurt down my blue-ice

thighs and across my feet. Rope wound around

my wrists held high, wet anklets slick with slice.

On my pixie puck-curves welts unfurl, bound

from where the belt’s strop-strap struck. Turning screw

stone of my skin a bronze hue, tempered pearl

ochre. They say the devil wore a blue

dress, but any dress will do. You’re wet curl

below, wet at sweat and bruises that glow

on my cheeks. Queen Cliodhona’s grace guiding

each strop-strap slap, each swing of your arm. Wear

me rough, a glamour is upon me. Show

me fire-licked skin. Afterglow. Show me sting,

swung, stung. Own me stone down to my shorthair.

][][

Note:

Cliodhona (pronounced like Fiona but with a “cl”) is one of the Tuath Dé Danann (“tribe of gods”) in Irish mythology. A Fairy Queen associated with county Cork, the seashore and waves (the tide at Glandore is still called, “Waves of Cliodhna”). Passionate and violent in nature, tradition says that she abducted and seduced poets and bards of both sexes. The McCarthys and O’Keefes of Cork trace their lineage back to her.

thickset

23 Thursday Aug 2018

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Not that bent field stone, slick with dew, jasmine,

chicory — there are gods of those fields, scant

 

hairy things who watch you squat and piss in

the green flax. I wish to know what the ant

 

and the bee see in such jewel-weed. Not

that plush spot plump between your collar bones.

 

Not bone or field stone, not odd god, fleshpot

or urge (there is always an urge) that groans

 

thickset, clover seed to plant root in you.

Open your mouth. Root seed and suck, inhale.

 

Simple as not gagging. The way you pass

through a pallid field turned bronze. What shall spew

 

from me shall dribble down your chin, a pale

trail, a craving, splash, dew-dropping the grass.

shushing-slush

20 Monday Aug 2018

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Gushing-gust. Rammed, slammed, damned as I can slow

downward thrust. From above. From such thick stem

 

lusting-lust heat, then seed. Round cheeks aglow.

Round chin in shambles with spit, cum and phlegm.

 

Bodies are round. Muscles are a myth. No

sinew, no bones, just bliss. Just lunacy —

 

that “rave” in crave. That moan quake. That widow

maker. Fat stem in quim. In cosh. In glee

 

as I plumb the depth of your throat. Convulse.

Gag. Try to stand up. “Back to your knees, cur.”

 

This is a game. I play to win because

you play to lose. To be used on impulse

 

with a thrusting-trust. — Fuck like a centaur.

Cum like a sphinx. Without grace. Without pause.