Tag Archives: erotic poetry

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.

scrum

18 Saturday Aug 2018

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Fat “B” in “balsamic.” — As in, the noise

you make glazed — “B” in “burst” and “kablooey.”

 

“Oui, spurt.” Beastly comforts. Raspy tomboy’s

face gets splattered just the same. “Oui, rugby.”

 

“B” as in “butch” with “beef shoulders.” Notchy

hips. Half dollar scar from scrum, rucks and mauls.

 

Curvy sinner heat. Makes us kiss-crazy.

Makes you shimmy out of your shorts. “Oui, brawls

 

in bed,” you call this. Hunched blood apple. Stained

bruises. Broken rib. — You could break me. Bleat

 

me. Make me go blind. — What does the tattoo’d

“B” on your thigh mean? You never explained

 

standing in my bath. All bull-girl athlete.

Brawler of beds. Insatiable and crude.

monstrous

09 Thursday Aug 2018

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Sucking on the onyx, the molasses,

in you, while our mothers in the kitchen

 

chortle and your country-hedge of brat fuzz

tickles my nose. Wets my chin. If we’re kin

 

we’re a queer kin. There’s hissing in your hair.

We’re snakes and snake charmers. There is nothing

 

here to vex the tongue. Clit and cock, prayer

fat with blood. An itch. Your fingers moving,

 

pulling me in. Perhaps they’ll notice grass

stains, flushed cheeks, itches itched. You’re serpentine

 

just now, spine arched, hips buckled, monstrous

with need. Sublime in the morning sun. Crass

 

with cum, with becoming love’s lore. Your seam

split wide, your hedge soaked. Perhaps they’ll notice.

bacchanal

05 Sunday Aug 2018

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Strange change, indeed. Who am I to question?

I’ve come late to the gate; dank with withered

 

grass and shade. Debauchery is foreign

here and deprave one more forgotten word.

 

A touch of burlesque. Silent movies thrill.

Theda Bara’s voracious eyes promised

 

teeth in your flesh, nails down your back, the chill

of sharp ice countered with hot wax. Encrust

 

me. Trust me. Be my scab. I’ve yet to be

stared at the way she stared. Shadow and bow.

 

Gloom puts the rage into umbrage, anal

into bacchanal. I’ve followed many

 

wheel ruts through blown stone not once asking how,

searching for your sun’s night, your sparkle’s skull.

ahoo

26 Thursday Jul 2018

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Death leads me to these acts done in flagrance.

“After great pain” – Shlick – “a formal feeling” –

 

Shlick – “Cums.” Twitch. Petite death. There’s no science

to what stirs first. Vortex wakes, quakes. “Shlicking,”

 

you said. “Soft, sleek and fine,” you said. “Watch this:

my lit clit.” – Such bliss can only be sensed

 

along the edges: blood cycle, dawn piss,

star dust, love alone. That moment: hips tensed,

 

spine arched, knees flung all ahoo. I am full

of blessed sin, sacred sparks, every taboo

 

role that I know. In that blind moment cracked

-lips-crush-down-tongues-fail-to-pull-

 

away … But no. Of course. I (like you)

are alone in these solitary acts.

milked

23 Monday Jul 2018

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To milk. To think of Lilith, her nine laws,

as I ream your ring. Moon-cycle, moon-horns,

 

moon-kin. She loves pilgrims, slattern outlaws,

butt sluts. With lubed tongue, with cum that adorns

 

Heaven. Haven. Your ass spread wide like so.

“Pervy,” you lament. “You’ve made me a perv

 

with my bum.” The other secret grotto.

We name it, then we pray to it. Fat curve

 

of cock swallowed up, shaft consumed. Clenched tight,

you’ve milked with your bowels. A prayer for Her —

 

Mother of Outcasts, Lady of the Dune,

Vagabond’s Love — blessed be and Her queer light

 

in this excess, in your ass, the other

grotto — Eden: laid waste by a typhoon.