Tag Archives: erotic poetry

domain

21 Saturday Jul 2018

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Listen for the glisten of mud. By swan’s

soot. By romp’s root. After a sound spanking

 

against a burned-out bole in the Fox-Fauns

delta I take the rope’s slack end, binding

 

your wrists, lead you further into the muck.

Wearing only waders in these tidelands

 

is not much fun. Of course biting bugs suck.

So too do the church folk across the sands.

 

But we’re safe in the Goddess’ domain.

At each slap an intake of breath. Wet heat

 

rises between your legs. There is no shame

when so close to the sea. To be constrained.

 

To be punished. You love it — and you bleat

joy with each sting. By cum’s blot. By Her name.

suffused

20 Friday Jul 2018

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Dark love: filling your throat up to the balls.

This, too, is romance. Hands pulling, clenched in

 

your hair. Call it rough. Call it crude. Fuck-dolls

and archangels whimper at our work. Sin,

 

good and proper, they’d call this. Cum and drool

cascade down your chin. You grin. I trust you.

 

You trust me. Other love lives are cesspools

of hurt. To spread your ass wide. To corkscrew

 

into you with head thrown back, with throat bared.

Others moan of lives lived without passion

 

but you quiver when that word is uttered.

You’ve taken what nirvana offered.

 

Suffused with such dark love our souls open,

reverberate with wonder — we’re well paired.

buckings

19 Thursday Jul 2018

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Suffered. Cheated. Mistreated. Nothing born

in a hothouse. A night-blooming pervert.

 

All-night pain’s blast furnace. Suck your forlorn

thumb just to keep quiet. “Southern Comfort/

 

hard fuck skag,” you sang; like Joan and Janis,

Bessie and Billie. Your song drips hot wax,

 

pelvis-jarring buckings. What is a kiss

compared to this pain? Synapses climax.

 

You cum all the time. Quietly. Your thumb

in your mouth. Buckings. Let it burn. Let it

 

burn. “If I can’t/ love myself let it/ burn.”

The sky crackles goes out. Shadow. Sodom.

 

Dance. Shake the bone-rattle, petite misfit.

Debauchee aslant. Singer of nocturnes.

in praise of yansa

18 Wednesday Jul 2018

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Your hair spills around the elastic’s fringe

the way pomegranate juice seeps between

 

my lips. Not that red, no; more burnt-orange

kinky. The gods have blessed you with obscene

 

tastes. “Molha tua boca,” you say. Wet

your mouth. Yansa is your mother, her blood

 

runs — “Minha flor que arde” — in your sweat,

your heat. Your flower of flame. First the flood,

 

call it Spirit, then the fire — She warned you.

Not with the tongue — A kiss there and all hell

 

will break loose. She knew what that toothsome rose,

sleeping among your burnished curls, can do.

 

“Lambe-me,” you say. Lick me. Make me swell.

Overflow. Let the world end with curled toes.

][][

Note:

In Yoruba faith and religion the goddess Oya has many names; in Latin and South America she is called Yansa or Iansa, personification of fire, winds, violent storms, death and rebirth.

fireworm

17 Tuesday Jul 2018

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Look at this mess. Leaning forward to lube

up your ass. Ease the curved plug in as you

 

kneel. Feel you shift around it. The flashcube

on the Instamatic. The Siouxsie Sioux

 

8-track. The neon dashiki. The joke

about finding fireworms in the cherry

 

pit. I still don’t get it. We’re friends who stroke

and pet and play. Friends who love the dandy,

 

dandyess, dandizette … Fret with the heart

string, it is always messy. You shall wear

 

that plug, lodged in the birthplace of fragrance,

within the core of your flesh. There is art

 

and craft to this; filling you like fool’s prayer,

dunce’s grace, like all that is not absence.

calm moments

15 Sunday Jul 2018

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Tender, but tight enough. With rope, with cord,

with a leather belt. Tension in the knot.

 

Tension in the promise of being gored,

impaled, ruined. Danger of being caught

 

with clots of cum in your hair. Your father

downstairs. Your kid brother in the bathroom.

 

That’s not what we want from this mad venture.

In those calm moments as we pant, the bloom

 

of our bright ecstasy fading from our

eyes, our grins both daft and dear, I know that

 

everything has changed. We’ll rise from our tryst

with queer new hungers for worlds to devour.

 

You will sigh. I will kiss your “baby phat”

tattoo and slowly untie your clenched fist.

soft boys

13 Friday Jul 2018

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Over the roofs there soon came the red wind

of late June, the one that twists, raises skirts,

 

shirts, my love for all the things that have sinned.

You cup his plump rump. “You spurt how perverts

 

squirt,” you sniff your fingers, slouched on the curb.

It’s odd how the hot air perturbs you more

 

than his sweat stains, my unzipped jeans. Perturbed.

Aroused. Whatever. There are few hardcore

 

soft boys — gluteus divinus — left

and you’ve taken us both, despite the daft

 

dry heat, weighing the sinew, brawn and heft

of each of our cocks while we spurt and laughed.

 

“It’s Beltane, cock-suckers!” Wind in your hair

as you toy with my lips, his derriere.

hourglass

13 Friday Jul 2018

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Thin are the night-skirts and thin was your skirt

you’d meet me at the door in. Thin, short hem,

 

held in place with a pin. Coffee, yogurt,

chronic; breakfast out back. There was mayhem

 

in your breast as I brushed your breast, bending

down to take a dish. In the basement

 

with the worn-down washing machine running

I could feel it vibrate through your splayed cunt,

 

up through your hourglass curves, your unsurpassed

ass, your double belly. It’s a Tuesday

 

and may all our Tuesdays begin like this,

with cum. Let the neighbors be aghast,

 

this is not for them. Let us stretch our foreplay

out all day long. Desire calls and we kiss.

what the dead and chaste abhor

12 Thursday Jul 2018

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What is this need: sex among the ruins?

We kissed in the remains of a school-house

 

by the gray marsh reeds, while the ghosts of nuns

ached and dead things crept in the weeds. Your blouse

 

undone, skirt on the floor. Slowly we bent

over a desk top with fingers at work:

 

stretching, coaxing, melting down walls our scent

mixed with willow, dust, sumac. With a jerk

 

you came, shouted, “¡Lilith!” wild with tonguing.

Just then all that the dead and chaste abhor

 

we became. Let ruins of grace that fuel

lust be a blessing. Let ghosts mark our coming

 

with sex stains gracing their world: warped floor,

battered seat and jack-knife carved initial.

dishabille

06 Friday Jul 2018

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Kindness is a strange aphrodisiac —

You show me shocking blue bruises, stitches

 

and a thick tattoo on your lower back

that reads: Baby Mac Sappho. Your nieces

 

come to visit. Your sister frowns at me.

I look like trouble. The hospital room

 

is small. I wait in the hall as you three

chat but as soon as they’re gone we resume

 

where we left off: your gown pulled to your breasts,

thighs wrapped around my neck. Your dishabille

 

lips, the moon-stud in your clitoral hood,

the way you spurt. All week you had no guests.

 

That hurt. But this kindness, you say, this feels

good. Just good? I ask. Heh, cuntablunt good.