Tag Archives: erotic poetry

coitus carnalis

05 Thursday Jul 2018

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Photos of you from the 80s: your permed

mullet, day-glo spandex, braces. You mused

 

about your lovers: the first girl who squirmed

under your tongue, the first boy who abused

 

your bum. We wouldn’t have been friends back then.

You liked dudes, ripped and mean. I was neither.

 

What was the term? “Art fag”? Still, tonight, sin,

a slick mess, has brought us to this. Cancer

 

has not dimmed your ardor. Your husband snores

upstairs. Your younger self stares down on us.

 

I have to wonder if she’d be surprised

to find you spread wide? skewered? on all-fours

 

like beasts? Slow, deep feast — coitus carnalis

— cum now, I think that she’d be scandalized.

what escapes

01 Sunday Jul 2018

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Say that submissiveness is a wavelength

simply seeking proper context. You wet

 

yourself, you say, because your secret strength

comes from dreams of cum, of cream, of stout jets

 

arching up from between your legs. I’ve squished

juice from you, pinched your lips until, like grapes,

 

you ran down my arm. “I drip when ravished,”

you squeak. “Je mouille comme une folle.” What escapes

 

between us is slick. We burble. We rave.

We read the patterns with a soothsayer’s

 

prowess that you sprinkle and dew. Always,

they say, you will come again. That this wave

 

in you will come out. Call these kisses prayers

to all that bucks and groans, gushes and sprays.

NOTE:

My French is very bad but I believe that, “je mouille comme une folle,” translates into, “I’m as wet as a crazy woman.” We all should be that wet.

lapse

18 Monday Jun 2018

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Friends don’t fuck, your father claimed. True, perhaps,

though I don’t know what else to call these acts

 

of ours, waiting for your school bus. Relapse?

Bare backsliding? Snu-snu? I’d say that facts

 

argue that friends do, often, savagely.

I might be a corrupting influence …

 

though your fascination with sodomy

started long before, you claim. The fragrance

 

of sweat, cum and new knowledge fills the air,

your sheets all splotched. Once I swore that I’d end

 

it with you … the way that all addicts do.

Now I lapse, gaily. Now I just don’t care

 

what your father thinks. True, you are my friend

as well as why I love all that’s taboo.

vulgarity

02 Saturday Jun 2018

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— on  Beltane (May 1st)

 

Summer heat in the forest. Green rage, haze.

Too hot. Too sluggish. The wind-bells don’t stir.

 

The birds don’t stir. Too sultry for dull praise

and dull ritual — Only the lover

 

and the witch stir; all who pray erect, wet

to touch, open to air — Only lovers

 

whose skin sheens, whose kisses come slick with sweat,

who cum as gushings, downpours, flood waters.

 

A touch of sodomy between the trees.

A touch of vulgarity; satyrs blush

 

when they see us together. Praise this sleaze

and all that it has wrought. Praise rush and gush,

 

the tongue in your mouth, the flesh of your rump

in this haze; all that is muscled, round, plump.

thrimilce

29 Tuesday May 2018

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In the Season of Slosh, dank and swampy,

in Thrimilce, the Month of Three Milkings,

 

when all that drips and rains and bleeds in me,

each spurt and geyser, will be offerings.

 

Nothing is as bewitching; a horned god

in the spring heat, long and lovely and lush.

 

Green heat: I want to impale you, ramrod

you in sacrifice to the forest. Gush,

 

as sap gushes, down your garlands. Cock-slap

your blithe face, stretching jaw, your bulging throat.

 

In juice is joy, they say. In cum wisdom.

Bless the sacred; be it spit, seed or sap.

 

Bless the damp earth. Bless lovers that devote

themselves daily to wisdom and to cum.

][][

Note: “Thrimilce,” is the Anglo-Saxon term for the month of May, when the animals of the earth are so fertile that the ewes can be milked three times a day.

noontide

28 Monday May 2018

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Then I walk in. You are their Mama Bear;
Lyric’s cock hard in your hand, Karma’s cunt

spread wide under your tongue. Boys with longhair,
girls in combat boots; when you are pregnant

and huge like this your sex drive runs amok.
Noontide blunts. Bourbon. Gaping of your ass

as you slowly reach around your stomach
to guide Lyric in. I watch the blue-glass

veins, wide shaft, fatty tip vanish inside.
Who would ask for this when we feel pure want

consume us? When our lethargic passion
stirs? There is hell in not being denied,

in not saying no when you’re their mad aunt,
and these two, your baby sister’s children.

snog

06 Friday Apr 2018

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Susurrus: “a soughing of the waves;
murmur of flow.” Kissing you in the fog,

under stunted myrtle. When the flesh craves
more than just fingers and tongues, when a snog

goes on for too long – your jeans unbuttoned,
dew drops in your pubes, mica-flakes under

your nails – you make that lechery-moistened
groan. The sea cries in want and you answer

with your own cum-soaked sob, estuary
soaking your jeans. In those fifteen minutes

during recess – with dune grass, pear cactus,
with wet panting in us and susurrus

around us – we become the wind’s secrets
to the surf; children of chaos and glee.

mad sea

23 Tuesday Jan 2018

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There is always more to love. For you love
is a koi gliding through water: content,

at peace, blest. For me it is the clawed glove
piercing fish-flesh, feeling you wriggle, bent

double. Come, cum, pray: intense, phrenetic,
like a pretty piece of flesh — or a crushed

chrysanthemum — or the gothic chronic
that I roll for you. You have blushed and blushed,

swimming in circles. I do not love pools.
I love the mad sea. I love the forces

that no soul can control. Pierced and hoisted
high, fish, you crash back down. Seas have no rules.

Gape and gasp as all inside you gushes,
geysers, squirts such thick chaotic fluid.

scratch

10 Wednesday Jan 2018

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I’ll give you the, “root of suffering.” That
and the damn shag carpet will leave fresh rug burns

on your chin, your ass, over each knee, brat.
Sure, they’ll fade soon, from tart’s rosette to slattern’s

brown. The scabs will follow, crusty as lace.
And all around your precious throat, bruises,

both blue and yellow, will mark an embrace
that’ll match my fingertips. There aren’t sutras

for such love; but since all flesh aches, which leads
to such base urges, Buddha will know the itch

that we scratch. Under the shower steam flows
up our backs, soothing our cocaine nosebleeds,

letting heat soak into each scar, each stitch,
burning away all remorse, all sorrows.

Notes:
The basis of Buddhism is a doctrine known as the Four Noble Truths. A loose interpretation of the First Truth is that all life is suffering, pain, and misery. The Second says that the root of this suffering is caused by cravings and desire … at that point I stopped reading.

where it was

03 Wednesday Jan 2018

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“Wo es war,” where it was leads us to it.
There were days as if it were not hunkered

in the distance; from gangrened to frostbit
to flesh in the cold. Where it was. Absurd

to think of it: beastly, feral, depraved.
Absurd to follow. “Wo es war,” and yet,

I do. There be dragons; all that it craved,
ravings. I crave for you: take the blade, whet

stone, carve such German words on my neither.
Twist me this where it was hunkered. Our tryst

begged. I follow. I rave. May memory
be my only brood; the past such future.

You lay with your ass in the air — I kissed,
you clenched; puckered again, I thought, briefly.