Tag Archives: erotic poetry

sheds

14 Monday Dec 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on sheds

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Tonguing, leaving streaks between your cloven
lips, the spots where blushes and bruises bloom,

even during your heavy flow. Back then,
you said, you’d hide away in the bathroom.

Blood in your panties, soaked into your jeans,
and how everyone smirked. In the old tongue

even the word for menstruating means
hidden away, dashtani. “I was young,”

you said, “and Soviet-era tampons?
I’d just stay home.” Now you press on my face,

here in the bathtub, as your uterus
sheds. I have streaks on my chin, red and bronze,

my tongue working you to a state of grace,
delving deep between your clit and anus.

][][

In Armenian, the word for menstruating, dashtan, (դաշտան), is the same root word for separation, dashtani (դաշտանի).

Quote

night tide

28 Saturday Nov 2015

Posted by in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on night tide

Tags

, , , , , ,

The drowned girl said, “be rougher, I don’t mind.”

In the old tongue — a tongue that I couldn’t

speak well. The lake water had made me blind

so I clung to her wide hips as her cunt

covered my mouth, my chin. In the night tide

the small waves inched over us. I could feel

her bent forward, pressing down, as she tried

to gag me -drown- while her wild mane went eel-

like, all hither and yon. I’ve walked Sevan’s coast,

the drowned outnumbers the living. Thirty

years-old; wild hair rose up, like — dark like, kelp —

a voice that called from the lake. Carmine’s ghost

calling, “Yeranut’yun.” — Bliss. The way she

pulled back and said, “you naughty little welp.”

][][

note:

In Armenian, the word for bliss is, “yer’an’ut’yun,” (երանություն).

— Babylon Crashing

Quote

bit salt

06 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on bit salt

Tags

, , , ,

Morning fog. Open window. Her muscled

arms. Spooned in silence. Soft boy flesh waking.

One roll and she mounted, sliding from dulled

sleep into howling wetness. Tightening,

vice-like, a groan, nails marking his shoulder,

husky, low. Fog patches filling the gapes

of the bay. Child of the reef, your lover

caught you out of your drowned-skin. What escapes

lust when a muscle-woman puts her mind

to it? Not even myth. Her thighs buckled,

her heels dug into the mattress. She ground

down. Bit hard. Drew salt. Laughed as she reclined

back; let him breathe while sea-water dribbled

between her thighs dribbled down dribbled down.

— Babylon Crashing

Quote

the peel sessions

15 Tuesday Sep 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on the peel sessions

Tags

, , , ,

Ill kept, bad investment, this aftermath

when we drift off to sleep. Some want two sips

I need a whole damn ocean, a bloodbath.

I know about quenching. How the bullwhip’s

handle, when pressed just so, can stem your whole

deluge. I’ll leave it there. To wet my lips

and then moisten my mouth, rupture your soul.

I run my fingers through you, though what drips.

I call it soul — something that I can touch.

Slake. We all have appetites and there’s bliss

when at last full. It’s what copper suggests

on the tongue from peeling fruit. Insomuch

as my tongue can peel your fruit from this kiss,

this pulp, this sweat pooling between your breasts.

— Babylon Crashing

dead chick

14 Friday Aug 2015

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

“A silver Lucifer/ serves
cocaine in cornucopia
To some somnambulists
of adolescent thighs …”
— Mina Loy, “Lunar Baedeker”

][][

Back when I use to be alive and drunk
on stale sweat and beer. An amazon leaned

on her stick, fingers blue with chalk. Some punk
band screamed in the jukebox, “Lezzie Sex Fiend,”

I think, while another girl bent to take
her shot, her afro brushing the green felt.

Detroit girls in pool halls, full of the ache
of first love and adolescence. I’ve dwelt

among their shadows. It’s where you found me;
in the toilet stall, calling me “cousin.”

Because I’m neither drunk nor alive. “Lick
me here” — And I do. You taste beer-salty.

“Damn, girl, that’s nasty,” you say. “Shit, your skin’s
stone-cold — Cousin, you’re one fucked-up dead chick.”

butch cockscomb crawl

07 Friday Aug 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on butch cockscomb crawl

Tags

, , , , ,

Quick, drink up. It’s on me, despite all this.
— Try my red lips like a surgical scar

quickly opened — when you lean in to kiss
you’ll find that my teeth, immense and bizarre,

gleam. Try posing me in a slitted-skirt
with thighs crossed as two girls begin to brawl

over nothing at Juicy Lucy’s Yurt,
where it smells like yak milk, cum and Pinesol.

Mostly I don’t step in. It’s not science,
just cheap alcohol. Try a Butch Cockscomb

Crawl. But tonight’s different — for there are some
who find cold-blooded pleasure in violence.

After the fight I took the two girls home,
despite all this, we made it a threesome.

sleet caked

27 Monday Jul 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on sleet caked

Tags

, , , , ,

“An wha will mak me fidgin fain?
O wha will kiss me o’er again?”
– Robert Burns (1788)

“Feck thes!” Our breath, clouded. The car’s heater
struggled, even at high — In the back seat

next to the baby-chair, you stripped off your
mittens, pulled your jeans to your knees while sleet

caked the windshield. “Ah got tae gie ye back
tae skale in ‘en minutes, we’ll make it queck.”

Guiding my head down, my shoulders hunchbacked
while your snow-boots pressed into my stomach.

It took you eight; leaving me sick, your cum
in my eyebrows. Even after you cleaned

me up I was a mess all day long —
I’m older now. I’ve heard the joke: “Th’ Mum

an’ Th’ Neighbur Bairn.” The punchline: “Sex-fiends
ur made an’ education isnae wrang.”

sufficiency that intrigues

25 Saturday Jul 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on sufficiency that intrigues

Tags

, , ,

It’s the self-sufficiency that intrigues
me. All those small, little acts that add up

to more. A friend writes about her blitzkrieg
sex life: hers is a world where she worships

only her own rapture. A cry, a puff,
a groan, a lament, an echo, an ache.

And the orgasm? Raucous enough,
oddly musical, what I might mistake

as a miracle. That long buzz and burn.
I have never been like that. It’s a shock

to learn that my own flesh and libido
could be somehow different, that I could learn

how these small acts work, that I could unlock
such fire, that I could be an inferno.

honeyed

10 Friday Jul 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on honeyed

Tags

, , , ,

I loved that smile-scar of her C-section;
and yes, that boast of hers — that she once bucked

some guy out of bed when she came, that none
could hold her hips still — was all true. I sucked,

hard. My fingers went deep, and then curved up.
She was far above me as I knelt down

in her mom’s trailer. She ran, like syrup,
honeyed. It was noon but her Sear’s nightgown

was wet where my mouth had been. Her tattoo
shivered. Her nails dug in. She screamed. This bruise

is from then. The TV was on. I pried
my hand free. Her baby, somehow, slept through

it in the next room. Suddenly the news
said that Ella Fitzgerald had just died.

Quote

LOVE SONG WITH WITCHES

13 Wednesday May 2015

Posted by in Poetry, quote unquote

≈ Comments Off on LOVE SONG WITH WITCHES

Tags

, , , , , , ,

babylon-crashing:

I.

Sleepless, magic night

your fingers and legs spread wide

exploring new worlds.

II.

There is no sin, just

a dark forest first

came the drum, da-da,

and then came the song.

III.

At fourteen I talked to ghosts with
black mud,

bud and cheap blood running in the
acid.

There was a glamour but I did not understand

anything that they were trying to say.

IV.

If you must belong to a tribe, come. No

one has loved you with lips and
fingers, laid

with you until the moon’s day-face
faded

with the dawn. None have brought you
lover’s gifts.

We are a tribe of never-was. We are

a tribe of all of us that might have
been.

V.

Hear me. This is no gift. Here be
witches,

vhukneri. This is your clitoris,

tslik. This is my tongue, lezu. They
call

this witchcraft, kakhardut’yun. A
shaman

must ride a long-tongued ghost to learn
all her

occult secrets. You, blood heart, must
ride me.

VI.

To be a corpse bride, to find a long
dead

lover, to have your crazy hair caught
up

in the air, saints preserve, in a
forest

first came the drum, then the song, for
I am

singing, I am drumming. No one hears
me.

VII.

At the crossroads you shall find all:
this song,

hashish cakes and shadows. Ride me, I
am

your drum, singing your way back home.
I am

a hard ride. Together we will go far.

><><><><

NOTE:

The foreign words I use are Armenian:

ՎՀՈՒԿՆԵՐԻ (vhukneri) =
witches.

ԾԼԻԿ (tslik) = clitoris.

ԼԵԶՈՒ (lezu) = tongue.

ԿԱԽԱՐԴՈՒԹՅՈՒՆ
(kakhardut’yun) = witchcraft.