30 Thursday Mar 2017
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The Roman poet Catullus uses the word, ‘irrumabo’, to mean face-fucking, though the actual term derives from ‘ruma’, the Latin word for ‘udder’ … so we can translate, ‘Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo’, into, ‘I’ll sodomize you and make you suck my cock’, or, ‘I’ll sodomize you and make you suck my udder’ … either way is brilliant.
18 Wednesday Jan 2017
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Tags
doog, erotic poetry, ghostsista, implement, reblog, sheismadeinpiland, sonnet, torment
The tiles were so cold — You wanted torment,
like how god-dogs do it. Your muscles clenchedunder your jeans. You’ve walked around, hellbent
that none of your friends would notice the drenchedlittle patch, the buzz of your discipline
implemented deep between your cheeks. Youpeel down your jeans like you peel skin
down bone, down muscle. At each corkscrewtwist lick squeeze the silicon hammer’s head
spreads you wider. We two lay on the floorof your mom’s bathroom — The acid hitting
just then. “Yeah, leck it. Me clit is blood-red.Me arse — O! ahm a god! ahm a doog! Mooar!”
Torment, you had called it. Your toes, curling.
16 Wednesday Mar 2016
You like your fuck puppets cute and pig-tailed.
Boys call you, “Papi.” Girls, “Mommy.” I sweat
fugly. I slur. I’m grotesque: — yet, so few
ghosts stay to write your name in cum across
their drowned bellies like I do. There’s no cure.
I grind it in you slow and hot: — You’re ill
for days after. You’re ill enough to bleed.
Sick the way fire needs carbon. The sick need
the rope has for knots. “Make it tighter still,
leave a mark, something to look at when you’re
gone.” — just under the skin, aching for loss.
Bend me, break me, if you must. I give you
my bones, my vulgar flesh that you crave. Let
me be your drug, where all others have failed.
08 Tuesday Mar 2016
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A lick of my lips reveals I’ve missed a bit of you.
28 Sunday Feb 2016
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all that wet.
28 Sunday Feb 2016
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i know i’m bold
coming on like this
but the good things in life
are too good to be missed …
26 Friday Feb 2016
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
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Tags
Babylon Crashing, erotic poetry, quote unquote, reblog, sonnet, we
Today I drink and so do you. These words
enter you, they touch the dark light inside.
You’ve had lovers before. Some were bastards,
some not. They’re all gone. None stayed. None replied
when you called. But that’s not what you regret.
Your cunt milked him as he thrust both his thumbs
deep in your ass, cried out. You felt a jet
of his semen balloon out the condom,
shooting against your cervix. Today we
drink and pause over past lovers; all those
who did not stay. Today we are going
to get so fucking drunk. You are like me.
We have no real friends. We’re no one’s heroes.
This is not love — just a dark light — ghosting.
18 Monday Jan 2016
The tiles were so cold — You wanted torment,
like how god-dogs do it. Your muscles clenched
under your jeans. You’ve walked around, hellbent
that none of your friends would notice the drenched
little patch, the buzz of your discipline
implemented deep between your cheeks. You
peel down your jeans like you peel skin
down bone, down muscle. At each corkscrew
twist lick squeeze the silicon hammer’s head
spreads you wider. We two lay on the floor
of your mom’s bathroom — The acid hitting
just then. “Yeah, leck it. Me clit is blood-red.
Me arse — O! ahm a god! ahm a doog! Mooar!”
Torment, you had called it. Your toes, curling.
31 Thursday Dec 2015
Tags
chapped, cunnilingus with a kick, erotic poetry, home-made Brazilian wax job, hot wax, poem, sonnet, your shaved stubble
Just to see what it felt like, I took wax
from the stove and dribbled it, sluggishly,
through my thick pubes. Some say that they climax
quicker with pain. But the world is squirmy
with quick fucks. Tomorrow I’ll shave this mess
before work. Three years, gone — like that. Some say
that all they want is a slit-buzzed caress
from a talented tongue. The term, “foreplay,”
insults, who needs more than long lapping? Wrapped
up, as tight as we are — it’s a damn myth
that we somehow found peace. All my devout
prayer to your shaved stubble has left me chapped,
bleeding. This is not for me — and so, with
a jerk of the hair, I pull it all out.
14 Monday Dec 2015
Tags
cunnilingus, dashtani, erotic poetry, heavy flow, menses, poem, Poetry, sheds, sonnet
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).
memories of my ghost sista 