Tags
erotic poetry, haiku, my pubes, roots, sunglight, washed out
washed-out by sunlight
though the roots are in the dark
my pubes turn to gold
11 Saturday Apr 2015
Tag Archives: erotic poetry
GLITCH IN THE FOG
11 Saturday Apr 2015
Tags
bad posture, bad rites, bad teeth, Besos de un fantasma, Cádiz ghost, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, glitch in the fog, lick her karma, palpitations, poem, sonnet, Spanish teenage demons
[[“besos fantasmas,” kisses from your favorite ghost, darling]]
Kiss like an omen. Kiss like its doomsday.
Cold bled lips. “Besos de un fantasma,”
as my lover, a Cádiz ghost, would say.
Swell. Her ozone. When I lick her karma
she melts. Love has no rules, which is why
I’m so bad at it. There should be rites, witch
craft, blood oaths; anything to defy
expectations. I ruined her death, glitch
in the fog, by calling her only half
way home. I’m a lousy fish. I keep her
asleep in my small eye. Palpitations;
she wakes, crawls out with a kiss and a laugh.
I love it all bad: bad teeth, bad posture,
bad rites and bad Spanish teenage demons.
11 Saturday Apr 2015
sister returns home —
the small of her back, tattooed
words: l-o-v-e
SHADOW PLAY
11 Saturday Apr 2015
slush-fuck rain: spring mist
as our three shadows, writhing,
convulse on the wall
10 Friday Apr 2015
raindrops dripping from the eaves your lover pulls out
ALL ORANGE GLORY
09 Thursday Apr 2015
“The bud/ stands for all things” – Galway Kinnell
After loss then the libido snaps back
sick and mad as before. I don’t know why.
Knuckles push into moss until – hunchbacked,
straining – I pry the bud apart. My thighs
soggy sorrow burn all orange glory.
What gods would trust a mouth that makes such Os?
Thorny lips … that curl up around all three
of my fingers … a butterfly … that glows
when it dips for nectar — No, won’t go on.
What’s wrong? I feel like I’m faking it. Porn
on a Thursday. After loss why this brief
horniness? Once my fingers are withdrawn
let the bud close, leaving behind thorn,
moss-grown verge and grief. The gods’ own grief.
ALL THE DEAD LITTLE THINGS
09 Thursday Apr 2015
Tags
dead little things, erotic poetry, gnaw at me, left toe-cutting knife, Milady de Winter, poem, sonnet
I love that my fear lives under my bed.
I’ve been down there: torn condoms, used needles,
and my left toe-cutting knife. All the dead
little things I’ve loved and abandoned. Skulls
that will always be prettier than me.
Loose teeth. I’ve swallowed at least six. The jaw
of one Milady de Winter. What she
did — no, spoilers, sweetie. The things that gnaw
at me aren’t what you think. The Internet
where I live: “None of us fuck, see? Sex is
ugly. None of your free, hippy love shit
here,” as Johnny told Nancy. It’s that threat,
you might become mine, I might become his.
Strange how just a floor can become a pit.
omit
31 Tuesday Mar 2015
“Suckle my flesh.” There should be more, of course,
something about, “your kisses on my clit,”
“your two fingers inside,” and “my voice, hoarse,
urgent,” “my flesh sweating, flushed.” I omit
the rest because this isn’t about that.
Somewhere a girl sleeps on flagstones, under
thatch-roof and dry-stone walls. A witch’s brat
who knows nothing about lust, that other
magic. No, not even that. So, what then?
Quote from the Torah, Bible or Koran
about female nature being sinful?
Hell no! We go down to the beach, again,
naked breasts wearing shadows of a tan,
watching waves rush in and out like a bull.
orpheus [after midnight]
21 Tuesday Oct 2014
Tags
After Midnight, desire, erotic poetry, fire, haiku, if we both survive, Orpheus, poem, words
desire: words, fire.
I’ll show you how the hills burn
if we both survive
prayer bed
09 Thursday Oct 2014
Tags
erotic poetry, hell waiting, phantasmic orgy, poem, Poetry, prayer bed, sin that you can snort, sonnet
“honey, I know something about
talking with ghosts.”
– Yusef Komunyakaa
My bed can always
accommodate one
more; this ain’t a threat
or bet, it’s a damn
promise. Like all
the stone-cold dead
fortune smiles on
a phantasmic orgy.
A gram of sin that
you can snort
down; even ghosts
can have sticky
fingers. Slack-jaw
we blame love
each time things go
wrong. I have
the host’s job of
not placing blame.
Those who slut-
shame have their
own private hell
waiting. My prayer
bed is vast, even
you’re welcome.
You’ve come from
such a far distance,
lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe
your feet with my hair.
I’ll lick you back to life.
I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash
away the dried
cum and snot.
][][
My bed can always accommodate one
more; this ain’t a threat or bet, it’s a damn
promise. Like all the stone-cold dead fortune
smiles on a phantasmic orgy. A gram
of sin that you can snort down; even ghosts
can have sticky fingers. Slack-jaw we blame
love each time things go wrong. I have the host’s
job of not placing blame. Those who slut-shame
have their own private hell waiting. My prayer
bed is vast, even you’re welcome. You’ve come
from such a far distance, lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe your feet with my hair.
I’ll lick you back to life. I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash away the dried cum and snot.
memories of my ghost sista 