Tag Archives: erotic poetry

wrothful

02 Tuesday Jul 2024

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but the anus loves

poetry

& is prolific.

~ Erica Jong

This horned god pierces until your lips numb

and your nipples perk. Call this old school

sex, with lots of smiting and wrothful cum

crusting on your neck. You sigh high, “it’s cool.”

Is it? My knees hurt on concrete. Bound not

gagged. You flip up your flouncy dress, straddle

my tongue and hold on. Pornographic plots

demand a touch of pain. Hints of hurtful

bish, bash, bosh. Rest now on my mouth. “Bite

‘dis,” you slur, all kumquat backwash. The O

of your ass spread wide. Songs of buggery

and the leash. Satyrs rutting in moonlight

while the dead gods sigh. Fucking quid pro quo.

“Rough, rough,” sang the nefarious puppy.

][][

Note.

Quid pro quo is defined as, “a favor granted or expected in return for something” … like mutual masturbation.

orpheus

29 Wednesday May 2024

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The Tomb’s Fruit, the Fuck Doll, the Mystic knows

that the mouth holds endless whims: my wind swims

in these words. My spit. My ire. “Eat me,” flows

out of Alice. Go south. Hold the rough rims

of your grotto askew. Ask any cave-

dwelling recluse to show you and they will:

be it stalactite, uvula or clit. We crave

sunlight but embrace wild darkness. We kill

any end that’s not lonesome, so that, “Find

solace in me,” becomes deceit. This wind

whimpers. I mean, slap me, choke me, fuck me.

Take me like Orpheus: broken and blind.

Now come. If you can’t cum you can’t transcend

this dark south that the Tomb calls, “fuckery.”

blootered

11 Saturday May 2024

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Perverse; taking a witch’s brat to bed.

Blootered upon an unholy teat. “Arf

-‘an’-Arf;” a little jizz, a little djinn,

a touch of squiff, a snip of … foreskin. “Barf

me out! Gag me with a spoon!” Words must change.

Meanings remain. Flitting light. Neither pink

nor pale. Conjure me a lover. A strange

tomboy; both mist and meat. I want to drink

bones; the sodden well below her navel.

Dripping thickets. Ravines swollen by rain.

Spring’s end. Imagine that. “Fuck me gently

with a chainsaw!” Yes, imagine that. Dull

horror bone in the skull. Dull dreams. Dull brain.

Injure. Conjure and crave. I’m your floozy.

pupilless

06 Monday May 2024

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Breathe in the breath that can blacken mirrors,

dust scraped from a Missy Jane Chemistry

Set. The breath I feel on my wet fingers

as I slip in bed. Breath gone all glitzy

and thick in Waiting to Exhale, Whitney’s

last moan. Breath of pixies and junkies. Breath

that tastes like my cum; the one sick menses

that will never flow. You know it from Death

and the Maiden. You know it. “Breathe, damn you!”

you cried, pounding on my chest. Cracking bones.

Punctured lungs. Tell it to my pupilless

eyes. My blue hued flesh. That’s the breath so few

know. So few. Like you. Pity my swains, crones,

bloody gasps. Pity all who answered, “Yes.”

plagues

09 Tuesday Apr 2024

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You say you want to be seduced. I want

that, too. Not me. You. I want to seduce

you: with song, with soul, with the feral haunts

of your thwarted passions. I know the juice

you keep bottled between your legs, DJ.

Let us incantate: Kafé – Kasita –

non Kafela. “All these beats will obey

what these grooves/ demand. Bloody, raw

and in command.” Shall we dance, my spitfire?

Shall I taste all that runs between your legs?

This is my glamour’s glimmer. My coy please.

My pomp’s circumstances and rude desire.

We are what we play. For you lust plagues.

For me one irksome and vexing cock tease.

][][

Notes.

It starts with Bowie’s “I am a D.J., I am what I play.”

bareback

21 Thursday Mar 2024

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Like this. The abyss yawned wide with jelly

honey smeared around the rim. Such event

horizons spawned from your thirst for nerdy,

fey boys. I’ve never been much except bent,

as in, curious. You called it your black

hole. “Je veux te sentir en moi.” Back when

strange new worlds meant more than just bareback

sex in the backseat. Since I wasn’t, “Men

who Suck,” I was safe, even if you weren’t.

All you adults and your Midlife crises

still faze me ⟺ middle school was spent in moans

⟺ slaphappy moans ⟺ one more pretty thing “learnt”

in singularities ⟺ “Like this” ⟺ how to please

supernovas and erogenous zones.

Note.

“Je veux te sentir en moi” translates into, “I want to feel you inside me.”

bestial

25 Sunday Feb 2024

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Shan’t know, I suppose. So I’ll go … I’m gone …

watch me, “went.” To find that blessed spot. Even

that sounds like a joke. Flesh Gordon. Sex Spawn.

Deep throat Nine. Whimsy, chaos & semen.

Even Leia’s, “Into the Garbage Chute,

Fly boy,” made you snicker; though sodomy

remains a tribal language. That & brute

passion, which is also a force. Your knees

around my neck. Your nails digging fjords

down my back. I tongue-fuck that spot & you

groan like the ravenous Bugblatter Beast

that you are. That spot? You hit the high chords

each time. Messy mirth is always taboo;

messy, whimsy, chaos with lips well-greased.

Note.

The Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal is a fictional monstrosity from, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. File it under: Other People’s Pillow Talk.

frets

01 Monday Jan 2024

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Death is cold. I am cold. I must be death;

thin as rain, thin as chill. My haunt’s haunting.

Thrill of dire distress mixed up with your breath.

Pleases? I am, “of an age,” where nothing

pleases. Even frenzy feels frayed; its pink

velvet border rubbed away. Once, a whiff

of your breath kept me going for days. Kink,

as in kinky. Now? [– –] You cough, snort and sniff

what’s in your sloughed lungs. Kissing the lovelorn

has lost its appeal. [– –] My nipples are hard,

like a mood killer. Once you wrote, “your nudes

are safe with me.” No, they weren’t. Revenge porn,

the kids called it. Even my scars are scarred.

I’m not death. I’m the one who frets and broods.

lavash

27 Wednesday Dec 2023

Posted by in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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There’s dough in my hair, flour on my fingers.

Lick them clean. These fingers. I’m leaving.

Kiss me clean. Obscene what this finger stirs

in you. All day long you’ve seen me making

flat bread. Lavash. Song of cracked wheat. Fable

of dough rolled flat, slapped against the Tonir’s

brick wall. The dead’s flat food and what the skull

won’t eat I will. Breathe in all these odors.

Simple smells at night fall imbued with grief.

When you make bread, you make me; when you roll

dough flat you touch me. I’m leaving; come clean

me one last time. My lips, my flesh, this brief

hint at soul. I’ll be ghostly so soon. Soul,

love me like this: obscene, obscene, obscene.

notes:

Lavash is a popular flat bread in Armenia. Tonir is a stone oven used to cook the bread, similar to an Indian Tandoor.

demotic

12 Tuesday Dec 2023

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& I yanked your hair until you whimpered

& moaned. I call this, too, a sacred act.

This queer cheer. Odd? Odd that the only pact

between us was no pact at all. Squandered

without ache, spurt or need. Without my root

in your root cellar; stretch marks, scabs, stubborn

scars. Proof that the euphoric brute in Brute

Love is still love. Worship all that return

to yearn for a blinding flash. Milky spurts.

Spasms. Second comings. “Cum unto me.”

I did. Past tense squander. I am a thing

of dusk; a thing that divides & perverts

both day & night. Even murk is holy.

All this demotic. All this queer hexing.