Tag Archives: erotic poetry

kafir

23 Tuesday May 2023

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“Hair is a nakedness,” your mother taught ––

which is why you kept yours veiled. And, “never

bring home white boys or kafirs.” Those were fraught

times. If schisms can start from mere fractures

after school ran riot in my bedroom ––

as inch by heathen inch pushed past your hips’ fleece;

a slow burn in piercing you to your womb ––

Your hair bare. Our flesh awash in sweat, grease

and cum. “When I graduate,” you said, “She’ll

send me home.” She’d pledged you to a cousin.

“Three months!” you cried. We rampaged in secret.

We were dissent’s loving revolt. “Yesh, spill

your seed … on my face!” Three months of heathen

bliss, like what the dumb beasts do when they rut.

][][

Notes:

Kafir is a derogatory term in Islamic tradition and refers to a non-Muslim.

proclivity

22 Monday May 2023

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Paris. Twelve hour lay-over. Last gay club

before Peace Corps. “You’re gossamery,” she said.

“I like that in boys … Call me your Arab

Auntie.” O weird drag name, I thought, my head

between her thighs. And, because I was stoned

on cheap spliffs and she was Anaïs Nin cool

and I’d dreamed of being left unchaperoned

with a wolfish adult (“Primary School

Climax.” “School Bus Orgy.” “I was Seven

before I was Ate.”), her clit felt scrumptious

under my tongue. How queer, a real auntie

in this rank Men’s Room. One last Parisian

surprise before a world where lush lewdness

was less, “proclivity,” and more theory.

thralldom

18 Thursday May 2023

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Both of your thick, sick thighs and the scratchy

flick rope binding my wrists will leave bruises.

Good. I’m greedy for scars. You bend a knee

and wet heat, mixed with your musky juices,

sprinkles my lips. Mewl, I said, make me mewl.

I am famished for that; that sort of pain ––

your faith claims waits for me in hell. A cruel

candle will not last the night, you explain,

snuffing the hot wax out on my shoulder ––

I thought thralldom would be a bore. But what’s

the point of nerves if they don’t sing? Scars bunch

up and down my thighs where you have tortured

my flesh; a whipping boy for the flay’s cuts;

which is to say, I’ve grown hard to your touch.

adástsooʼ

14 Sunday May 2023

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Adááʼ (lip). Atsooʼ (tongue). I might not know

the words for for lust or thrust or that wet greased

growl that you make with jaws stretched as you show

me just how far I can go –– but at least

you taught me to say adástsooʼ. We mapped

out our bodies with skull-fucking, hair

pulling and the heat of the day still trapped

in the skin of your pickup. This is prayer

as well. Not Bilagáana or Dineh

prayer, but still holy. Something to drive nine

hundred miles for. Somewhere out in the owl’s

light a goat bleats. Tomorrow we will pray

again without the need for language, mine

or yours, just our untranslatable howls.

][][

Notes:

In Diné bizaad (the Navajo language), adástsooʼ is the word for the clit. Bilagáana is an older term for white people (such as myself). Owl’s light is another way of talking about the dusk. 900 hundred miles is a reference to Judy Grahn’s “Love rode 1500 miles on a grey hound bus & climbed in my window one night to surprise both of us.” I’ve always adored that poem.

gambol

05 Friday May 2023

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The day is dead and lain in fog – not, “laid

in fog.” That’s when the city’s odd twilight

rolls in, turning streetlights wispy, decayed,

grotesque. Among the shadows our delight

comes when we gambol and glow. All that wet

air, pools of cool oil, smeared by ghostly palms

between your breasts. Morass of dew and sweat.

“Straddle me,” you say, kneeling with maelstroms

in your cunt, tempests in my cock. I curl

down the valley of your cleavage. “Seismic

upheaval?” Indeed. Slickness, all foggy

and cum-splattered around your neck; a pearl

necklace. Drastic love: the sort of drastic

pleasures others just dream about, dimly.

gnawing

24 Monday Apr 2023

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Worms of the flesh. Dreams of rapture. “The dead

do not sleep … at first,” you said, on the night

that you followed me home. From gray sickbed

to gray earth. No salvation. No white light.

No choir singing praise. Just hunger striding

through my doorway, greedy for pillow talk.

“Fuck flesh,” you called yourself, with a gnawing

look. Yes, that look, “Skewer me on your cock.

Eat me. Drink me. Love me. Make much of me.”

The dead are cold; yet you still sweated, hips

twerking, thundering; deluge from a storm cloud.

“Regrets? Since I thought lust was unholy,

never knowing this.” My tongue: on your lips,

between your thighs, under your winding shroud.

callipyge

18 Tuesday Apr 2023

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“Sweet-tooth? Just for jelly rolls.” What I said,

with the cinch of your muscles wrapped around

my cock. What I said, the first time I spread

your cheeks until your sphincter’s puckered mound

gaped wide: “That’s not the arse of a fifty

eight year-old.” Sitting in your dentist chair,

with your scrubs around your knees, I slid three

fingers and a thumb in. If this is prayer

Venus Callipyge would approve. What word

do kids use? “Booty.” Venus with the Huge

Booty. You’ve been married for years and years

and your husband still won’t go there. Absurd.

“Just once,” you said, cumming in a deluge;

without noxious hang-ups or macho fears.

][][

NOTES:

“Some are young, some are old/ My man says sissy’s got good jelly roll,” Ma Rainey sang on Sissy Blues. “My man got a sissy, his name is Mistress Kate/ He shook that thing like jelly on a plate.” Jelly roll, in this case, being slang for one’s arse. Venus, the Roman goddess of lust and beauty, had many manifestations: Venus Anadyomene (Venus “Rising from the Sea”), Venus Barbata (“Bearded Venus”) and Venus Callipyge (“Venus with the Beautifully Large Buttocks”).

godhead

17 Friday Mar 2023

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With blood, cramps and acne came the hijab,

the veil. “Feel blessed that you have a gorgeous

godhead dwelling in your bones.” With a stab

of my tongue I wriggled in. Lewdness

isn’t metaphor but pure parasite.

Like their Holy Laws, I’m an acquired

taste. “Don’t go,” you said on our 7th night,

since you now desire what I once desired:

a new language found in our gasps and purrs.

Your own eldritch ne’er-do-well to rouse “goo”

in your cum-caked skivvies as your mirthless

parents sleep. A companion with fingers,

making circles in the moonlight. In you.

This, too, is sacred; like lust, like solace.

effects

17 Friday Feb 2023

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In old sex comedies, orgasmic cries

were changed into operatic high notes.

That wet ¡shlick!-roar you make between your thighs

would have caused a panic. For them, “Deep Throat,”

was a code name and, “Pink Eye,” a virus.

This is sacred: your blood shot eyes, lashes

gummy with my cum, your sweaty, “thickness,”

cleansed in the bath. Others cling to stigmas

and fears about sex. Since we’re divas who

can’t sing, we choose the real thing. No censors

or sound effects; just, “O! Cum on my face.”

The Gods adore such mettle. We, who spew

prayers in their praise, like all feral lovers,

each time the Gods bestow orgasmic grace.

Ö

08 Wednesday Feb 2023

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Pleasure, as they say, is its own reward;

for those of us who barter and haggle,

dreaming of more. To die wet. To die hard.

To die loved. To be more than a wastrel.

“He’s at work,” you say. “They’re outside playing.

Wish it was your cock and not” [here you shake,

drawing your phat butt-plug from your gaping

Ö] “This. Look!” [on your webcam you ache, quake

and crack.] “Guess it can’t be helped, fu-fu-fu.”

They’re not lost years, frenzied at my computer;

we’re the tribe that does what it must for lust,

without apology. “Play Siouxsie Sioux

and cum for me.” I stand: drunk, hornier

than the gods and start with, “Cities in Dust.”