Tag Archives: finger fucking

boreas’ curse

07 Saturday Oct 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on boreas’ curse

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

The gods are rabbits in burrows, sleeping
below the crunching feet on snow. The worst

time to conjure a spirit is during
the tree-dead months, when Boreas’ Curse

lays on the land. October is laughter
for fun; there’s still tree sap. But for the us,

because all the earth sleeps good, the wonder
comes that we roused something in this coldness.

Your jeans pulled down … call this a … revival.
Fingers curled in a C, stroking shocked fur.

Your mouth opens … spiritual agonies …
or ecstasies … they’re the same when knuckle

deep. Let the gods slumber through dead winter.
All I ask: “if you want to cum say please.”

-m-e-s-s-m-e-u-p-

09 Saturday Sep 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on -m-e-s-s-m-e-u-p-

Tags

, , , , , ,

Sunk in you, three knuckles deep. Palms pounded
on the car’s roof. Each hoarse, “Fuah! Aah!” Telltale

stains on the seat, your jeans, a pad with blood.
That night my mixtape and the winter’s gale

drowned out your croaky cries. You arched your spine,
sprayed down my wrist and arm. We had nowhere

to go so we drove downtown as the whine
of the blizzard led us to a daycare

parking lot, now abandoned. Friday night.
Our third date. “Mess me up inside,” you said.

You had to be home soon. I kissed the scar
on your inner thigh, rubbed you with delight,

then stuck my fingers, all cum-soaked and red,
in your mouth. The taste of going too far.

shlick

12 Saturday Aug 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on shlick

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Not like sleaze stopped us; with your loud, “Oh gosh!
Thish ish amashin! I’m ah shloppy mesh!”—

everyone listened to the slish, shlick, slosh
of my fingers pulling out from your flesh;

your long, “huuugh.” One frowned, shocked like a grown-up
at our public displays of affection.

One looked away as I sucked the syrup
of your mess clean. Yes, I am a glutton

for certain things, certain queer alchemies.
Yes, you slouched with legs splayed on the bus seat,

glowing, indifferent to the commuters
stares. Let them call these ancient acts filth, sleaze,

shame. Let them. We are part of the night’s heat
— full of mad, wet prayer and obscene odors.

clutch

17 Monday Jul 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on clutch

Tags

, , , , ,

Bedlam with seraph-fine fingers around
your throat. Less kiss, more like how the panicked

swimmer gasps water; anything but drown
into sea-blue bloat. Anything. You licked

the bit of knuckle that your tongue could reach.
Unlike the surf nothing pulled you under

save lust; your own tidal-flow on the beach,
my face in your flood. “I want your finger

down here.” There will be bruises tomorrow.
There is a ridge that my curved thumb can clutch.

Moon glow. Sea crust. The tide pulls out. A hiss
upon stones and you break from the shallow

water. You gasp, gag, recoil from my touch
and then sigh, pulling tight against my kiss.

spoolies

18 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by in Erotic, haiku, Poetry

≈ Comments Off on spoolies

Tags

, , , , ,

 

][

I’m spellbound, but oh a woman denied
And the hills are alive with celibate wives …
— “These Things Take Time,” The Smiths

][

service with a smile
“how can I stop?” Cupid’s child,
cum and hair Spoolies

][

fuck the Heart Sutra
Italian sex comedies
and Enlightenment

][

first taste of delight
under the dryer, laughter
and finger fucking

][

note:

Sometime in the dim 1950s hair Spoolies were, and I quote, “the hair curlers for professional pin curls.” I suspect my grandmother wore them when she went to the hair salon and let all hell lose.

soared flashed gone

21 Tuesday Jan 2014

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on soared flashed gone

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Foliage dark mass fringed by your thighs we’re rude
north of Vegas two hour drunken blur

red rocks screening our bodies laying nude
upon rocks above the hot spring, under

the cliff’s shadow nature is nudity
grace-like you stand hands on hips gazing

upon my half-open calves and fleshy
gingersnaps we have been finger fucking

soared flashed gone all day tease taste swallow deep
throat gag control we came here to get high

above the valley floor you shudder seize
my skull press me deeper until you weep

when I go down. Looking up, you reply:
please please please please please please please please please please …

wet silk

20 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on wet silk

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

The first time I slipped a finger inside
you was on a cross-country bus trip. You
sung “Me and Bobby McGee” to me, cried
when you climaxed. None of the sleepers who
sat all around us saw you lick your own
pleasure off my fingers. The second time
you were a new mother. We were alone,
you had just fed your baby. Your sublime
nipples called for sloppy seconds. Your milk
tasted sweet, warm, leaving a rapture smear
across my lips. As I sucked sucked greedy,
as I found your spot, melting like wet silk,
as you said, “suck hard, put your mouth right here,
put your tongue in me, put yourself in me …”

trying to explain the internet to my dead aunt

25 Wednesday Sep 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on trying to explain the internet to my dead aunt

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

The ghosts of my hard aunts all called themselves
butch and worked the graveyard shift making jeeps.
I am a fey thing, in love with bookshelves
more than pool and Patsy Cline, one who keeps
family close in this wild new age. Type
in “aunt,” “jeep,” “butch,” and, “Squirting on my truck’s
gearshift,” appears. Aunties, my waiting past,
where does Stonewall fall when these finger fucks
cock sucker blues can be found anywhere?
The dead give little reply. I’ve built worlds
on their broad shoulders. Love is a small price.
Just know your daughters and sons are a prayer
unasked for but here all the same. Your girls
and boys love you, I hope that will suffice.

each finger drowned

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on each finger drowned

Tags

, ,

You look good on the subway, uncrossing
your legs just like that. You look good, your face
mirrored in the window darkly; hitching
up your skirt just above your knees. The space
between your legs glowing darkly. You look
good now, winking, one finger tip to trace
your lips, one finger tip to find and hook
the O of your pain. There is no disgrace
in pain, not this type; just sweat-fuck-feral
need. You look good making me your voyeur;
your eyes closed, mouth open, each finger drowned
in your wetness. All the noise and people
around us blur, the wheels keeping time; your
legs wide open, your fingers underground.

still-life with joan and night oaks

25 Sunday Apr 2010

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on still-life with joan and night oaks

Tags

, , , ,

Pity fuck. Charity stare. Joan d’Arc
shrugged in her fazy way. Freckled face burn,
all pog but with searing eyes. Twixies’ dark
rain on a sharp waist bladed by iron
hip bones floating up over buoyant jokes.
Her eyes flitted open tongues twined, coin-groins
rubbed to a teen beat while beyond night oaks
and a waxing moon kite, rose silver coins,
sunken eyes, metal-black slashed honeybees.
“Joan will hug and kiss and spin you.” “Joan will
finger and fuck and cum on you.”  Yes, she’s
one more strap-on savior that’s hard to kill.
“Of course I want it rough. Give me hardcore
fucking. Come,” said the ghost, “play with my gore.”