Tag Archives: metaphor

cropped marshlands

03 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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forest_god

From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust

clear and erect into coming twilight.
How did Freud ever pass through such forests?

They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.

Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates

flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.

Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along

my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.

mayhem

10 Sunday Nov 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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You make me wish that I were dead with long
fingers for unzipping your secret, parts

that can sink into you—-deep enough, strong
enough—-to feel your soft corrosion. Quartz,

wolfbane, vervain and ginger root. What weds
all your opiates that have brought others,

girl-child, to their knees like quaking meth heads?
This is my subtle craft—-hexes, philtres,

potions, incantations—-dark love’s mayhem.
I wish that I were dead like you; tucking

your stray hair behind your ear, making safe
sleeping murmurs. Let the tweaker condemn

and crave what it will; we’re dead and living
as one: one dead urchin, one living waif.

sweet-bottom grass

04 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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There is enough sweet bottom-grass around
this, your pleasant fountain, to keep me drunk

all day. Some eat to excess. I have drowned
in my own swampy needs, in others’ spunk,
as if cum were a rare commodity.

When I’m in collar and chains I will lick
it all up. When you show me your country
life, I delight in your porn and chronic.

I get grave stone in your sweet bottom-grass.
I stay down for days. But what sort of seed
does one need to plant where wild sassafras
grows wild on your clit? — all goo and honeyed.

There’s no seed. Just tongue up on the downstroke,
drowning, swallowing you until I choke.