Tags
chastity haiku #47, clit ring poem, erotica, haiku, poem, Poetry
tease me; sleeping clit
between your lily-lush lips
with that hot, wet stud
chastity haiku #47
21 Friday Feb 2014
Tag Archives: poem
venus that drips
12 Wednesday Feb 2014
Tags
bawls, poem, poetrys, sonnet, swollen with song, this dark world, Venus that drips, what of the dead?
Where do the dead — all the sleepless — belong?
This dark world swollen with song. Their throats singed,
bellies bloated, eyes milk; what do they long
for? Was it the bitter tune that unhinged
them? What strains hard at the leash? What chomps down
at the bit? What, indeed, bawls through the mist?
Something wicked. Ignition and meltdown.
Toes curled. Well greased. No stifled screams. Hips twist.
Jaws lock. A web of spit between their lips
and a slither of light between their thighs,
since the garden was empty. It was night.
Twitch the curtains apart. Venus that drips.
Luna, there is nothing in your moonrise.
Nothing but song that I heard by moonlight.
the erotic key
12 Wednesday Feb 2014
Tags
blood-phobic vampire, Carmilla, poem, Poetry, Sir Francis Varney, sonnet, the erotic key, winter blues
“Started with a kiss,” you wrote, “this winter
of change and debauchery,” which, sadly,
more of us don’t get to write; the writer
being more repressed than most warm bodies.
Still, Sir Francis Varney and Carmilla
were born from the fear of carnal knowledge
and so were you. Yes, hashish and vodka
blur lines. Yes, there is a vulgar language
even the most repressed can speak, even
you; when the winter wind sings a welcome
at the door and pine wood burns in the fire.
Still, if I’m the erotic key, you shun
me; sex-mad puritan. If I’m freedom,
you fear me; one more blood-phobic vampire.
the sick art
11 Tuesday Feb 2014
The time has come to tell tales of the dead.
Strictly speaking, terror is rational
fear, fear of what is known; horror, instead,
is fear of all that is irrational.
The night versus the day. Dionysus
versus Apollo. But the erotic
world has no such separations; lewdness
is just what we make it. I know the sick
art to make you flood; the soft seduction.
A slick, sultry mouthful; these are queer tastes.
Do you care? Day or night? Crude or sublime?
Rational? Irrational? Moon or sun?
Living or dead? When your dam bursts
I will drown, going down for the third time.
in praise of selfies
10 Monday Feb 2014
Tags
Depeche Mode, erotic photos, honest pleasance, I can weep, poem, Poetry, selfies, sexting, sonnet
“they can only do harm” — depeche mode
][][
Please let there be no sexting, no naked
photos of me out there; the things I’ve sent
over the aether, the whether, the flood
of cocks and cunts — thousands of indecent
problematic photos —- gwads all the wads
and spume and pleasure from which comes all this
photography. Call it “selfies.” Gods
know we earned it; we who don’t dismiss bliss;
honest pleasance; this rude thrill of others
watching what we do. Because you watch. You
do. You fuckers, and I mean that in all
truth. We’re the ones who slide our tongue on slurs,
foreskins, clits, Christian folly, honeydew
rhyme; we’re the saints who fuck in saviors’ hell.
mayhem of the night [2]
30 Thursday Jan 2014
Tags
little fish, mayhem of the night, poem, Poetry, sonnet, where are you?, where do the souls of the drowned go?
If we forget this kindness in winter
that is fine for it still remains. Springtime
persists. The new moon bulbs rise, no longer
held down by the mayhem of the night. Slime,
pulp and blood of a different kind birth;
the realm where there is no mercy. Nothing
can be reborn at this depth. With no earth
or prayer; where do the souls of those drowning
alone at sea go? Who will call for them?
Who will remember? These seasons, solstice,
new moons fix nothing. Love, where do you lie?
I will find you, raise you from this mayhem,
little fish, stillborn — — It was no kindness
when the sea washed clean your death-clouded eyes.
icarus falls
29 Wednesday Jan 2014
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on icarus falls
Tags
Icarus Falls
Father if I only
could if I only
Father the sky
is vast and I
am if I could
Father I
fall
I
burn Father
damn you
a dirty thing
26 Sunday Jan 2014
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on a dirty thing
if the river calls me
It was that rancid smell that made me drive
her off. Damn! What a foul stench! Of course she
fought and cried. Of course. How would she survive
on her own? Who would take in a dirty
thing like her? No one, I am sure. That smell
of hers just wouldn’t wash off. No. Call me
a beast, if you will. Say that there’s a hell
for bad parents who desert their needy
children. I’m sure there is but I don’t care.
What was I going to do with her? Me!
I am no believer in myths. A prayer
only works if someone hears it and we
are deaf. Abandoned down by the river;
she is human now, a fox no longer.
talented cocksuckers
22 Wednesday Jan 2014
Tags
bite hard, come and get it boo, oral sex, poem, Poetry, sinner man, sonnet, talented cocksuckers
Tasting my sex. I want sweat to drip. Eyes
rolled back in your skull. Come large. Come erect.
Come rub it. Come touch it. Come eat it. Sighs
and drawls speak in crazy tongues. You have wrecked
me for anyone else. When I say, “don’t
bite me,” I know that you will. When I say,
“don’t waste even a drop,” I know you won’t.
Impaled mouth. Hollow cheeks. Until I spray
blessings down your throat, you keep your eyes shut.
There are many talented cocksuckers
in this world, but out of all I chose you
because you’re mad and bad and you don’t slut
shame. I come each time I hear that sinner’s
voice on the phone say, “Come and get it, boo.”
mutate
22 Wednesday Jan 2014
Tags
after the surgery, bleak chest, blood mad, mutate, poem, Poetry, scars, sonnet
In the night, I feel you strip my bed clothes
off me, flesh on flesh on my hair, just cut,
drifts down against your neck. You are there, nose
nuzzled, lips pressed against the pale riot-
root scar of my bleak chest. I feel your weight
on my body. It’s not all that I feel.
Softly, slowly both of us will mutate
into the other: the hungry, ideal
hunter, the shyest of bucks. In the night
I’m blood-mad, as if the orgasm’s prey
would now cure me. As if I were the brave
one and you slowly giving up the fight.
I promise, one day you will hear me say
“I love you” while standing over my grave.
memories of my ghost sista 