Tags
pulling my jeans down
your breath like a mountain breeze
wild feathered-grass parts
tuft
29 Thursday May 2014
Tag Archives: pubic hair
scar [rewrite]
05 Monday Aug 2013
Tags
cunnilingus, lifetime of love, lithic muscles, Lucky Strike, pubic hair, rewrite, scar, sonnet, woman warrior
I can trace the scars on her shoulders, thick
as my finger, grotesque tattoos that wrap
around each arm. I can kiss her lithic
muscles making her tremble. She could snap
my spine like that. She has killed thirteen men
like that. When I play with her softest part,
that part I will not name, that talisman
you call a lifetime of love, my dear heart
blooms. It’s not words but other’s secrets
that that I won’t share. When I light her lucky
strike she bucks, gushes like a volcano’s
blow, clamping my face in place. Her ringlets
tease my nose. I love her, from her forty
sword hacked scars to each of her missing toes.
NOTE:
This is a rewrite of a poem I posted back in March.
scar
18 Monday Mar 2013
Tags
cunnilingus, lifetime of love, lithic muscles, Lucky Strike, Moroccan patterns, pubic hair, scar, sonnet, woman warrior
When I trace the scars on her shoulders, thick
as my finger, grotesque tattoos that wrap
around each arm. When I kiss her lithic
muscles she starts to tremble. She could snap
my spine like that. She has killed thirty men
like that. When I play with her softest part,
the part I will not name, her talismen
I call a lifetime of love, my sweetheart
opens. It’s not words but other’s secrets
that that I won’t share. When I light her lucky
strike she groans the earth before volcano’s
blow. She clamps my face in place; her ringlets
tease my nose. I love her, from her forty
broadsword strokes to each of her missing toes.
sweet-bottom grass
04 Monday Feb 2013
Tags
cunnilingus, metaphor, P-Funk, pubic hair, Shakespeare, sonnet, sweet-bottom grass, up on the downstroke
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.
vain and macabre
31 Thursday Jan 2013
Tags
You asked, dear boy, now that I’m in the grave
if I had ever tried to shave the hair
off my cunny? Once or twice. But to shave
a ghost’s pubes, it cannot be done. I swear,
we can try, it’ll be fun, but there is no
razor made by man that can get the job
done. How other ghosts bear it, I don’t know.
Death makes us all rather vain and macabre.
I died in my nightgown, which will become
transparent when wet. Pity the girl cursed
to wear only panties until kingdom
come, with pubes peeking. I’d die of shame first.
Do you care? Let me sit on your face, nose
in my curls. Now make me gasp out all my oohs.
memories of my ghost sista 