Tag Archives: sheismadeinpoland

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guzzled

09 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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sheismadeinpoland:

babylon-crashing:

We both can’t be out past six; your parents

will call, I have my midnight shift. When I

pull out — all wet, smeary — my fingerprints

leave red, dire streaks in your hair. The wild rye

has been guzzled, they’ll smell it on your breath.

The stains in your mom’s car; the way you bit

down hard as the, “petite mort,” little death,

broke you. Didn’t Whitman say, “If the clit

is not the soul,/ what is the soul?” No? Darn.

I’ll crawl back into my scrubs. Tomorrow

I’ll meet you outside school. What else is there?

All your exams and my knitting and yarn?

Caught in another shiver, ache’s cruel flow,

we stare at the stain on your underwear.

“If the clit is not the soul,/what is the soul?” No?

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ire

09 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by in quote unquote

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babylon-crashing:

Some are doggy-dogs in
leather collars

and fat anal beads, shaggy
tails sprouting

at the end. Some dabble in
spittle, spurs,

flirtation and the crop.
“By the pricking

of my thumbs/ something
wicked this way comes.”

Some love convulsions that
come with their vice.

Unpredictable bad love.
Some love drums

in jazz never hitting the
same note twice —

my hand on your ass
«thrash»
— Like Mingus’

maxim, “awesomely
simple.” It’s like this:

all this ends in ire.
You’re blessed with good sex,

money and time. I’m drunk,
rank and gorgeous.

Pull up your bloomers. Go
home. You’ll find your bliss

with some other sod — a
god dour, complex.