Tag Archives: sonnet

sticky palms dry

25 Sunday Apr 2010

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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lines quoted from Song of
Myself, XI by Walt Whitman

Laughter. Bluestones lost in heathered walls.
Twenty-eight men without womanly life.
All so lonesome. They did not see her, but
she saw them and loved them. Ghosts in bathhouse.
Ghosts in steam. They do not think whom they souse
with their spray. Goo-goo eye. Weird bone corset.
She loves boys. Stitchin’ her own thread. A knife
like cock — something to sew, mend — fat with balls.
 
Braids ‘n knots she brings. For boy bodies. Ghosts
sweeping mist. All their black and milky stripes.
She flirts bloody. Hothouse gore. Which one boasts
he’s the biggest? longest? the one who wipes
sticky palms dry. She’ll take all the young men
again and again and — O yes — again.

still-life with joan and night oaks

25 Sunday Apr 2010

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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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.”