a ghost in love with the living, cunnilingus, cunt quenched, erotic ghost, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Walt Whitman
This is not Whitman’s city of orgies,
flesh and funky like the poet declared.
This is a courtyard without grass or trees.
At night it’s the only space that we’ve dared
venture into. My mouth glued to your hard
nipples. Your tongue tangy from the cold-salt
of my skin. Kissing each finger, the scarred
flesh of my arms, each shiny pink-cobalt
slice. The world falls for hard men and soft boys;
since I’m neither I have no purpose here …
except to please you. Down the fire escape.
Against the wall. Haunted with city noise;
as in, your cunt quenched without shame or fear.
My ghost fingers. My cadaverous shape.
The good, gray poet, Walt Whitman, once referred to Manhattan as, “the city of orgies,” which still makes me chortle whenever it comes up in conversation.