Tag Archives: erotic poetry

manuscripts….

 My love, hear me, know this to be true:

My skin is the poetry of your touch
Our story is sung with every moan that spills from my lips
And when you come deep inside me
my name becomes a rite of passage on your soul

good bones…

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

— Maggie Smith —

my swirling wants…

I practice the art of not being chosen in all the ways that happens.
It follows me as a drumbeat set in rhythm to each step,
lightly tapping against my ribs.
I sing in counter melody;
the clouds keep forgetting the chorus.

Everything has become simple.
The perfection of light reflects deep and true.
I close my eyes against the shade and finally see;
memory, a key to a series of finicky handles.

I have seen Beautiful.
(Your pulse is proof.)
I have inhaled Almost-Promise.
I have screamed secrets to the moon:
Besides the wind,
I want only your hands sliding along the smoothest of my inner thigh,
a delicate slip and slide beneath my flitting skirt.

Sometimes our prayers sound exactly like chipping teeth.

Lovers prove false when
re-made in the image of (small) lifetimes built
upon pyres fueled: guilt, fear… shame, and more.
(I think I have a list somewhere around here.)
There is no coming quite like the certainty of going
and staying.
But I am not waiting;
I set down that map long ago,
even before you walked in and out the door.

The unknown:
may it be more than enough,
the very essence of our breath,
the very best yet.

 

i wrote a good omelet…

I wrote a good omelet…and ate
a hot poem… after loving you
Buttoned my car…and drove my
coat home…in the rain…
after loving you
I goed on red…and stopped on
green…floating somewhere in between…
being here and being there…
after loving you
I rolled my bed…turned down
my hair…slightly
confused but…I don’t care…
Laid out my teeth…and gargled my
gown…then I stood
…and laid me down…
To sleep…
after loving you

  — Nikki Giovanni —

when women were birds…

when women were birds

Once upon a time,
When women were birds,
There was the simple understanding
That to sing at dawn
And to sing at dusk
Was to heal the world through joy.
The birds still remember what we have forgotten,
That the world is meant to be celebrated.

  — Terry Tempest Williams —

as i walked out one evening…

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
“Love has no ending.

“I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street.

“I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

“The years shall run like rabbits
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages
And the first love of the world.”

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
“O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

“In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

“In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

“Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.

“O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.

“The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

“Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer
And Jill goes down on her back.

“O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

“O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.”

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming
And the deep river ran on.

      — W.H. Auden —

o that abstract garden…

O that abstract garden of being
Tells me to be brave, and clear,
In the fire of living,
And in the journey through the year.
So I will grow me like an oak tree
And make life’s honey like a bee.
Each day I will walk an interesting mile
And with the sun I’ll share a smile.
I will play again like a child,
And celebrate what’s wild.
I will swim in every sea or river,
And reflect the light of the sublime giver.
I will be at ease with opposition,
And will cultivate intuition.
I will walk the surprising streets,
And dance to life’s unexpected beats.
I will notice all the phases of the moon
And try not to act too late or too soon.
I will write something new every day
And look at paintings in an alternative way.
I’ll not dream the same way twice;
But I’ll not be shy to repeat what’s nice.
I’ll have the courage, when needed, to change;
And I won’t forget that life is strange.
And so I’ll learn to love the simple things
As well as the complexity that life brings.
Good or bad I’ll learn to treat the same
And I’ll not forget that it’s all a mysterious game.
I’ll not let that general fear of death run my life
And I’ll make magic even out of strife.
Into the higher realms I will enter
And make my corner the centre.
O that abstract garden, make me clear,
Make me brave, without fear.
I intend to love this rich new year.

—Ben Okri —

like only you can…

While I ride your face, feel your cock harden… surprise me. Flip me around and fill my open mouth with your full and throbbing hard. Fuck my face as you eat me, deeply. Let me choke on how much  you need my warm throat.

In return, my clit will grind against your tongue and teeth. Hear me moan. Feel my every quake, and gyrate. Carry me beyond. Watch my exceptional cunt flush and squirt. Feel my hot mess spill all over you but don’t cum yet; I’m far from done. In fact, lover… we’ve just begun.

 

encore…

I love to watch you touch yourself,
on rainy afternoons.
The wandering hands.
The soft little moans.
Hips twitching.
Wet fingers fucking.
A solo show,
performed for one.

— Michael Faudet —

skin lane…

People think that it is in the tangle of bodies, in the actual congress, that one person invades another and takes possession of them; that it is on the bed that we give ourselves up.

Well it is true that there is a surrender there that is unlike any other, but the real time they get under your skin is when you spend these hours alone, preparing for them; imagining them.

That is everything, sometimes more.

 

— Neil Bartlett

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