Saturday, April 26, 2008
Haiku
I.
stale costume drama
made better by popcorn and
your hand in my pants.
II.
tied to none but myself,
I point my toes at your touch.
the string tugs my balls.
III.
your mom’s sweater rack?
in your room, transformed.
last night’s spreader bar!
Friday, December 14, 2007
Flash Poem 1
The look and coding for this poem was shamelessly stolen from "digital writer" Chris Joseph. My apologies to Chris for putting "cocks" and "nipples" in his otherwise interesting Flash work, but I've been wanting to learn how to do something like this and it gave me the opportunity to actually get under the hood and tinker with source files. Now maybe I can try learn how to do my own from scratch.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
I’m back! Have a poem.
Well, I never did figure out how to use the latest Movable Type templates. But I got the old templates and design to work, so that's good enough for me. And, just to prove it's me, the first thing I'm posting after my unfortunate absence is a poem, written specifically for the purpose as I nursed a headcold this morning and tried not to think about how much I need to rake leaves.if snakes had hips
Hand. Hip. Touch. Grip.
What we have is this unspoken signal,
A familiar sign visible in light or dark,
As clear under bedtime covers as it is
When we’re bare naked, buzzed on champagne,
Fucking in the recessed lighting
of our quiet midnight den.
When I feel your hand grasp my hip bone, I know
That tonight you want to feel
The hard slap of my balls between your legs
That you want friction first and foremost,
The shallow in-and-out, a fast and steady rhythm,
And save that deep thrust shit for after you’ve come.
Of course, it works both ways.
Tonight it could be my hand on your hip,
suggesting you flip over, hug the pillow,
Nuzzle your breasts against the sheet
Brace yourself and raise your pussy
To take me in, take it all the way.
Then one hand becomes two hands,
And I grip your hips, pulling you back into
Each forward push, my hip bones meeting your ass
In a thump after thump, vibrations passing deep inside.
Hip. Hand. Hand. Hip.
Back and forth, again and again.
# # # # #
Hear this poem read aloud...
Hear this poem read aloud...
Friday, January 12, 2007
Are the Stars Out?
blink once and you're gone
Perhaps it's a myopic conclusion.
but memories of my life in sex
seem best approached
sideways and nonchalant.
To me, they only appear in focus
when I look at them askance,
almost from the corner of my eye.
It's like trying to catch sight
of the Pleiades head on,
the particulars only fade when faced down.
For the most part, I remember the facts.
I know the first breast I bussed.
I can easily picture her pale pink nipples
and the gaudy plaid of her parents' couch.
I remember the song that was playing
when she pulled off her top.
But, beyond that, there
on the tip of a smile, both skin and cloth
quickly fade into a ball of fuzz
east of Taurus,
the poignant snort of a bull.
And, of course, my first orgasm
is the stuff of myth --
epic and embellished
in the retelling.
Perhaps the facts of that late night episode aren't facts.
Perhaps the Odyssey wasn't as grand as all that
and my own sticky scared confused joy of an instant
was less than I think, more than I know.
Even the first pussy I poked
is lost in a nebula of subsequent history --
whisky of the dueling seduction,
the big bang of unintended disdain,
explosive distance and then our eventual reconstitution
as old friends. (I must admit,
there are several stars in that constellation.)
You see, while I know it takes 440 years
for light to travel from the Pleiades
just to play tricks on my eyes.
I can only suspect that the distance
between my heart and my brain,
between my cock and my memory,
is much less yet also far less direct.
And while I can't quite see them,
I know that around those stars dance
a host of nearly invisible suitors,
a hundred beaus for each of Seven Sisters,
a thousand kisses for each beau,
a million ways that each time I push into you
and hear you sigh and let go
it is both old and new.
In semi-darkness and without my glasses,
I see what I don't see:
bottle of lube, pack o' Pills.
candle, book, sheen of sweat.
hair falling across your face.
our fingers, white-knuckled, entwined.
the dent of my weight
pushing your wrists into the mattress.
Which way do I look
to see the memory beginning?
Which way do I look
to keep from seeing it end?
# # # # #
Hear this poem read aloud...
Hear this poem read aloud...
Monday, August 07, 2006
Clams Got Legs
So, I'm off to Cape Cod for a well-deserved and long overdue week of vacation. I have roughly 3000 pages worth of reading material, the address of the closest liquor store, someone to slather with sunscreen, an extension cord for the fan, a screened deck, and a rocking chair with my name scrawled in Sharpie on the seat. Oh, and my only Net access will be dial-up. I may not even bother, unless they have Wi-Fi at a nearby clam shack. And, while I haven't been here quite as often as I would've liked as of late (damn that paycheck!), I thought I should at least leave you with something.Unfortunately for you, it's poetry.
Private Message
the fourway grope-fest in the forum
begins to wear thin as cyber-spit.
I find a yawning smiley in the pulldown
but hold my fire, hold its tongue.
let me pull you aside,
seek our online alcove...
let me bracket your breasts
between laughs and winks
parenthetically pleasure
and nibble your red herring
with biting wit and seductive simile.
let me whisper my asides
in the colors of secrets
in the voices of late night abandon.
let me make you
lose track of time.
what were we saying again?
once Net, never met...
we hardly ponder our non-proximity,
the random rendezvous,
the online fuck-and-run.
fingers skilled in touchtyping
find it easy to peel back distance,
erase time, erase imagined introductions
and awkward first encounters.
because words are not awkward.
words are under our control.
words create skin from screen,
lips from luminous phosphors,
your cunt from my keystrokes,
my cock from your extended metaphor.
even the Auto Correct feature
acts as accomplice,
blotting out moles, scars,
leaving the perfect image
of our moist imagination,
the perfect taste,
the perfect sound,
the perfect joining of me and you,
again and again.
no less exciting for being less real.
no less real for being...?
once Net, never met...
you're as real as our tumescence,
my itch to write, your rush to read,
the endless ceaseless tireless joy
of these words
and this time...
of this me
in this you...
as real as touch,
as real as wet...
as real as
SEND
# # # # #
Hear this poem read aloud...
Hear this poem read aloud...
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Rest in Motion
We're marvelously amiss in afterglow —
our covers covering nothing,
the silent linens speaking volumes —
the wrinkles, the spots of lube,
the bottom sheet's top right corner
pulled loose, its elastic no match
for your fingers' coital clutch.
That the bed itself is still standing
is testament to retrofitted springs
and added slats.
But its new location, five inches from the wall
(and beyond the reach of the morning alarm),
that's evidence of vector physics
and your
two turns
on top.
our covers covering nothing,
the silent linens speaking volumes —
the wrinkles, the spots of lube,
the bottom sheet's top right corner
pulled loose, its elastic no match
for your fingers' coital clutch.
That the bed itself is still standing
is testament to retrofitted springs
and added slats.
But its new location, five inches from the wall
(and beyond the reach of the morning alarm),
that's evidence of vector physics
and your
two turns
on top.
# # # # #
Hear this poem read aloud...
Hear this poem read aloud...
Sunday, October 02, 2005
100 Percent As Found!
I've been wanting to write a "found poem" taken from Craigslist Close Encounters personal ads ever since I saw the line, "Want to lick my fresh Brazilian?" a couple of weeks ago. And here it is:Craigslist Poem: lines, no strings
Hey, you! No strings?Want to lick my fresh Brazilian?
Hurry before I chicken out.
I am wet. You must travel.
Slide my panties down, caress my curvy rear.
Have me gaping on all fours.
I don't like my pussy eaten.
Your pic gets mine.
I am looking for a penis.
Would like a nice hard one. Hubby doesn't mind.
Maybe a nice, yummy blowjob.
You? Short hair and not too tall.
If you're thick, you can have my ass.
If you're thick, I'll call you Sir.
No time to meet anyone, but I need to get laid.
I want to fuck tomorrow during lunch.
I don't want a stud or hottie. I want you.
I can sit on your face.
Call me a dirty slut.
Slide a finger inside me while I squirm.
I want to be your property, your sex toy.
I like to scream when I fuck.
Spank me hard.
Pull my hair.
I could use my Rabbit for you.
I want to see you spurt.
My cunt is smooth and shaved.
Your cock is mine tonight.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
It’s Not the Heat
MILF Lullaby (with apologies to Tom Lehrer)
Summer holds its breath.Your kids are away at camp
and your husband gone to Nawlins,
living high on the muffaletta,
attending seminars by steamy day
and just maybe dipping his dangle
into cool bayou temptation by night.
No harm, no foul.
It's just the way the Hurricane blows.
We're in Sondheim territory
and the mirror reflects us, reflecting.
Summer smiles knowingly.
And while we're on temptation,
you've been dipping as well.
Oh, sure. You hesitate now at the opportunity.
Coast clear, your online Don Juan
can finally come to town.
Don't answer his email.
Don't accept his chat.
All innocent advances
are anything but
and inevitably lead
to parking lot quickies and
weekends long with
hubris and hummers.
paddles and pasta salad.
Ah, but this is exactly what you want.
You honestly, passionately want to
scrape bottom, plumb depths of delight
in borrowed fuck-me pumps.
You ache to kiss with hunger,
pretend you-re starved.
be an upper middle class passion's plaything —
your breasts by Brio,
your Bionicle butt held firm and high.
And so you say yes.
And so you go to the airport.
And so you wait in Baggage Claim —
emotionally open, physically scared,
suddenly aware that crotchless panties
don't soak up any of this trickle,
this drip, this river, this flood down your thigh
that surely everyone sees.
But is it really any wonder you're excited?
You've given yourself permission to be
a stranger with this stranger.
It won't be the you from work
with his cock in your ass.
It won't be the you from home,
tied to the bed,
spread wide and on display.
It won't be the PTO you
whose hair gets pulled
ass spanked,
nipples twisted red
pussy sucked and nibbled
until you cry out his name
that may not even be his name.
Summer leads us astray.
And the you that isn't you
has a smile on her face
that you can see in the mirror
as your husband's taxi
brushes the curb.
# # # # #
Hear this poem read aloud...
Hear this poem read aloud...
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
National Poetry Month
DirtyTalkinGirl did a very nice tribute to National Poetry Month over at Pussy Talk last week. Proving once again that I am nothing more than a big "joiner in-ner," I offer you the following poem of mine.By the way. There's a certain amount of irony in the number of hits I'm getting each week from bondage sites. As a writer, lots of topics amuse me. I've written about lots of things I haven't even gotten close to trying. That was the fun of them... for me, anyway. (Speaking of which, I've got a couple of spanking stories some of you might like.) Just because I write about it doesn't mean that it's my kink or even my kink du jour. But I do love to sit in your bedrooms and take notes. Or something like that.
Happy spring, everyone!
elevated
the hand that grips the cordspreads open and wide.
its fingers extend into cool air,
then collapse inward.
they form a fist.
the nails dig into their own palm:
self-inflicted stigmata,
blood from a shuddering,
somewhat sweaty stone.
toes strain to support
the weight of your 28 years.
they tire, sink, rebound...
begin to let go, think twice,
hallucinate of heels,
the insides of mouths and inseams.
stretched taut, the cords grab hold,
awaken the sinking sleeper.
the rafter creaks
and you almost surrender a sound.
how your wrists must sting!
how your arms and shoulders surely burn!
I offer a reprieve
and you accept, as you must,
defiance and fire have their place
and it is miles from here
as the crow flies.
I lift sweet and naked you,
help spread your legs,
place your tired feet on wooden blocks,
three feet apart, inches high...
wobbling there, not strong enough
to keep the blocks from wiggling,
one slip from hanging,
one misstep from collapse,
beads and streams of juice and sweat
gleaming between your legs
like liquid lenses
reflecting purple red and pink.
so strong,
so controlled.
you've regained the upper hand.
your breathing is your own.
you can do this.
you can do this.
you can...
pyrrhic victory, sweetness.
I pull up a chair and sit,
my face inches from your swollen sex.
can you see, dear heart?
can you imagine the game?
can you fly?
I take out the feather
and begin to play.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Happy Valentine’s Day
our exhibit
we are in the ruins of love.all wonderfully amiss in afterglow,
the bedcovers covering nothing,
the billows of pillows, the silent sheets
speaking volumes...
their wrinkles, spots,
the lower right corner
pulled loose, the elastic no match
for your fingers' coital clutch.
the bed itself, still standing,
evidence of retrofitted springs and slats,
its new location, five inches from the wall
and beyond the reach of the morning alarm,
testament to vector physics
and your exuberant turns on top.
put the velvet rope across the doorway.
alert the docent and open the gates.
Photo of the Day
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Between Us, A Girl (Part 1 of 3)
Better, Better… A Little More to the Left
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New Photos, New Words
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About me
ProsperoMassachusetts
Fascinated by language, drawn to art, and utterly amused by everyone's naughty bits. Beyond that, I'm hundreds of years old and I live on an island. Read the play.
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