Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Fall Haiku
Better late than never. Continuing my tradition of posting seasonal haiku, here are my submissions for Autumn 2009. The frost is on the pumpkin. The days are shorter. It’s a banner year for acorns and the leaves are falling at a rapid pace. Time to winterize the house, find your sweaters, and remember how much fun it actually is to unbutton that special someone.
I.
The trick in autumn
Is removing more clothes. The
treat is obvious.
II.
Your parents wonder
why your hair is full of leaves.
So are my boxers.
III.
Mice in the attic
I pause, mid-stroke, listening.
You protest. They gnaw.
IV.
I sip hot cider.
You sigh, rope binding your breasts.
How ‘bout them apples?
V.
So many leaves to rake.
You bend, your ass tight in jeans.
This can wait. Let’s fuck.
VI.
The time changes. One
hour extra, one hour repeats.
Get naked. Fall back.
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Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Summer Haiku
Live and learn. Summer is one-third over. I figured that I was overdue to write and share some summer haiku. So, I sat down and wrote eight haiku that I thought were decent. But I’ve only been posting three each per season. What to do? I decided to send the eight haiku to four women whose opinions I trust and let them vote on which ones I should run. And guess what? No consensus whatsoever! In fact, I think I may have a new poetry-based Rorschach test to determine what women with whom I’ve never had sex might be like in the bedroom. Anyway, hope you are having a wonderful, sunny, warm… and sweaty (in a good way) summer.
I.
sunlight in my eyes
shattered by leaves, your red hair,
both above me, swaying
II.
outdoor etiquette—
do you slap a mosquito
on an upturned ass?
III.
nature’s timing stinks.
twice this week, i must wake you
to fuck in thunder.
IV.
come appreciate
our deck. see? solid! you fly,
pierced against the rail.
V.
the window fan mutes
our breathing—soft moan sounds, not
the slap of thigh on thigh
VI.
relax. be patient.
summer sweat makes nylon rope
harder to untie.
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Tuesday, April 14, 2009
National (Erotic) Poetry Month
Clearly, not everyone’s a poetry fan. For me, I blame those high school English classes where I had to do lengthy explications of John Donne poems. (Which is not to slight Donne. He wrote some pretty smoldering stuff. “License my roving hands, and let them go/ Before, behind, between, above, below.” Needless to say, my teacher didn’t choose that poem for us to explicate.) It may have been something different for you… perhaps a bad experience as the subject of a limerick. Still, I got over my fear of poetry. And perhaps you can as well. My recommended therapy for poetry aversion disorder is to read poetry. Well, to read erotic poetry.
Celebrate National Poetry Month by reading some erotic poetry. Visit the Old Poetry erotica area and start browsing. For starters, let me recommend Ovid’s “Love in the Afternoon,” Brautigan’s “Deer Tracks,” and Bukowski’s “Like a Flower in the Rain,” all on the first page. My poem below isn’t in that league, but I try.
nooner
we have an hour, maybe less.
an hour to dive inside
each other’s skin,
an hour to laugh and moan,
an hour to throw off blankets
and imagined discretion,
an hour that’s both
short and expansive,
restrictive yet liberating,
discrete not discreet,
an hour that now has only 58 minutes.
and with only 58 minutes,
one doesn’t stand on formality.
the clothes must come off.
i hop like a buffoon,
wrestling a delinquent sock.
there are no awards
for showmanship, only results.
your hand is cold.
you hold my cock
like a drawer pull.
I grip the back of your neck
like a cello.
striped muscle cells contract
and the distance between us closes.
still more than 55 minutes.
still more than enough time
to back you against the wall
where warmth is palpable.
skin is inevitable.
lips haved started to touch
in that easy face dance of
dip and dart,
move countermove.
perhaps this clock is internal.
we seem to know how much time
we have to kiss, know how many minutes remain
after letting you grind your wet desire
against my edgewise wrist,
riding the nub of bone
until my fingers drip.
and yes, there is a bed.
it is a fourth-dimensional wormhole.
there is no other possible explanation,
no other way for us to
have had enough time
to fuck so many ways.
no time left to shower.
you pee.
I pee.
we share a soapy washcloth,
a towel, a mirror.
and with two minutes left,
there’s nothing left to do
except start to kiss again.
Hear this poem read aloud…
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Categories: Poetry Audio
Tags: erotic poetry
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Spring Haiku
I.
a daffodil. geese
flying north. soon we may have
sex without those socks!
II.
the bulb bursts, shaft springs
erect, bobbing in the sun.
plants do that too, right?
III.
look the way he melts!
hasn’t chocolate bunny
seen pussy before?
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Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry, haiku
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!
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Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry, bdsm, haiku
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.
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Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry
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...
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Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry, audio
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...
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Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry, audio
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...
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Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry, audio
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Rest in Motion
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...
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Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry, audio
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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.
