Word Oyster

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.

Posted by Prospero on Sun, 2nd Oct, 2005 at 10:27pm
(3) Comments | Permalink

Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry

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...

Posted by Prospero on Wed, 20th Jul, 2005 at 6:58pm
(7) Comments | Permalink

Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry, audio

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 cord
spreads 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.

Posted by Prospero on Tue, 12th Apr, 2005 at 1:08pm
(6) Comments | Permalink

Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry, bdsm

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.

Posted by Prospero on Mon, 14th Feb, 2005 at 1:12am
(3) Comments | Permalink

Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry

Tuesday, July 01, 2003

Listen! The children of the night!

the overheard orgasm

it's finally summer
(aboutfuckin'time!)
and all our late-night open windows
allow out, allow in these wanderers —
these tasty and tangible introductions,
these dreamy-fine how-do-you-do's,
these louder than window fan,
sharper than pushpin
voices in the dark.

I was trying to sleep on the sunporch
night before last, sweaty hot
with casements cranked wide,
one dying breeze away from despair,
sticking to my sheets like Colorforms.
Not quite asleep, restless,
I had one eye and both ears open.
The trees were black on black
through the screens
and I'd already heard the usual sounds —
deer, raccoon, freeway, cat.
I turned over, half-wishing for moon,
for crickets, for frogs,
for wolves doing hairy acapella
in my neighbor's backyard.

And then (whatthehell?)I heard it —
Not a wolf howl, not skunk or frog,
just a woman's loud, long "Ahhh."
Not a word, really.
No "Oh, god!" or "Yes, yes!"
Just a long building cry,
just an "Ah, ah, AHHH!"
racing from her bed to mine.
I sat up. It was one o'clock
and there were no lights on anywhere.
Which house did that come from?
Which open window was hers?
No answer, no multiples.
She was there and flying.
She was happy and loud.
And she was gone.

Curiosity sits on my shoulder
like a horny parrot
as I drive down my street.
Was it you, mother of two?
Or you, the pale gardener
with the blood red roses?
Or you, the suburban lawyer
with the dumpy husband?
The elementary teacher? The CPA?

We wave. We all wave.
It's that kind of neighborhood
We stop to chat on after dinner walks.
We meet over watery lemonade
sold by kids on the corner curb.
I'll wonder. All week, I'll wonder.
Because all our late-night open windows
allow in, allow out these wanderers —
And with smiles all around, I wonder
if last night, (ohgodlastnight!)
did everyone hear us, too?

Posted by Prospero on Tue, 1st Jul, 2003 at 9:20am
(0) Comments | Permalink

Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry

Thursday, April 24, 2003

Labia Love Poem

waterslide

see the pink'n nub, nubbin of pink pearl,
pearly pink and pearly wet,
slippery slick and pinkly wet,
warm and slidy slick, the pinkly slick slide?

of course you don't see —
a matter of scale and perspective.
reclining, you are the breathless theme park
and your pussy the favorite E-ticket ride.
but imagine wet pink laughter.
imagine pale pink razor burn on your open white thighs.
imagine my tongue shooting down,
splashing in the pool
of pinkly, pearly you.
pink tastes of honeysuckle.
pink is slippery as Jello and warm
as a fresh orange cranberry muffin.
pink is a kiss and pink is a hearty bite.
I ride slide glide
dive arrive alive
in pearly pink and pearly wet,
slippery slick and pinkly wet,
warm and slidy slick
you, splendid tasty
you.

Posted by Prospero on Thu, 24th Apr, 2003 at 2:12pm
(0) Comments | Permalink

Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry, labia

Monday, March 31, 2003

Poem for April, No Fooling

thirty-second flavor over Tokyo

the taste of your taste
is a sideways glance,
a pitch long into nuance,
a bit of salt and sugar,
lemon and sweat.
and the touch of that taste
is like the smooth slime
of an oyster
or the sweet skin
of a peeled concord grape —
the green under the purple,
the slick under the smooth.

burrowing in, I find
your center has become hard,
an uncooked pea
rolling gently
beneath a warm fruit roll-up,
bobbing like a float in the pond
where waves come
from breath on water,
from sounds rasping in air,
from exaltations reaching up from sheets
wet with communion
all cries breaking through the green vault
to the blue sky and on
to the heavens where God
hears its name
spoken again and again
with breathless love
and the resonance
of bare wooden floors.

afterwards, we bask
in a secular snack
of ice cream
and wet pink kisses.
echos, movements still circle below...
swirl, fudge swirl,
smacking of lips.

Posted by Prospero on Mon, 31st Mar, 2003 at 11:27pm
(0) Comments | Permalink

Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry, oral sex

Friday, March 21, 2003

An Energizer Moment

There's a nice poem by Carissa Neff over at Nerve.com today. My Mother's Penis is about a young woman's discovery and secret sharing of her mother's hot pink vibrator:

"... How many nights — lonely and wanting —

did you go to your penis and find it dead?

How many emergency flashlights, how many

babydolls' backs did you rip open in the fucking dark

searching for just two goddamn batteries with one

orgasm's worth of voltage left?..."

Posted by Prospero on Fri, 21st Mar, 2003 at 10:46am
(0) Comments | Permalink

Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry

Monday, February 24, 2003

love like that

love's like toast and jam.
love's like sweet dark chocolate.
love's like old memories
and today's wishes—

it's like our past and present
slow dancing together...
bare feet
on the worn midnight rug,
lights out and gerbils asleep.
it's like a goodnight kiss
with eyes open wide.

and love's like our fingers laced together,
linked side by side by side
as we walk down the street
hand in hand at sunset
or later in bed
straining
to keep the one on bottom
from melting with joy,
aching
to keep the one on top
from flying away.

Posted by Prospero on Mon, 24th Feb, 2003 at 1:57pm
(1) Comments | Permalink

Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry

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50 Words: Projectile Motion
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50 Words: Pussy
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Art, We Know What We Like

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Prospero
Massachusetts
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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A smattering of sex, a few episodes of erotica, and current events in the land of the "Make Your Own Dildo Kit" (now only $70 US and available in vibrating and glow-in-the-dark!)