Entries with the tag "Erotic Poetry"
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
May Menage a Moi
I just watched the movie, Quiet City, on Sundance Channel. And, while I’ll readily admit to being a mumblecore slut and that therefore my opinion here may be somewhat suspect, I just want to say how much I loved this movie! Yes, the characters (naturally) didn’t do much, but that’s part of the point. While they were going on about their lives, they were genuine and likeable. I also liked the composition of the visuals in and around Brooklyn; it reminded me of when New York still had that “place to be” romance to it. Finally, I thought the lead actress (and co-writer), Erin Fisher, was adorable. Those lips, those eyes! Erin, if you want to come bum around suburban Boston (“Ooo, look! Another Dunkin Donuts!”), just let me know.
May is Masturbation Month. San Francisco’s Masturbate-a-Thon is early this year (this Saturday, May 2). Competitions this year include Longest Squirt, Longest Time Spent Masturbating, Most Orgasms (male record is 31, female is 49), and something new called the Tag Team Fun event. If you can’t attend in person, you can go all voyeur and follow along online. You can also download a pledge form, get sponsors (by the minute or by the orgasm, your choice), and go it alone or with friends. Money raised by the event benefit the Center for Sex and Culture. (And I won’t embed this, but the Center for Sex and Culture is featured in this Penn and Teller Bullshit videoclip on masturbation. The abstinence folk at the beginning and end of this clip make me want to scream… and possibly beat them over the head with a healthy 15 year old.)
I was just discussing environmental initiatives in sex with my pal, JeN. And aside from the eco lubricants (organic, no hormones, glycerin, sugars, etc.) such as Good Clean Love’s Almost Naked flavored lubes, and a new effort to recycle old sex toys (not for reuse… don’t worry), we couldn’t seem to come up with much to recommend for you green, yet horny, types. But then I found the Earth Angel Wind-Up vibrator. Made of 100 percent recycled parts, you simply wind up the vibe for 4 minutes to keep it buzzing away for a half an hour. No more batteries or vampire chargers!
Wait… it’s still April, isn’t it? So, since it is technically still National Poetry Month, I have one last link for you. Visit the A Taste of Sex podcast to listen to poets reading and/or singing their erotic poems (songs, stories, etc.).
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Categories: Sex news
Tags: masturbation, erotic poetry, podcast, sex toys
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
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.
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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...
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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 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.
(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.
(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?
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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.
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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.
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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?..."
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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 presentslow 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.
(1) Comments | Permalink
Categories: Poetry
Tags: erotic poetry
