Posts Tagged ‘Erotic Poetry’


 

THINKING ABOUT FUCKING

Naturally, for decades, I’ve thought more about

fucking than actually fucking;

and over the decades the gap between

thinking and fucking

has grown but the thought of fucking

hasn’t slowed any but the acting on the

thought and making it real has slowed,

although the thoughts burn fiercely as ever

and the spirit surges violently and the touch,

the sensation, the visual

the audio pleasures are all very much alive

and the obsessive

mysterious desires continues

but the energy and physical lust

has slowed

like a ticking clock-hand

getting ready

for a forever

midnight.

 

 

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HEARING HER

She mistook me for

Van Gogh and told

me

I was the only man

she enjoyed having

sex with at work

and

the reason she never

called me was her

phone was lost

it was lucky I came

back

or she would have

never seen me

again

and she would like

to see me again

next weekend would

be good

she said

that would be unreal

I said

and left the brothel

with both ears still

intact.


Poet Ali Znaidi

The Last Sentences of an Unfinished Erotic Novel
 
There was the vibe of the skin.
There were the vibrations of the body,
and above all, the countless bee stings on her tattooed navel.

Wrong Name

 

Making out

in

the limo

Can’t see

through the

tinted glass

 

he

loved her

&

called her

by

the

wrong name

 

Sexy voice

even

saying

his name

by

mistake

 

 


A Comfortable Silence

 

Your sour face

matches the taste

of your vagina

The only difference is

the vagina doesn’t speak

I’ll gladly take this orifice

over the other

 

Words can be sharp

Penetrating

like my sexual organ

I’ll slip it in

to mitigate this suffering

Now all I need from you

is silence

If I had two dicks

This would be  so rewarding

 

The day you learn

to shut the fuck up

Is the day I’ll order pizza

We’ll celebrate

Have a little party

Until that day comes

Please

let me cum in peace

In the meantime

pass me another Xanax

 

“Yearning For This Moment”

 

Prancing around

in the sunshine

10 out of 10

Big bouncing

C cups

An ass

tighter than a noose

 

Her body

could cure

a hangover

Make you cum

with the quickness

In the gloom

of the rain

Nothing but charm

in tune with nature

 

Naturally I long

to feel

her warm

embrace

It’s like

a provocative sitcom

Living it out

Anticipating the end

When a new beginning

will blossom

The cum will flow again

 

 

 

 


Different Tastes

 

I dip my dick

into a wine flute

filled with Pinot Grigio

 

Now,

Taste.

What does your tongue tell you?

 

Are you a connoisseur?

Tell me the year.

I will pour you anything you prefer.

 

Now.

Spread your legs and let my

fingers linger until a raging

wetness ensues.

 

Now,

You must choose.

Grape or strawberry?

 

Pop Rocks go in and

mingle inside your moistness

 

Crackle…Crackle…Pop!

Mmmmmm…

Strawberry…good choice.

 

Now,

Remove the ice cold Coca Cola

from the fridge,

Pop the cap, pour it out and

plunge it in your pussy deep.

 

Your body shudders as you

exhale slowly.

 

Now,

Bottle removed

I enter with all the warmth of the sun.

 

Your body shudders again

as you exhale.

 

Now,

Time for the grape.

 

By Philip Wardlow 2013


A Wisp of Razor Wire (an encounter)
by Tom Hatch
She was a beauty and sharp with wit
Wisps of poly chromium razor wire
he was caught by her surprising glance
That became a stare long like a hillbilly’s
Worshipful looking at a Benz
Flowing red hair half smile becoming full
of trouble a dance that she wants
To lead but he does then she does
Off, off to another world her long arms
Rope burns undressing him hers already
An expressive empty face
Reaches for hands then his game of chess
He takes her knight she
Angling her bishop she stabs his queen
He does not spare hers either without perfect timing
Pawns are flying slaughtered
Rooks up turned on skin
Gazing at the board then she glares up
Across at him for a very long time
Her stare like the hillbilly at the Benz very slight
Movement of her head very slight, silent slightly
A gull’s glide moving her hand with remaining
Bishop without looking down at the board
Throws her head back sighing
Check mate she screams as his white king is
Toppled onto the floor with the other white pieces
The rooks, knights and bishops covering his dead queen
He looks up at her as the encounter took him
By surprise both shortened of breath
She stands then walks leaving the invited trespasser wisps
Of stained poly chromium razor wire
In her trail saying, shouting “do not ever follow me”

Checkmate!

previously published here by Devlin De La Chapa

 

“Shh, don’t speak” are the fractured

words, sadomasochistic still frames, segments

of a post-Elizabethan tragedy whispered

into my mouth; remnants of the thousands

lying dead in the fields.

 

The echo. . .ooh the echo. . .like

a serpents tongue slithering wet

pissing poison into the crevices

of my aching patois; no blood red

shimmering apple could compare.

 

I drift, and dream of Pontius Pilate,

commanding the placement of the

famed thorned crown on Jesus’s head

as he staked claim to his fate;

the world watches, cursed, as I am now.

 

The insanity of my eyes rage open to

the irony of past crucifixions before me,

plunging deep within the ill religious

creating an unsacrilegious temple

of my forbidden body.

 

The King kisses my lips, and augments me

from the dead of the reality that awaits me;

I ponder if Mary Magdalene could be the whore

weeping merciful at his feet, I could be forgiven

for my birth into this privileged life I know none other of.

 

“De-throned, de-boned, and deflowered lye cowards!”

 

Shouts the Knight of Shining Armor

as he plunders across the battlefields

to enslave the Queen from the King

overthrown from his indestructible castle.

 

And so begins the Rook and the Bishop

as they circle around me in silent steps;

I can’t see them. . .I can’t feel them. . .but

I can smell them. . .I can envision them. . .

 

And my bodice quivers, my thighs shiver

but my eyes weep when unbounded to

glimpse the Knight stripping me of power

of position of royalty; I raise my hands

in a last bout:

 

“Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!”

 

“Don’t turn around. . .

turn around. . .turn around. . .

brace yourself as the Devil

stands behind you.”

 

I hold tight, and take a deep. . .

deep. . .disturbing breath

right as the cat-o’-nine-tails

breaks through the air-

 

“Checkmate!” they whisper.