It’s always hard to do good erotic writing of any kind without making it cringeworthy or uncomfortable for the reader. My goal is to always write good poetry and to write about everything, including stuff people don’t talk about at the dinner table. And to make it powerful, real and relatable. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I’m totally over the top. Sometimes I just keep editing until I get it right.
If you don’t want to read this or are under 18, now’s your chance to scroll away. There’s nothing seriously explicit here, but I rely on burlesque humor and nuance a lot. I’m not a huge fan of being obvious.
We recognize each other in a crowd,
with our forcefields of dark matter pulsing
inside hastily draped crime scene tape:
yellow and black
like the skins of dead hornets
warning you we’re poisonous.
We are the ones who can’t be touched.
Even the breeze is dangerous.
A hug, a touch on the hand
is a cellar door swung open,
a dirt floor to land on…
My body is a kind thing,
carrying so many heavy objects along its roads
It takes the clouds and makes breath,
filling the caves of my lungs with songs…
it occurs to me
late
(really late)
around that time when internet research decays
from topics of insolvency and fellowships
to tongue splitting, furries and Rasputin’s pickled cock
that I am really, really lonely
for you
and my brain,
radioactive and glowing,
has decided
(after all possible avenues for defilement
that Google and the human race have catalogued)…
mother cat
let me crawl inside your
stealthy quiet
leather urgency
calling to me
from across the
shifting earth
mother cat
let me crawl inside
through this ancient winding
Broadway trail
of tears and remembrance
where cities fade—
grass to rocks
to these cliffs we climb naked
by the sea,
locking waves and moon
in our starlit tongues…
There’s too much of him.
His sundogs chase me across the sky
and scatter the seagulls.
I wield him like crystal
in the ark of my hands.
He comes right through me
like a light at the end of my tunnel
opening the ways,
spilling the rays
all over my broken sidewalk…
I’m an envelope carried for too long,
protecting my contents; my skin is paper
sheathing over fire that’s learned the art
of not combusting.
I’m doing the dishes today.
Washing and shelving plates.
Answering my child’s questions.
Driving through a forest in the dark,
the moon in Scorpio and moonlight
twisting my cold feet in their boots…
for Anais Nin
You were every bit a child still, at thirty
when that afternoon in the hot mistral
you invited him in
and in
and in
until he tangled your conscience
with pheromones
and tender insistence,
drowning your homesickness
in his ocean of chromosomes
that gave life to your own
until he filled you up
and came out the other side…
This voice
calls my soul at night
out of its deep pockets
like the bullroar of frogs
in a downpour,
emerging out of nowhere
from the shadows
behind the growl of thunder,
closing down all my roads.
I think we’re stuck here.
Hunker down, lover.
We’re going nowhere tonight…
Did you hear the story
about the girl who loved too much?
So much she couldn’t have it.
She’d lived through famines
and learned to count rice-grains.
There was never enough cake
to eat it too (or eat for two?)—
so she’d take a bite.
Save the wrapper,
put it back on the shelf.
Wanted it to last forever…
I’ve lost my voice
all my vowels and consonants
are sliding down your throat
and falling into your stomach
I’ve lost it
because you swallowed my breath
when you took it away
and carried all my words with it…
My moon is full tonight
and the grass is growing blue.
The cool marble of my skin
is breathing
with the breath of your breath
before it touches you.
The halls between my fingers have opened
and are waiting for yours to crawl inside.
The night’s too long
and the space too far
tonight—…
…An umbilicus connects us.
Not a silver thread,
but a twisted life-stem
wrapping around us,
pulsing with our conjoined blood.
We’ve traveled so far
from the city of the ordinary.
I let you carry me
tucked in your pocket,
hidden inside your blueprints,
wrapped around your little finger.
I’m going to be your banyan tree
in the darkest forests
of your cerebral cortex…
