Erotic Poetry, Weird Poetry

I don’t just passively watch a film;

I interact with it…

I join in…

I talk to it…

I mirror emotions…

I sometimes lose track of where I end and a film begins,

Vice versa.

I watched two wanton (undeniably kinky) lovers

Erotically pass a whole egg yolk

Back and forth

From their open mouths

Several times without breaking it

[It was a marvel of delicacy, precision and hungry carnality, and it kinda made me clench certain parts of my body and gag at the same time]

As my own mouth swung open on its hinges.

When she came,

Because of course he was caressing her off screen at the same time,

I exhaled after an entire minute

Of not breathing…

Most probably,

Just like she did.

When the broken yolk oozed from her pinkened lips

And her eyes rolled into the back of her head

As she expelled her climactic exclamation (and relief, perhaps, that the game was finally over),

I was the one that moaned the loudest.




*** That egg yolk scene is from an excellent Japanese film “Tampopo”… a film that will make you crave both Ramen and warm human flesh. ***

Counting down to petit mort inside an hour glass

Art & Erotic Art, Erotic Poetry, Weird Poetry

*** Contains erotic imagery. Perhaps skip this if that offends. This harkens to the Lustful Empress of yesteryear…. ***


From head

To hip

To teeny tiny toe

Time twists and slithers

Down the sides and surfaces

Of privately possessed

Minutes and seconds

And sweetly salacious hours

As fingers dance

And body sings

Pleasure rippling

Deconstructing the bones

Of an arching frame

In a moment of death

Steeped in moonheld moans




*** Spring makes me slightly more MORE… sometimes. ***

*** And it is reuniting me with my love of lingerie. All women (and men… and whoever else… yolo) should get some… and wear it every day… under your regular clothes… hehe…. ❤🌷 ***

Soul Quiet

Erotic Poetry

I hear you in the quiet spaces of my soul,

And write you between the invisible lines

Seen and read only by me.

When I expel the heart-heated breath from my staggering lungs,

I feel you on the breeze,

Slipping through my open-mouthed vowels,

Licking wild rivers down the silken insides of my quaking thighs;

They shake the flesh from the bone from how violently you rattle me, my sweet love.

Burn me on my dark side first

And unmute the covered moans

Hiding in the curled-up crinkled corners

Of me.




Bedroom Laugh

Erotic Poetry, Weird Poetry

He has the kind of laugh

That befits a sweaty and wholly satisfied

Post-coital situation:



And full of private possibilities…

A bedroom laugh.

Parts of me clench and dampen

At the very sinful thought of it.




*** Eavesdropping again, Sweet Cheeks? Very naughty. ***

*** The ear overhears what the ear wants to overhear. Plus… laughter can be an afrodisiac. Plus… anything can be afrodisiac when you’re about to drop an egg. Fuck. ***

Forgotten Tongue

Erotic Poetry

I knew you would forget your tongue beneath the lace of my panties,

Tangled in those iridescent angel wings made damp by your fluttering whispers and dripping words,

As your wave lapped at my saline shore

On a morning when tears out-salt the sea.

The beach was strewn with drift wood and pockets beneath the sand of captured sunlight

And secrets scrawled on ancient parchment

As you ached your way into that drenched bloody muscle of mine

In silence, in sighs, in salacious symphony

And cut through my flesh and my pounding soul with piercing inky fingers and hungry teeth.




*** This is the final poem in my ‘Drafts’ folder. If I publish any more today, then they were one-offed lol But sometimes those are the best poems. Can’t wait to see what 2021 holds in store, and I am not being sarcastic. Sarcasm is for people not smart enough to be funny, and I am hilarious! But yes… cheers to art and words and creativity and love and new beginnings. Down with the ‘rona and racism and anger and all that stupid shit that ruins everything. Let’s just not be assholes for a little bit… that goes for everyone.. especially those consarned virtue-signalling types… there are so many of those wet blankets around… ugh. Wow… that was a lot…. You’re welcome or sorry… take whichever fits best. 🤣🤣🤣👍 ***


Erotic Poetry

Sometimes I wonder

What it would be like

To be gifted to you

Wearing a big red bow

And your tender bite marks.

I wonder

What it would be like

To lie beneath your fever kisses

And feel the tracks of broken skin (that you gifted right back to me) down my back

From your nails

And your insatiable pangs of thirsty.

I want the heaving of your chest against my own,

And the lick of your sweet honey suckle mouth on my chewed up lips.

I know you equally want

(Don’t deny it… you want it bad…)

My aching love-punched heart

Pulsating through my crazing skin —

And yours —

As you crush your teeth into my ripe flesh

And make all of my parts yours to swallow.

I wonder (I wonder so so much)

What it would be like

To exhale your moans through my own red parted lips

As my hands travel beneath the elastic band at my waist —


I exhale

And the breath and sensual sounds that exit me

Are not only my own…

Not anymore.




*** Well, hopefully whoever it is whose breath you are exhaling doesn’t have halitosis, Angel Eyes…. ***

*** Yeah… I totally didn’t think of that…. Ew. ***

Cloud Book

Erotic Poetry, Weird Poetry

We penned and painted entire h’oevres

In the full deep dome-unencumbered sky

With our mingled precipitation

And fingers wrapped in strands of diluted ochre and white titanium cloud.

We did this in split seconds and exhaled eternities,

Then we scrawled red sunsets

Into the virgin sheets blanketing the peaks and valleys below us —

And onto that one lonely little (enormous) mountain top —

As our restless legs and curling/uncurling toes

Twisted verse and vision into each other’s flesh.




Photo cred: Goooooooooooooooooogle

At Least 31 Flavours

Erotic Poetry, Weird Poetry

Drag your tongue across my exhalations

And taste the way you agitate me —

I have a different flavour for every time I’ve writhed —

At least 31 of them…

And counting.

I’m basically an ice cream parlour

But with more nuanced flavour profiles

And toppings that always spill and drip and tumble onto the floor.

Sometimes you have to accept a sunk cost just to watch things fall and splatter on the linoleum. It’s worth it just for the upsplashing fudge alone.




*** You’re literally writing a poem along to Rick Astley’s [eternal ] “Never Gonna Give You Up”. Have you no shame, woman?!?! ***




*** Poem-writing companion song completely unintentional… but somehow… just right. ***


Photo cred: Google-ramalamadingdong

Lip Tattoo

Erotic Poetry

I had your name

Tattooed on the slippery skin

Inside my lower lip

So it would never fade

(Because if I can taste you by name, I will remember you…)

Or be seen by a single soul…

Including my own

(Should I choose to forget you… and the arrangement of letters that construct that shortening word that everyone else calls you).

Then I had your secrets and silent dirges

Tattooed in scarred-white in columns

(And pearlescent crescent moon teeth marks)

On the silken skin of my inner thighs

So no other soul could read them —

Or know them —

Save for me

And my creeping fingers,

And you,

And your bitten ruby tongue.




*** You know what they say about tattoos, Toots? Getting names tattooed on your face, even the inside of your face, is a really bad idea…. ***

*** I have so many names and words tattooed under my skin that I have more ink than blood running in my veins. ***

I can still taste you

Erotic Poetry

I can still taste

The brine of your lust on the insides of my cheeks,

And between my flesh-biting teeth.

I can still feel your dampness on my mane of fire-flecked ebony,

And your spurts of moonsheen between my scratched thighs,

And across my neck,

Like a choker of muted starlight.

I can still smell my petaled love on your honeysweet breath,

And on your wet yielding mouth.

I can still hear your laboured rhythmic whispers beating on my eardrums

As I writhe

And pant

Through every step of my day.




*** Woke up horny again, Sugar Tits? ***

*** I haven’t even woken up yet…. I’m still making love to my dreams. ***


Erotic Poetry

I’m gonna be magic,

And you —

You’re just gonna fucking watch.




*** Whoa Nelly! Are we on our high-horse this chilled morn? ***

*** Should I be on a low-horse? Also… sometimes I don’t want hands and words. Just eyes and a gaping mouth with no-words escaping on the drool. ***

*** Sometimes modesty feels inauthentic. ***

Rewriting Poems #5: Sweetness/Bittersweetness

Erotic Poetry

Original “Sweetness(02/26/2019):

I feel sweet this morning,

Like damp candy floss.

Making my fingers sticky,

And my teeth hum.

Rewrite: “Bittersweetness”

The bittersweet feels me this morning,

As little trails of damp curl from the dark apex of my sticky thighs.

Grapefruit nectar freshly squeezed

From between salted lips,

Sweet, juicy and astrigent,

Choking bitter like fingers curled around my throat

But laced with kisses and licking,

Like me on a complicated day.

Sinking your bite into my gauzy fleshy rind

Will make your teeth hum

And fingers claw from the bittersweet

Curling in tongued pathways across my lovedampened thighs.




*** What if I’m on blood pressure medication? Isn’t grapefruit a contraindication? You could be dangerous for some people’s health, Tootsie Pop! ***

*** I’m counting on it…. ***

*** I don’t know why I identify with grapefruit nectar; it’s kinda my thing. Maybe because I’m not that sweet even though I look like I am. I have bitters and throat chokes to me. ***

My Tree Lover

Erotic Poetry, Weird Poetry

My tree lover speaks to me through the sensual susurrus of his branches,

Rustling my dark curly-locked head.

I press my lips into his bark to let his sweet sappy mossy scent enter me

As he closes my eyes.

He gives them to me,

His spent sun-filled leaves,

Letting them fall and gather at my feet

So I can collect them

And keep them under my nightgown

Against my dewdrop skin

Until the full moon’s reflected light fills the sky

And the hollow places in my heart.

They remain there,

His leaves,

Until we can spend our dreams together,

And they disintegrate back into my flesh.

He embraces me with an amber passion

That hangs from my limbs in liquid suspension,

As he caresses me with the deep ridges and roughness of his bark

Which he imprints upon my yielding frame like a lingering kiss —

My softness succumbing to his hardness,

My velvet parts wearing his marks like lace.

When I am far from him,

Floundering in steeled cemented labyrinths,

The breeze carries his fallen leaves back to me.

They land in my nest of hair,

In my mooning wanting thoughts of him.

The wind carries parts of him

Back to me

On the waxy surface of redpinkorange leaves

Pocked with holes, spots, cracks and crazing.

He is no less perfect when he is falling

Than when he is splendouring

In endful summer.




*** Well then… making out with trees…. That takes the cake, Sweet Cheeks. And… admit it… you found ‘susurrus’ in the Thesaurus. ***

*** If you peeled a layer of my skin from my bones, you would see that I have bark instead of muscle fibre. ***

*** Yes. I discovered it when thesaurusing ‘rustle’… and managed to fit both of them in. ***

*** … Show-off… ***


Erotic Poetry

When I’m alone (like youandmeandjustme alone and not really alone alone)

My hands want my hips (fingers curling, nails trying not to break silver moonly skin)

My hands want (with desperation that pleads through my pores, that pleads from deep muscular machinations that fly my hand to my tenderness)

Their soft round (like the curve of your heart, like the curve of your cheek resting on the crest of my skull)

Their gentle flare (like I am spilling beyond my lines for you, and my body has to show you somehow)

Their slow figure 8s (the torturous tortion of ocean-swelled desire as the glow in the night sky bounces off of the sea salt crytals embedded in my you-licked skin)

That weave infinity into my waves and undulations (my waves and your moonpulling splendour rolling about the stars in my eyes)

But we both know that my reverence (and the way I whisper my fingers across my gleaming boneframe)

Is really (profoundly and without doubt)

Yours (Ours)




*** So basically you masturbated like you were two people… and wrote about it…. ***

*** Sure… if you say so…. **

Rewriting Poems #4: Ghostly Red/Red Ghost Touch

Erotic Poetry, Weird Poetry

I wrote this poem about a little less than 2 years ago. Totally forgot about it, but I remember what inspired it.

I’ll never tell….

Anyhoo, just reimagining it in different words and word arrangements.


Original “Ghostly Red” – (01/26/2019):

Spectral sensuality.

Red hot touch.

Scintillation on the cold hard floor.

Unseen hands and slippery fingers find their way inside,

Pulling me through the floor into a velvety void of moans and gasps.

Join me in the aether for an eternal moment.


Rewrite: “Red Ghost Touch”

A scarlet spectre stands silent in the corner

As I sizzle like ants on the mid-July pavement

Under the seething glare of a magnifying glass,

All contortion and arching back,

And shuddering from your invisible red ghost touch

That I can sense in my own grovelling and grasping hands.

I can feel you watching,

Willing my own fingers into slippery parts of me

That drip love and aether.

I didn’t even feel the floor fall out from under me

When you thrusted your eternal moment into mine.




*** Do you see dead people, Sweet Cheeks? Sounds like you see dead people…. Just sayin’…. ***

*** I don’t know what I see or feel sometimes, but whatever it is, it sure as fuck isn’t dead. ***

I can still taste you on my teeth

Erotic Poetry

I can still taste the crescent moons on your shoulders,

In my honey mouth,

And my teeth are humming from all of

My sticky sweet


Your salty sin —

Sin that was tongue and bite and your whispers crashing into my silken limbs.

I can still taste the look on your face as your eyes pushed your colour into mine,

And we created a pigment only we can see

And name;

It is the colour of writhing in the gloam

And paying no notice to the clouds.

It is the colour of entanglement in the tall sweeping grasses

To the sensuous sounds of the succulent sea

Between my shivering thighs,

And it sounds like utter breathloss.

I can still taste my finger nails digging into your flesh,

And I can’t remember my name, or how we even got here, and… when did the day even break? And I think I feel it mounting, and I think I feel it coming, and oh god why can’t I imagine you outside of me anymore?

I can still taste my cry and your joy on our laced fingers,

And I am intimately aware of the flavour of the beating sun

In your chest.




*** …[awkward throat clearing noise]…. ***

*** TJ – 1 ; Peanut Gallery – 0 ***

Onomatopoeia… or… “UNF”

Erotic Poetry

i love it when our words fuck each other

when our words break down into glottal stops, gutteral howls, and sharp inhaled breaths

for days and days and days and days, with no end in sight

just one juice-soaked word after another out of you and thrusted into me

pushing my limits and extracting my filthiest fucking phrases

like shimmering strings of salacious secrets that you can wrap at first delicately… then forcefully… around my throat

yeah… you already knew i liked that

i’m sure you could tell from the bruising i wear like necklaces

and the way my eyes follow anyone with strong masculine hands

your slippery tongue and dirty lip-licking mouth lubricate my own

as you rasp your need into my ear, into the bowl of lust overflowing from my insides

jesus fuuuhhh… you always know how to take my words and feed them back to me,

my own utterings dripping out onto my tongue in phonemic moans and end-punctuated groans

if you keep wording me like this

i might drown you in wholly capitalized sentences and an obnoxious array of exclamation points

right before the denouement of our climax

and with our smut-soaked sentence-making we will redefine


with sounds that just can’t be spelled




***Feeling animal today….***