Everyday Erotica

[bogusagain]

I found Tzara's thread on "Why Your Erotic Poem Is Not Erotic" interesting. I think he makes some very good pertinent points. Anyway I was in town today and I went to the art gallery to escape the blistering heat and was pleased to find a retrospective of minimal art from the 60s and 70s, which created a contemplative mood to go with the cool temperature of the air conditioning. I was walking round and I noticed this woman who for some unanalysed reason, set my juices flowing. By the time I left the gallery I had written a poem in my head, one I would do nothing with so I thought why not start a thread of everyday erotic encounters. It doesn't have to be an actual encounter, just a poem about a situation that created an erotic feeling or just write an erotic poem or a poem about the erotic or whatever. Just write.

gallery

it was the way she moved around the gallery
with a nonchalance she might employ
in the privacy of her home

the way she studied a minimalist print
as though studying her bathroom mirror
considering her perfect imperfections

the way she rested her weight upon one hip
which stressed the roundness of her rump
inviting a lover to focus his attention

the way he would slip his hand into her pants
pushing forward her pudendum
access requiring her to shift her stance

the power of the imagination adorns these walls
but no art is as powerful as she
who moves so freely about this room

[bogusagain]

The old urban myth that men think of sex about every 20 seconds has been squashed. Apparently men think of sex about 20 times a day and women 10, according to research at Ohio State University. That is still enough times for there to be a chance of an erotic poem surfacing in your imagination, should any of your sexual thoughts wander above your navel.

[Angeline]

Funny you should ask

[bronzeage]

Erotic is where you find it:

Hot Biscuits

Scratch baker girl in a dusty apron.
Shortening and flour, momma, Cut me in
and bathe me in sweet milk
till I squeeze sticky through your fingers.
Brown me top and bottom,
butter and jam
me in your mouth.

[Tzara]

Colaptes auratus

The flicker is hammering
on the telephone pole again,
like a sailor on shore leave
with three month’s wages
in his pocket. Aren’t you late,
my friend? I ask him, Spring
is the season of a young male’s
fancy for that kind of thing.

But then I think perhaps he’s old.

We older men seek love in summer, too,
and we’re already starting
to think about the fall.

[Desejo]

Untangling the chains of silver Nepali anklets
Made me imagine
taking you
to see the erotic carvings at Durbar square

Later my anklets would dance a raga
Tiny bells jingling
beneath my crimson toenails
on your shoulders

[bronzeage]

Originally Posted by Desejo

Untangling the chains of silver Nepali anklets
Made me imagine
taking you
to see the erotic carvings at Durbar square

Later my anklets would dance a raga
Tiny bells jingling
beneath my crimson toenails
on your shoulders

I like this.

[Tzara]

National Pastime
...a mom who went to third base
in the back of a minivan
with a man who wasn't her husband...
—Shannon Cook, “Moms gone wild: '40-year-old reversion'” (cnn.com)

I’m more of a singles hitter myself.
Never bulked up enough
to take a pitch
straight into the seats
or even tight against the wall
deep onto the warning track. Still,
with care and patience and skill,
and playing the game “the right way,”
I can often get to third—
the so-called hot corner.
Where, as any fan knows, once there
you have a lot of ways to score.

[bogusagain]

beach queen

the beautiful black girl
in candy striped micro dress
tight as a torniquet
turned the boys heads
who ignored the naked breasts
scattered across the beach
like a swarm of washed up
jellyfish

it's not what she had
but what she might have
the pleasures not yet revealed
the possibilities still contemplated
her booty and balcony measured
defined, calibrated and displayed
too damn near to naked
but not near naked enough!

[UnderYourSpell]

Head tilted coyly
she sucks in and licks
a scarlet painted
finger tip, just used
to diddle her clitty,
sitting legs parted
for my enjoyment.

[Desejo]

I remember the green sweater you were wearing
The first time I took you

Now that is ironic.
I picked that up that sweater in dollar a pound
In Boston. It was scheduled to be made into rags

The color was loud, vivid kelley green
And you, who have always stressed
The other side of our common heritage
Should realize that I could never have worn that
Without my English, German Scotch skin

This is what I remember:
You taking my hand and placing it
On top of your jeans
looking fiercely into my eyes
And later
when you groaned God, I want you so much

You know, I probably still have that sweater.

[greenmountaineer]

Originally Posted by Desejo

I remember the green sweater you were wearing
The first time I took you

Now that is ironic.
I picked that up that sweater in dollar a pound
In Boston. It was scheduled to be made into rags

The color was loud, vivid kelley green
And you, who have always stressed
The other side of our common heritage
Should realize that I could never have worn that
Without my English, German Scotch skin

This is what I remember:
You taking my hand and placing it
On top of your jeans
looking fiercely into my eyes
And later
when you groaned God, I want you so much

You know, I probably still have that sweater.

This is really, really good, although I might have left out the last line. The penultimate line is a great climax to the poem and, well, you know.

[Tzara]

Silk
After seeing a stack of “Fifty Shades of Grey” in the supermarket.

A tie is not quite right.
Better would be a scarf, knotted
loosely, so as not to damage
the delicate fabric. And not gray,
never gray. You revel in color
the way all flowers do;
it opens your beauty
like a bloom. This last—
I will not cover your eyes.
They speak as eloquently
to me as those little feline cries.

[Desejo]

The taste of mint tingles, don’t you think?
I’m not sure, you say
I take a mouthful of my brew, still quite hot
And then stir it with you
My tongue tracing like
A curious fish exploring a submarine
Your fingers get heavier on my shoulder
Then I swallow

[greenmountaineer]

Originally Posted by Tzara

Silk
After seeing a stack of “Fifty Shades of Grey” in the supermarket.

A tie is not quite right.
Better would be a scarf, knotted
loosely, so as not to damage
the delicate fabric. And not gray,
never gray. You revel in color
the way all flowers do;
it opens your beauty
like a bloom. This last—
I will not cover your eyes.
They speak as eloquently
to me as those little feline cries.

I showed this to my wife yesterday. She said she liked it and even read it again this morning. You have a new fan.

[Tzara]

Originally Posted by greenmountaineer

I showed this to my wife yesterday. She said she liked it and even read it again this morning. You have a new fan.

That's a very nice thing to say, gm. I appreciate it.

[Tzara]

Answer

I chose Amsterdam
because I like to walk along the water
with a woman I care for. Perhaps
because we are all born asea,
rising out of fluid into air.

I need the ocean, a river, at least
a murky canal reflecting
all that I hope will become is
somewhere beyond this walk,
my hand enclosing yours
like an unvoiced promise.

It could have been Paris, I suppose,
but the Seine is too wide
for my confidence
and everyone knows
it is the City of Love.
I needed to talk to you first,
and the Dutch are always practical.

Venice would have worked—
but, though beautiful, it is sinking
and that just seems so wrong
as metaphor.

Do not even mention Reykjavik,
capital of Iceland.

The clincher is the steep staircase
in our rented huis. Why, politely,
I let you ascend first.
Why I am quite dazed to follow.

[Angeline]

She Stoops to Conquer

She stands before him
eyes cast down,
a sleeveless dress her
long arms bare
skinned silken flesh.
She's close enough
for him to breathe her
fragrant hair is smooth
and fresh, her eyes
cast down.

Essence of a lemon grove,
Palermo warm and green
the top note fades
a tangy ocean taste
below the musky forest
elemental woman
earth is powerful her eyes

cast down the knowing
smile curving her lips,
points teasing fabric shifting
arc of hips she stands
before him still

her offering a fury
barely under check
and parting lips her breath
bare whispers, answers

yes.

[bogusagain]

the dangers of hitching


we picked up two girls
wearing beach dresses
to hide what their bikinis couldn't
but the summer breeze
thwarted their modest efforts

Elga lectured them
on the dangers of hitching
and gave me the evil eye
as I recited stories
of my adventures while hitching

but not the one where
a young blond German
picked me up in the dead of night
on the quiet road between
Agde and Sete

the night I was so grateful
the night she freaked me
by telling me she had a gun
should I get the wrong idea
then offered me her couch for the night

the night I wanted to slip away
make a dash for freedom
before the mad German woman
with the sinister smile
shot, diced and fed me to the crabs

the morning I woke up
surprised I had woke up at all
surprised to be served coffee and croisant
by a naked German lady
claiming she wasn't mad at all

[Desejo]

Face flushed
as if she sprinted
in her red gladiator sandals
to catch this train

The woman collapses
into the seat in front of me
shoulders heaving

Her hair paints detail
in bunches and strands
freed just minutes ago when

he slid strong fingers
back along the pulse of her temple
dug his fingers deep
into her white scalp

and unleashed her perfect chestnut braid
when he pulled out from the silken nest
to zip up his fly.

[Tzara]

That Girl in the Sundress

does not resemble you—
her hair is too straight, too light
to be your dark, rich waves.
She is too young, too blank
in experience of life
to taste like the wine of your kiss,
your conversation. But she is bare,
or nearly so, and her beautiful
shoulders and slim, tanned legs
make me think of sex, and so,
the way a grainy photograph
must serve at times for soul,
this is why—how—she becomes you.

[bogusagain]

the invitation

I still flinch at the burnt in memory
the night I found you half naked
with some pseudo-intellectual-Nietzschean he-man
amongst the overcoats on the bed
at some student all night party

now you send me an invitation
to your daughter's wedding
what do you want from me
to explain to your daughter
how good you were in arts of love

or how to dispose of a lover
without so much a goodbye and good luck
just the bucking of your hips
and your hands like hooks
holding onto some stranger's arse

what do you want from me
some further humiliation for old time's sake
to see if you still have the pulling power
to parade your damage lovers
before your gathered court

you know damn well this invitation
will torture me with branded visions
of you positioning yourself for deepest penetration
and each time I grind into your groin
it is him that's there not me

[champagne1982]

Every time I catch
a glimpse of slender
arms, strong in a most
feminine sleekness
I remember mine
captured at my breasts
between your chest
and me as you turned
and bent your neck
to whisper details
just for me, you said.
You taste like honey
sucked from a spoon,
you said my arousal
never failed to turn
you on you said
I was sex on legs
and when they locked
over your back as I
took every inch
of your cock and begged
for harder you said -
you said you couldn't
last longer. You said
you simply wanted
to fuck me again.

[bogusagain]

Party Guests Too

I won’t embarrass you by mentioning
the last time we were together, listening
to Leonard Cohen sing Marianne
your back was a highway before me
your arms stretched out like slip roads
as though offering me a choice of direction
a further exploration of your hinterland

I wondered then, which road would I take
the one that eventually twisted back
and tucked itself beneath your belly
or the one that bent out, like a thresher
beating the mattress, gathering the harvest
as you lost yourself in the fruits of nature
your mother’s lecture about boys like me
forgotten, as you urged me along your road

I imagine your mother’s smug satisfaction
as you prepare to leave with your suited winner
the romantic loser, a tramp at the side of the road
though I can tell by your hesitation
you are wondering too, what if
you had taken a similar route
opted for the adventure of the open road
suburbia, some other woman’s cage

[Desejo]

The white girl in the low slung yoga pants
Has an dangerous ass
Tight, rolling under her waist
Like two balloons filled with jello
Her walk sings voom bam bam voom
Each step dimpling her naked flesh at the waist
Your eyes strain for the V
of a panty line
which you will not find