Everyday Erotica

I remember the blush that bloomed
and knew exactly what you
were weighing up
head in your hands
how would that fit
this smooth textured beast
the look in your eyes screamed yes
your body hesitated
my beg and groan
growled through
animal vocal chords

your nipples hardened like a quarter roll of coins
resistance wilted, a fresh picked
frangipanni in scorching sun
hands in your hair

and there was a moment
A fraction when
it wouldn't

then that liquid slide
of boiled heat
a sigh in triumph
nothing torn in crush velvet
satin depths

As we ride into rain.
 
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I remember the blush that bloomed
and knew exactly what you
we're weighing up
head in your hands
how would that fit
this smooth textured beast
the look in your eyes screamed yes
your body hesitated
my beg and groan
growled through
animal vocal chords

your nipples hardened like a quarter roll of coins
resistance wilted, a fresh picked
frangipanni in scorching sun
hands in your hair

and there was a moment
A fraction when
it wouldn't

then that liquid slide
of boiled heat
a sigh in triumph
nothing torn in crush velvet
satin depths

As we ride into rain.

Ok, nice subtle work there! I've read it three times and still can't decide if you're referring to back door lovin' or the more vanilla variety. I like subtly like that. Sexy and open to interpretation. Again, good work.
 
Ok, nice subtle work there! I've read it three times and still can't decide if you're referring to back door lovin' or the more vanilla variety. I like subtly like that. Sexy and open to interpretation. Again, good work.

which ever you prefer, part of the reason its open :D
 
Intimate Letters
—Leoš Janáček to Kamila Stösslová

She's young and slim, his hair is gray,
and each is wed to someone else.
One wonders what they have to say

in all these letters, day by day—
do they discuss his several faults?
She's young. And slim. His hair is gray

and thinning, often disarrayed.
He writes for her a lilting waltz;
she wonders what he means to say

with swirling melody—essay
her love, her bed? Make quick her pulse?
She's young and slim. He's very gray

when she is elsewhere, faraway.
His heart, though old, is no way false.
One wonders what she has to say

to this old man under her sway.
Though she's the bloom, it's he who wilts.
She' s young, she's slim; he's simply gray.
One wonders what it is they say.
 
I don't often
think of your clothing. Just
in those times I think of how
you might remove it in
the long shadows of sunset,
lit by low and purplish light
in a cabin on several acres
so there is no need for
curtains or blinds, your
body, there suddenly warm
as a fire laid against the evening,
and all I have to do is
nestle against the smoothed rock
of your muscles, the long line
of your torso, and sleep.

As if, lying thus, I could

..........well,

....sleep.
 
How I Would Like to Love You

would be over coffee or tea
in some local bar where
we not only could talk, but

where I could stare at
your breasts, absently,
as if thinking about angels or God.

I would sip my macchiato
with pursed lips
always thinking of

how well they would mate
to yours, even
when you want to talk too much

about that charity I gave money to,
because I wanted
you to let me get between

your fabulous thighs
and, well, because I kind of agreed
with your cause anyway.
 
How I would like to love him

My alarm would be
the buckle of his jeans
pulled on from the floor
I’d watch with a lazy eye
Knowing that while I’ve
Slept through breakfast
I can have him at lunch
and dinner.

I'd fall back asleep happily,
knowing where my next meal
was coming from.
 
Rite

It's not really magic, just
physiology, when you bring
about my startled release

with only your steady hand,
your studied tongue. But
still, it is some kind of Mystery

in which you are the adept
and I am just your offering
in my long, ecstatic swoon.
 
Watchers

The gardener
creepy in sneak
watched
their descent
her clickety clack to
him the echo down
stone steps
accessory to passion
From the window
the chambermaid's eyes
wear a sliver of light
so thin
the gardener barely
notices
lost in the
measured steps
clickety clack
She a midnight coat
on moonlit ivy
drawing her shadow
not strident stroke
but lavender lush
in mystical fetter
"here"
her slender finger
glides then points
and to the gardener's twitch,
the curtain's shy,
here
he goes to his knees
a transcendental ritual
that quells the crows
gone silent.
Tonight, the gardener
will masturbate alone
the chambermaid, too
as finally
In a room high above
the strident strokes
will fall
to their envy
 
I'm goin' straight
I swear
There's just something
About those warm folds
That sweet tang
Inviting you to drink it in
Swallow it down
And being twisted
In a chain of others
Doing the same
The sight, the sound
The smells all familiar
But not the same.
Yes, I'm goin' straight
I swear
Just not tonight

Wise writing. Night is no time to make life changing decisions, especially with so much at stake.
 
The Tricks of Diamond Lil

I mighta shot Billy the Kidd
sure enough intended to
but i hocked my bullets
for one dance
with the devious
Diamond Lil,
just to feel her bullets
pressed red hot
to my need
in peach mirage
The boys in the saloon
yucked it up pretty good
when they watched
my fast draw with
no fire, and Billy fled
while Lil leaned the piano
rolling my bullets
in her fingers,
smiling at my failure
as I knew she would.
No matter to me,
I'll get Billy in Yuma
or maybe Dodge City
when Lil tires of the game
saddles my pony
and gives me back
my bullets
 
Little house fires are fun
their coal glow heat enough to warm the night
but I long for the blaze of an errant spark
in a dried forrest
to see free range bushfires run rampant
in deep crevasses and untamed terrain

to feel the heat
to be left a smoking husk

I long to set fires
giggle in
pyromaniacal glee
to burn a swathe through
all in my path.
 
Little house fires are fun
their coal glow heat enough to warm the night
but I long for the blaze of an errant spark
in a dried forrest
to see free range bushfires run rampant
in deep crevasses and untamed terrain

to feel the heat
to be left a smoking husk

I long to set fires
giggle in
pyromaniacal glee
to burn a swathe through
all in my path.

Impressive, tod, really.

Quibble: In line 2 I wasn't sure if "glow" or "heat" was the verb, but in either case it should be "glows" or "heats."
 
Impressive, tod, really.

Quibble: In line 2 I wasn't sure if "glow" or "heat" was the verb, but in either case it should be "glows" or "heats."

i read that as 'their coal-glow heat enough to warm...' so the glow of their coal is producing enough heat
 
i read that as 'their coal-glow heat enough to warm...' so the glow of their coal is producing enough heat

Point taken and it works, given your explanation.

I know for some punctuation isn't as important as it once was. This is no reflection on tod's well written poem, but had it read

"Little house fires are fun,
their coal glow heat enough to warm the night,
but I long for the blaze of an errant spark"

I would have come to the same conclusion you did.
 
Point taken and it works, given your explanation.

I know for some punctuation isn't as important as it once was. This is no reflection on tod's well written poem, but had it read

"Little house fires are fun,
their coal glow heat enough to warm the night,
but I long for the blaze of an errant spark"

I would have come to the same conclusion you did.

i read that as 'their coal-glow heat enough to warm...' so the glow of their coal is producing enough heat

Butters is right this is how I intended it to read, thanks for the heads up GM, punctuation and grammar I really struggle with, the way butters wrote coal-glow is how I thought I wrote it, that way it says what it needs to. Also the comment is appreciated :)
 
The only present I want
is this one, that wraps up
past and future
memory and plans
contains them
so that we are free to feel only
the contact of our bodies
as pathways removed of time
wend us toward the space
where stars cluster
expand
explode
bringing the light
and heat
that make
life possible

wow, there's a dream and a half. sign me up. Your telling just gets better and better, Trix
 
Polaroid

Now, even in her most chaste
photograph my fingers

recall some idle stroll
along her limbs, the bared skin

pliant yet firm, warm
or cool or smoothly damp.

It is as if my only memories
are in my hands. Even

the little mewling sighs flutter
as gentle taps upon each fingertip.
 
I noted the tampon in the trash
Suspected the purloined cash
A jizzy belle misfortune
was ditzi belle Miss Fortune
Crime scenes are made of this:
"Photos and DNA"

too bad poetry isn't made that way
 
it was the last time--

again, again rivets
attention, rivulets
salt sentiment
some notion of soul, sole
so make it all, and nothing
at all
 
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