Everyday Erotica

[greenmountaineer]

Yoga pants slide off easy
in Bada Bada Bing's parking lot
2:30 am after closing

before Don Luigi's driven home
who likes to watch Enzo, his driver
drill the bimbo, Jesus Christ,

those fake tits get the best of the don
going home to the holy
drone of Hail Marys and Our Fathers,

Sofia, his wife, forty-five years
of goddam red spaghetti each night,
and, watcha call it Enzo, ED.

[Desejo]

Dinner at that German Place

I’m hardly listening
thinking only of easing the ache
that laps in hot bursts and stray curls
escaping the sides of my panties

When you sip the foaming ale
I want to straddle the oak bench
and hike up my skirt
like a naughty Bavarian barmaid

Tip that liquid into a deeper pool
between my thighs
Where the only sound is that of
you reclaiming your tongue from the cat

O, to have you paw at my tits
quivering cream over maroon lace
For that, Sir
I’d even wear my hair in St Pauli girl braids

[Tzara]

Spell
I am not furnished like a beggar;
therefore to beg will not become me:
my way is to conjure you…
—Rosalind: As You Like It, Epilogue

While I was thinking about God,
she rounded the corner in front of me,
where the round movement of her hips

painted Creation all over my body,
as if my very skin was damp plaster
and DaVinci himself wrote divinity

over my porous and accepting surface.
This is too heavy a burden for women,
who only also want love, not godhead.

Well, I do not worship you. Only just some,
and that doesn’t involve church or anything.
But, I beg, please. Let me at least pray to you a bit.

[butters]

Originally Posted by Tzara

Spell
I am not furnished like a beggar;
therefore to beg will not become me:
my way is to conjure you…
—Rosalind: As You Like It, Epilogue

While I was thinking about God,
she rounded the corner in front of me,
where the round movement of her hips

painted Creation all over my body,
as if my very skin was damp plaster
and DaVinci himself wrote divinity

over my porous and accepting surface.
This is too heavy a burden for women,
who only also want love, not godhead.

Well, I do not worship you. Only just some,
and that doesn’t involve church or anything.
But, I beg, please. Let me at least pray to you a bit.

just wonderful

[Desejo]

Cosmo magazine, advisor to the afflicted
Advises a rubber band on the wrist
Self-snapped
whenever those urges distract
Zwiiinng

Twenty or thirty times and you should start thinking about him less

I don’t even know when I am thinking of you
And since I’m not a man
It’s not my wrist that should be punished

[Desejo]

Getting back to that Cosmo thing.
I found a ball of rubber bands today
6 inches assembled from three continents
There must be a thousand

I thought about taking off my silver
and layering them on my arms and calves
Like a tribal princess
A thousand flaccid loops of drab beige

I could snap them like
A kora, a zither, an ou’d
compose a song of the pain in little snaps
A thousand cries a day

[butters]

ah, quality *deep sigh of contentment*

ty, desejo

[Desejo]

Incoming SMS, 13:45

I think he was more than delighted, whereas I am like ‘meh’.

So she did
in spite not being into him
but hey, sometimes
you take what you can get but
Gawd, let me never be the subject
of an SMS like this

Outgoing SMS, 13:50

Ha!

[Desejo]

Originally Posted by chipbutty

ah, quality *deep sigh of contentment*

ty, desejo

You are most welcome

[Tzara]

Cotton Candy

there is no way
that I am ever bone

for your skeleton
I am simply filigree,

some colored paper curled
like a silly hat

you’d be embarrassed
to actually wear

anyhow, in public
oh, but girl,

how perfect would I look, atop
you, even in a Laundromat—

cotton towels fluffed
about us like piles of spun sugar

while our coupling ate up threads,
sweet blue, sugared pink

[Desejo]

For the decapitated cricket
found in my sheets this morning

A moment of silence.

While normally I appreciate
erotic dreams
This may be a bit extreme
I am not a praying mantis
And neither was the victim

[Desejo]

I guess I’m boring.

The only thing I really want to see
before I die
is the curve of my own hipbones
slung low with a string of ceramic beads
Clinking together to a rhythm
that you set
I did promise to wear them

just as you promised to someday stay the night.

[bogusagain]

oh no baby blue

she had always been a thespian
with a hollowed out personality
ready to slot into any new role
which offered her opportunity
some ambition or some grand scheme
something that would elevate her status
which required her to be someone else
someone more stable, more perceptive
someone utterly dependable

still, she comes on in public, as though
we’re old lovers destiny had thwarted
now on some inevitable trajectory
that will trash her current lover
who eyes me like a foul assassin
her Judas kiss a melt of marshmallow
(originally a cure for sore throats)
now has me gagging on her front
to use me as a domestic weapon

I knew her back in Sheffield, Christmas ‘77
in the square behind the cathedral
where the shadows were dark and heavy
a slight of hand into her jeans, I unzipped her vagina,
her lips puckered, sucked in my steamy breath
as though I’d put my finger on her soul
and devil me, had left my indelible mark
but my presumption required her correction
love, she said, like sex, is only temporary

by new year, freezing and a smoke of mist
street lights bowed their heads like sunflowers
dusting us with an orange glow
as we walked home through the barren streets
in a cold post coital depression
our temporary love, consummated
betrayed and lain waste
on a mattress of strangers overcoats

[Tzara]

I do not

understand
how your few

words,
little bird

tracks
pressed into open

snow, stir
my dulled root

are you rain?

[bogusagain]

Originally Posted by Tzara

I do not

understand
how your few

words,
little bird

tracks
pressed into open

snow, stir
my dulled root

are you rain?

Aesthetically oriental, economical, simple and medative. Have you been tying yourself in yoga knots?

I like it but I'm missing the erotic. Is it me?

[Tristesse2]

Tzara tied in yoga knots is erotic enough for me.

[Tristesse2]

Sunday is our day of rest
Monday mornings we breakfast
on one another, greedily,
second course if time allows.
Tuesday we count the hours
at work and start undressing
on the bus ride home, kicking
the door closed behind us.
Wednesday he meets me down
town in a bar, fake strangers book
a hotel room for fake illicit sex.
Thursday the shower stall steams
with sex and satisfaction, exotic
positions we should patent.
Friday I greet him at the door,
a french maid, a school girl or
an entire roll of Saran Wrap.
Saturday is his day to create,
an overbearing Dom, an infatuated
professor or just a horny husband.
Sunday is our day of rest.

[bflagsst]

Originally Posted by Tzara

I do not

understand
how your few

words,
little bird

tracks
pressed into open

snow, stir
my dulled root

are you rain?

This is an erotica poem, and it's a good poem.

====
When in April the sweet showers fall
That pierce March's drought to the root and all
And bathed every vein in liquor that has power
To generate therein and sire the flower;
When Zephyr also has with his sweet breath,
Filled again, in every holt and heath,
The tender shoots and leaves, and the young sun
His half-course in the sign of the Ram has run,
And many little birds make melody
That sleep through all the night with open eye
(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)
Then folk do long to go on pilgrimage,
And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,
To distant shrines well known in distant lands.
=====
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.

[bogusagain]

Originally Posted by bflagsst

This is an erotica poem,

That's an assertion of fact on a purely subjective matter. It's like asserting Kate Hathaway is the sexiest woman alive when she might well be asexual or a downright turn off to the majority of men. Critique and opinion aren't fact and one of the reasons poetry has declined from a huge audience 100 years ago to a point where even so called top poets lauded by the poetry establisment struggle to sell any books beyond their family, friends and peers.

Is unintention parody erotic too?

[Tristesse2]

Originally Posted by bogusagain

That's an assertion of fact on a purely subjective matter. It's like asserting Kate Hathaway is the sexiest woman alive when she might well be asexual or a downright turn off to the majority of men. Critique and opinion aren't fact and one of the reasons poetry has declined from a huge audience 100 years ago to a point where even so called top poets lauded by the poetry establisment struggle to sell any books beyond their family, friends and peers.

Is unintention parody erotic too?

What could possibly be the solution to this? Aren't all critiques just opinions, a matter of personal taste, whatever the subject. Could it not be that poetry, like the travelling salesman, is past its shelf life?

[bogusagain]

Originally Posted by Tristesse2

What could possibly be the solution to this? Aren't all critiques just opinions, a matter of personal taste, whatever the subject. Could it not be that poetry, like the travelling salesman, is past its shelf life?

A critique is not an assertion, which was the point I was making.

Most poets, and I read a lot, appear to write for themselves or their peers rather than to a wider audience. If you aren't aiming your poetry at the wider public and making it relevant to them, they aren't going to take any notice. There are so many poets and poetry theorists who bemoan the world is getting smaller while being more and more strident about what is and what is not poetry. You can't be a 'Real Poetry' fascist and expect people who don't believe in your literary ideology to take notice of you. Navel gazing is a genuine poetry affliction.

[Desejo]

Just this morning I sent an SMS to my stepson (19) commenting on one of the songs he put on our itunes account by the illustrious Lil Wayne. The lyrics are egregiously profane , but then he drops perfect gems of a lines like

Woman of my dreams/I don't sleep so I can't find her.
or
hotter than summer sun on a Ghana queen"

Poetry is still out there. It still has appeal. It's just changing. And I agree, poets need to work more at making it accessible.

Would love to see a thread on this. If someone is able to move posts around it would be worth starting it separately. I am not sufficiently Lit-literate to be able to do that -more likely I simply do not have the permissions to move things.

[Tzara]

Originally Posted by bogusagain

Aesthetically oriental, economical, simple and medative. Have you been tying yourself in yoga knots?

I like it but I'm missing the erotic. Is it me?

Actually, the aesthetic is fake William Carlos Williams.

And probably only erotic if one finds the start of Eliot's The Waste Land erotic (stirring / Dull roots with with spring rain.). I do, and I might guess 1201 does (though, knowing him, he will dispute that out of principle).

Not a good poem, despite what (thank you, bflagsst) others might say.

Meant to be about how other's (in my case, women's) writings can stir me up.

You do know I envy your life, though don't in any way want it to be mine?

I'd hoist a beer to you, but my doctors have said I shouldn't drink.

Dammit.

[bogusagain]

Originally Posted by Tzara

Actually, the aesthetic is fake William Carlos Williams.
.

I suppose we are on Lit.

Originally Posted by Tzara

Meant to be about how other's (in my case, women's) writings can stir me up.

We all have our weaknesses and there is nothing like a woman to expose a man's weakness.

Originally Posted by Tzara

You do know I envy your life, though don't in any way want it to be mine?

I'd hoist a beer to you, but my doctors have said I shouldn't drink.

Dammit.

The grass is always greener...etc. etc. I envy your apparent constant traveling.

But you really need to get a less puritanical doctor, especially if you find yourself in this part of the world, the beer is irresistable!

[bflagsst]

I was asserting a fact of opinion. Who goes around prefacing their statements with 'imho' or 'this is fact' outside the internetz?

Chaucer has erotica, Eliot has erotic reference, Tzara was again sexualizing that same dull-root. Spring is the center of sexual love, stirring a dull root is stirring a dull root.