Erotic Poetry Day
Today is World Poetry Day, and in honour of this, Black Heart presents a collection of erotic poems for your enjoyment. Consider it Erotic Poetry Day, and read a few to your lover tonight!
photo by Shandyowl
Loving My Dick
A villanelle by Bad Daddy
Oh how she loves my dick
Holding it tight between her lips
Harder it grows with each lick
Pulsing hard it gives it a flick
Screaming to be sucked
Oh how she loves my dick
Softly she calls my name Rick
Spit begins to chill on my tip
Harder it grows with each lick
Pulling her hair I feel the nick
Pain blends with sweat
Oh how she loves my dick
Holding my balls she rubs my stick
I bit my lip to hold in my moans
Harder it grows with each lick
I cum deep and shoot out quick
She won’t let go and I’m ready again
Oh how she loves my dick
Harder it grows with each lick.
Born Too Soon
by Humphrey Astley
No sightings
since I moved to the city
of the malpubescent ingénue
whom I stalked with words
to the embarrassment of friends
and the composition of much twee verse
“I saw you again the other day
and something in me
froze”
One time I approached her
on a train
and in a piquant act of rebellion
against the frowning of fellow adults
I introduced myself
gave her my number on the absurd pretext
of a party invitation she could never accept
and I remember triumphantly
how she seemed to like
the taste of my name
That was years ago; I wonder now
if she’s learned how to quiver
If not it won’t be long before some boy
takes her virginity
not knowing he is initiating
a prodigy
the singular brunette of my other realities
in the skills she could learn to abuse
like an errant muse
in whose clasp men gasp
into unconsciousness
A Record-Breaking Sunday
by Kathleen Savoy
A rainy Sunday afternoon like one
we’ve played a million times. The windows fog
with condensation and Nina Simone,
in crackling, second-pressing analog,
is skipping “baby just cares for me.” He
moves the needle and picks up the refrain;
a month-long conversation finally
resolved, never to be spoken of again.
The broken record is no longer playing;
a million Sundays ended, now decaying.
Things are never so bad they can’t be made worse
by Greg Santos
While the others pop champagne,
I lean on the porch rails, a pen to my mouth.
The moon dangles in the blackness –
a Cotan lemon, dripping its juice in my eyes.
If I saw her again, I’d sidle up to her,
no pen in hand but a cigarette,
a cylinder of finely cut tobacco rolled in paper.
I’d grin, finally say, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
Photo by Flickr member Lynn Fagerlie
Swing Set
by Tim Case
Chained
in your seats
like links in a fence.
With a pull and a push,
toes skybound;
commence.
Frightened fists
wrapped around frigid,
rigid chains tightly clenched.
Momentum increases with each
catch, releases a feeling
is, getting intense.
When the tip-top
of your pendulum’s reached,
leaning a little pop out of your seat.
For a second or three, you’re floating free.
Now land in the sand.
But it’s fun. I agree.
Photo by Flickr member Titian Sleuth
Fucking Poetry
by Katarina French
I want to be written on
I want someone to recite poetry
good stuff, and their own little witticisms
maybe
and then
write on me
and draw on me
and we use our impressive vocabulary
to print on the body
of the other
and then
we fuck
and with a mix of sweat
body
and motion
the ink smears gray
and the words fade away
and the sheets get dirty
and in the end
we’re fucking the words
we’re fucking poetry
Photo by Flickr member günes in wonderland
For cigarettes
by john yohe
For a pack of cigarettes he let me see his sister
naked
through a hole between their rooms
at first when he checked he said she wasn’t doing
anything
I looked she was on her bed talking on the phone
reading a fashion magazine
we waited reading comic books, he would check every
ten minutes
then finally he said alright and I knelt down and
looked again
she took off her jeans and t-shirt then her bra and
panties
put on different underwear, white cotton for shiny
black
black tights black skirt red shiny blouse high heel
shoes
brushed her hair gold earrings red lipstick
looking at herself like she knew she looked good
A car honked outside and she left
we waited hours playing video games listening for the
click of her door
I’d never stayed up that late before
for one of my comic books he let me watch again
she opened her window sat on the bed crossed her legs
lit a cigarette
blew the smoke out into the night and watched it
undressed in front of the mirror
folding the blouse and skirt bending to put them in a
drawer
her underwear smooth and shiny on the floor
she put on her white panties and the t-shirt and
turned out the light
we went to bed too in sleeping bags on the floor
I waited till he was asleep got out in my underwear
went to the hole stared at the darkness
wondering if she knew about it, if she ever looked
listening for anything only hearing his slow breathing
Photo by Flickr member Poablo
Of Greater Men Than You
by M. Chastain Addington
I crawl into the beds
Of greater men than you.
I crawl into their stomachs
I curl, I stretch, I curl.
I crawl into the beds
Of greater men than you.
They keep me.
He keeps me,
That greater man than you.
I crawl into the stomachs
Of greater Gods than you-
False, false…
Of falser men than you.
I fall into the reach.
I crawl into their reach.
I crawl into the beds
Of greater men than you.
Photo by Flickr member dirtyfeet
Untitled
by John Moore Williams
who knows where i go when you
lay your possessive paw upon
my outer
shell we only touch
that point where one
ravels off
into absence -
skin: this ceaseless cataract
that which is not given
to being broken
down into
lesser
constituents
bookless dance i
sing off into silence
and the clothes lay like
peeled skins of musky fruit
scattered across the exhausted sheets, light
touches down
simultaneously approaching and already present and
gone, somehow exactly like
your skin.
