Erotic Poetry
Two Poems by Darra Kane
A will to endure (OTK)
Trembling. Power of this
Explosive melee. Our foreplay.
Lithe digits use a magazine to
Strike my mouth. With loving hands.
You giggle. Held tight. Pulled down.
Craving safety. And danger. You curl
Into me. Your ass. Presented.
Over my knee. You vibrate. Expose
Yourself. Rosy mounds. Supple cheeks.
Back arched. Surrender. Control.
Palms survey you. Appraising. Annexing.
Stake claim. Occupied territory. Grabbing.
Asserting. The ownership of a Marauder.
Your gates. Fall to my conquest.
You squeal. Mock agony. Fingers
laced through black hair. Pulling firm.
Mother earth. Material everything. You
Yearn for Father's structure.
Commanding. Dominating. Swooning.
Tide recedes before the strike. To Crash.
To smack. "Count for me"
Wets lips. Fall parted. A Gift.
Your hips wiggle. Fortify. A will to endure.
"Yes Sir".
Transcendent Universal Mother (Cum for me)
"Cum for me"
She is compelled. Gravity pulls the tide, and so the master's words tug at the loins, drawing out her climax like the inevitable surges of the sea.
She is the ether. Flapping waves of energy, the base fabric of creation shimmering through everything.
She is infinite.
The master is creation. He is gravity and mass.
He seeks to rejoin with her. To sculpt her and reunite with the universal.
Without him, she is without form.
Without her, he could not move upon the void.
Spanks and yelps. Vibrating and synchronizing frequencies.
Energy springs from the darkness and is born into receptive bodies.
Lapping and rubbing. Thrusting.
Undeniable rhythm. Ancient. Connected through time.
"Cum for me, Now"
Obedient like the rise of the moon. She is the cup of blue. Tranquil and resplendent, waiting to be filled.
The Master, a red wand burning. With fire, he charges forth. His will made manifest.
"I'm Cumming Sir"
BIO: Darra Kane is an Alaskan-based writer and poet of Erotic BSDM, SCI-FI and Fantasy. Both experience and aspiration inspire these tales of sexual conquest and exploration.
There are few things that bring more pleasure to Darra than writing Erotica, such as living it.
Contact Darra at:
[email protected]
@KaneDarra34111 (Twitter)
Amazon.com: Darra Kane: books, biography, latest update (Amazon)
Poems by John Grey
SEX, THE BEGINNING
the original lovers
tried many alternatives
before they settled
on frontal convergence
it would be instructive
to have witnessed them
position by position
perhaps in slo-mo
to see why all these
other attempts failed
clasp tightly
enter
exit
then divide
it seems so simple
like a pencil drawing
of course
I’ve always been
an oil painting
kind of guy
WHEN ONLY THE BEST WILL DO
The beauty of sex is when arrival is actually realized.
It's no longer a police state designed by Michelangelo.
My authority is halved. But only just
And the space between us no longer can encompass
the entire city of Jacksonville.
This bed was last seen harboring an erection
wielded like a spray-can,
an intimate boardwalk,
a battlefield where, no matter the cause,
it is never lost,
a lighting store where every bulb
was smashed by a hammer.
Look at her.
Hips are round as a cello.
Breasts that know a good time when they feel one.
And me, having tried all my pitches
from fast and straight to wobbly knuckleball
get there with the zing of my curve.
Ceilings may be bare but fountains are never dry,
A cop can thump -his club in his palm all he wants
but this only feels like it ought to be illegal.
And the silence afterward is a documentary
on the vertebrae of the spine.
My hand on her back narrates.
Erotic Poetry Collection by Robert Beveridge
Descent
How perfect
that taste was
mixture of salt and musk
on your delicious thighs
how much I long
to taste it again
Growl
bead of sweat
across your inner thigh
“if only I could
learn to purr,” you said.
I poured you
another glass, drank
from your palm.
Rough pink tongue
across your inner thigh
Roll
The contour of your back
runs low, arches again
into the beauty of your ass.
Magnificence in generosity
delicious expanse of flesh
my hands, my tongue
are drawn to nightly
as we cuddle before sleep.
You always ask me to scratch,
a smile in your voice.
Where Couples Kiss in the Dark
(A Poem about New York City)
By Charles E.J. Moulton
In a lonely bar off Broadway,
Walter stepped in to order a drink,
What he’d heard Maude say,
Really made him think.
“You spend all your time in the Catskills,”
She spat in her New Jersey twang,
“Sending me all those hat-bills,”
And then the telephone rang.
Here he sat with his whiskey,
Gazing over the Hudson Bay,
Flaunting his diamond necklace,
Not knowing what to say.
“You spend all your time in the jazz-clubs,”
Maude had sneered, answering his call,
Handing him his mint-oil for backrubs,
Speaking to another mall.
“Joe,” Walter croaked soaked in booze,
“I’ve got a million shops,
But it feels like I’m about to loose,
Might as well call the cops.”
The bartender shrugged and refilled him,
The famous CEO, perchance,
Hoping that the whiskey wouldn’t kill him,
The rich Manhattan alcohol dance.
Joe served him three ice-chilled bourbons,
As the pianist played New York tunes,
The rich man cried onto ice-cubes,
In glasses with three silver moons.
He grabbed his trenchcoat and brown hat,
Entered the chilly world,
A rich man with money, a fat-cat,
A private life like a flag unfurled.
Walter dragged himself off to the river,
Looking across Hudson Bay,
Looking at the Statue of Liberty,
Calling Maude to beg her to stay.
“I’m just a secretary, Walter,”
Maude repeated in her New Yawk lilt,
“But I spend more time with you,
Than a Scotsmen spends with his kilt.”
Walter shuffled down Park Avenue,
Back through Central Park,
Knocked on his secretary’s white door,
Way past the outbreak of dark.
Maude came out, hair all tousled,
Croaking at him if he’d gone mad,
Walter told her he’d be nicer,
Using her so much made him sad.
Maude stood there in the doorway,
Behind her window the Empire State,
“I’m giving you two weeks vacation,
And time to stay way up late.”
“What about the ten shops opening,
over in Beverly Hills?”
Walter laughed, gently shrugging:
“Gotta visit my mom in the Catskills!”
The rich CEO twitched in a snigger,
“I think I’ve used you enough,
My ego and arrogance bigger,
My greed made me awful and rough.
Take the boat down the river,
Walk along the Jersey Canal,
Go to the Metropolitan Opera,
Be that frilly Greenwich Village Gal.”
Maude, she nodded in a flavour
That mixed New Jersey with wine,
Manhattan and Broadway diners,
The idea of vacation, how fine.
Next morning, Walter took a break,
From his riches and bachelor fame,
Cancelled appointments with lawyers,
Crossing the bridge to fame.
He parked his Porsche in the driveway,
Knocked on his mother’s door.
It took a while for her to hear him,
His father’s loud afternoon snore.
“Mom,” he said in a half-smile,
“I’m taking you to see a show,
One with lots of music,
And tunes that you whistle and know.
Dad, I’m buying you a cold beer,
Getting you a healthy steak,
One with a lot of potatoes,
Me? I’m taking a break.
So it happened that Walter invited
His parents and Maude to a show,
They ended up at the Minskoff,
To feel how their love would grow.
Four beers by the Hudson River,
Some steaks by Central Park,
A walk toward Greenwich Village,
Where couples kiss in the dark.
To His Mistress Going To Bed
By John Donne
Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime,
Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.
Off with that wiry Coronet and shew
The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow:
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be
Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee
A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,
By this these Angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go,
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,
My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views,
That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a Gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made
For lay-men, are all women thus array’d;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know;
As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew
Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
There is no penance due to innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then
What needst thou have more covering than a man.
To His Coy Mistress
By Andrew Marvell
(1621 - 1678)
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
By Christopher Marlowe
(1564 - 1593)
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
Three Poems by Robert Beveridge
CALICO
The cat sleeps with one
hind leg by her face. “If
only I had her flexibility,”
you say, legs across my
lap. My thumbs dig
into your sole, elicit those
little moans that startle
her into wakefulness.
Later, I turn to kiss your calf.
Your moans more focused,
intense from deeper, more
intimate massage. Your
eager body lithe enough
For everything, for all,
forever.
CONFERENCE
Broke-leg morning crawls
down an endless street
toward afternoon. I still
have the ghost of you
in my nose, on my lips.
Musk, slickness, the way
acerbic can be so sweet.
Its specter fills me
with the feel of my hands,
my head at rest
on the softness of your belly,
your breasts. Such a perfect
combination, fingers
that clutch at your hips,
tongue that dances
inside, over you.
Memories, fantasies
to make the time pass.
THERE GOES ANOTHER SONATA...
Protein chains thrash, kiss like whips
in sodden coats as rain spits through
the halos of streetlights around us.
Lips on lips on tongues on fumbled
clothes and trembled extremities,
just far enough out of the light to be
shadows but not far enough to hide
the detail of activity. The heave
of chests and the thrust of fingers
into buttonholes, a slickness
more slippery than any rain could be.
The beat of the Dance of the Dead
against the wall behind us mirrors,
amplifies our movements, knuckles
white and shouts that go no farther
than each others’ lips, wrapped
in the chains of one another,
the ebullition where flesh
becomes flesh, O sacrum convivium--
I guess we should keep that three-
hand technique in the playbook.
No way to dry our hair, we’ll
just have to slip out and try to blend
in with the crowd, if we can stop
ourselves singing liebeslied
all the way home on the bus.
***
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Ariel Chart, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel. and Literary Forest, among others.
Three Poems by Alex Andy Phuong
Erotic and Exotic Romantic Romance
Much more than a
Romantic narrative
Having the chance
To live
And love,
And forgive,
Especially when it comes
To assuaging the pain
That reality might bring,
And love could be much more pure
Than any engagement ring
Just by engaging
In being alive
And expressing gratitude
Even during times of solitude
While never raging
And accepting that
With age
Comes lessons
Of love
Beyond childhood fairy tales
***
Sexual and Fundamental
Regardless of Being
Different
All people are
Fundamentally Human
And Diverse
Sexual identity involves much more than
Private Parts
Because Sacred Truths
Are found within the Heart
We are Born
The way We Are
And Each and Every
Person
Is a Star
Of the Literary
And Cinematic Story
Of Universal Unity
***
Sensual and Seductive Desire
True love
sexual behavior
Implying that one person loves another
Sex action
Emotional love.
The blurred line
Between
true love
and pure lust
Fundamental human arousal
Establish the capacity to accept others
And also the identity
of such people.
INSPIRATION
By Daniel de Culla
In the Residential Park "Saint Coitus"
A place that is a furnace
Very hot place
From the road that goes from Valladolid to Olmedo
Live a couple that we all think of
If they will be married
For the give and take
Answers and replies between the twos.
When lying in the apple orchard
Jumping on each other
And vice versa
We have heard them say behind the wall:
Beloved: Breathe in the air with the Cunt, beloved.
The muscles that command the movements
Of your big and small lips
Infuse the mood of the tip of my cocoon
Ideas, affections.
She beloved: Yes. Beloved. The tip of your cocoon
When touching me
Suggest ideas on the tip of my Clit
For the composition of this artistic and literary work
That illuminates the Sex of each of the twos
Exciting our will
Igniting the understanding of the Ass
Exalting the creative powers
Of the artist that we carry inside.
Beloved: The memory of past events
The sight of that scene of yours naked and shitting
I am extremely moved.
She beloved: Softly blow the air on our buttocks
Allowing to produce almost spontaneously
And without great effort our Orgasm.
The beloved was amazed
Of how the loved one penetrated her
From behind and in front.
Beloved: Only Saint Coitus can save you.
She beloved: Oh, blessed Coitus
That I get it off soon this damn
Let me become a dove
Jumping over the wall
When one feels the shit of the pigeon.
The saint protects her:
-Get up from there, woman
That you are already in salvation
And very well fucked
That your Cunt is crazy
Bwildered, flat
And the horn from him prepared
To load gunpowder.