You like it best
in the morning
when the world first opens
its sleepy eyes
fumbles its way
out of bed
down the hallway
into the shower
where we christen the new day
You pressed a groove into my heart
the depth of a canyon
so much so,
every woman’s name
returns an echo
I do my crackfiend dance
get on my knees and beg
you got the thunder
you got the thunder
my storm within
from the norm
my haven away from everything decent
in this world
you are chaotic
and nasty as you wanna be
skulls and crossbones
deeper than baritones
your love is like
like riding the rapids
like walking a tightrope with no
like russian roulette
take me if you dare
if you dare
Haven was previously published in ‘A Goddess Discovered and Other Erotic Tales, and featured at the 2010 Seattle Erotic Art Festival
Mornings like this
i dive into you
your ebony hair
pausing along the sexy winding
curves of your ear
winding the sacred trail
down along your shoulder
As you lie sleeping
I am magellan
You are new country
What other woman would be haunted by
the ‘L’ in Drake’s equation?
How many civilizations
have come and gone
leaving behind nothing more
than cosmic dust & vibrations
to say we were here —
And when my finger slides gently underneath
the silk strap on your shoulder
and you drop your inhibitions to the floor
like the useless things they are
we will turn on the lights this last time
make love like a supernova
and every living creature
in the universe
will know my name
I just finished reading Jill Alexander Essbaum’s book of poetry, ‘Harlot‘. It is full of delicious wicked poems, and If you’ve ever read her poetry, you know just what I mean…this is definitely a book to be savored. She has a way with words–with language that is beautiful, surprising, profane and profound all at the same time.
Here is her poem Whoreheart, reprinted with her kind permission:
I am the bridge you dare not cross.
An ice-floe that won’t be defrosted.
A signpost in your dense, damp woods.
The serrated flower of the snakeroot.
A doe amid the beeweed.
And the rocks in the field hurt my feelings.
And I’m the spendthrift wench in debtor’s jail.
The wound that won’t quite heal.
That little Judas sitting on your shoulder.
The irregular bread of a mendicant’s supper.
A disastrous truth told in candor.
I’m the milksap of the oleander.
And mine are the cyanide sockets of almonds.
I’m the kink in the appleworm, the dolmen
that entombs you. I am not safe nor sorry.
Swollen Moses, am I your darling? I shall part
like a red and willing sea. And do I simile?
Take of your metaphor and face me.
And I am the ocean in which you’ll drown.
Abundantly black, I yawn and I drawl.
I’m calm but for aggregate, gathering storms.
And I swarm your bed like a charm
of fiend finches. And last night I rained inches,
and hours. And I am the pitcher
plant’s practical talent. The flytrap, the pie plate,
the oblate, the shrew. The mistake you made
too late to undo. The jackscrew to your threaded rod.
A fraud. I’m the pussycat of need. Your defeat. Your pall.
And I loom for you like a terrible end.
And I am not your friend.
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