JUST SEX and POETRY

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Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4447
Nov 22, 2012
 

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My loving tongue --
paints love letters from the alphabet on your sacred mound of Venus
slides urgent vowels of pleasure between your slick slippery lips
speaks silently in simple kneeling reverent worship
urges your murmured moans and sweet liquid blessing
recites poems of ancient love and lust from Sappho and Ovid
tastes sweet musky dew of gently perfumed petals
spews fire and light and desire into your dark erotic soul
sips oozing warm nectar, rich like syrup, sweeter than honey
sucks and rolls tender flesh of silky soft juicy velvet
induces mews and whispers and moans and groans of bliss
dances slow and close and wet with your electric pearl of pleasure
ignites explosions of gasping spasming squealing agony
slurps and swallows squirting fountains of delicious woman juice
and worships your magnificent feminine flesh in blissful gratitude.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4448
Nov 22, 2012
 

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She said:

Tonight
I want you
deep inside me

but please
don’t take it
as literal
as it sounds

I need to feel you
in a place that
your long fat co ck––
on it’s best,
gold medal
triathlon winning
day––

cannot reach.

I need
every part of you
to fuc k me wet
and long

tenderly
violently
and tenderly
again

Tonight,
I need your hands
your eyes
your voice
to open me

wide, like the prairie
outside the car window
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4449
Nov 22, 2012
 

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How is it that

your legs

hijack the entire

conversation



hold hostage

any coherent thought

in my mind



author the entire evening

plot-twists and all



reduce my attention span

to–



…I’m sorry,

you were saying?
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4450
Nov 22, 2012
 

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Morning brings no
reprieve

As your slender fingers
part the files of strangers
catalog the fruits of excess
in a dimly lit room
you remember how I parted you
just last night

Strangers enter your office
You smile, exchange pleasantries
all the while your thoughts never
break
from the way I entered you
just last night

Beneath your desk
your hand remembers

with your fingers against your clit
you trace a recently travelled road
one that I forged
with tongue
and breath
and words
of fire
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4451
Nov 22, 2012
 

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This wooer has no opportunity
to bathe with the contortionist
in a pond
under the full moon which is tonight

If he could, they would
bend and twist
glide soap to, then beyond
each others' curves

If she would, he would
let hands, legs,
arms and feet seduce
toes squeeze sponge
spurt, squirt drops
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4452
Nov 22, 2012
 

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white sheen translucent
coursing with blatant purple veins
pumping
and purple budding lips blossoming
ripe & full like violet flower
for me.



hands on soft, silken pillow hips
pale, frail, violent & true
Pumping
rush of pulsing coc k
in that ripeness
of moist-dripping
purple-lipped violet flower
PUMPING
hands gripping, fingers clenching
pure pale-frail violent hips
rushing crashing against her shore
sure, back – boned – arching back up
– a hump – bulging out of
strewn saffron chiffon sheets
gentle & fluff; stuffed
animal laying near
fingers gripping clawing at
saffron chiffon – stuffed animal – sheets
like an animal clawing gripping
at ME
at MY skin
bared, denuded
pure & ready



BREATHE.



PUMPING PUMPING
throb throbbing
pulsating pulsing
thrust thrusting
deep & delving
pure wet moist radiance
gripping clawing sheets
clenching hips
coursing purple veins
BURSTING forth
grunt groan heave
triumphant violent.
triumphant mercy.
gasping ecstasy.
triumphant forever…



shock of radiance
window-sheath blinds
rapping against
cracked broken window pane
wind triumphant
blowing shocked breeze
triumphant mercy
clemency forgotten
CRUSHING her hips with my fingers
pale-frail hips
release of spirit essence
moist-wet purple-lipped violet flower
dripping with
Me/Her/Us
together here
bedclothes aflutter
cresting rippled wrinkled waves
Stop.



And breathe
& sweat & pour
Poor me & rest again…



… and begin again tomorrow
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4453
Nov 22, 2012
 

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Music pulses through the speakers,

fills the room with a techno beat.

Sticks, wooden spoons, pieces of pipe

beat out a staccato that will

leave bruises tomorrow morning.


The drummer dances to music

while she moves from ass to calves, from

feet to shoulders, from biceps to

thighs.

The slap of wood and plastic

on skin keeps time with the primal

rhythm.

The drum smiles serenely

processing the pain, feeling the

beat, sometimes tapping a toe or

fidgeting a finger.

Mostly, he floats on an endorphin high.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4454
Nov 22, 2012
 

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Hallway tangled
dragging walls
with us
to ceiling to floor
Rugless hardwood
skids, pulls the planks
of our fervor.
Your ankle taps
the radiator grate
rust bolted
on the highway wall
all the way up
for winter sake
for skin sake.
Your ankle taps
to a burn,
floor never gives
walls never give
to us
we give:
raw oval skinpoints,
bent bones,
blister above your heel.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4455
Nov 22, 2012
 

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as I come upon your belly
you watch a long, white stream flow
your words,

"that was beautiful..."

and I flow again

I remember that moment every day
how pornstar movie tricks
become a tear on my face
your blue eyes incensed by lust
your kiss by love my heart my dream

my release becomes art upon you

perfect

complete.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4456
Nov 22, 2012
 

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Licking
tasty pecan praline
sticky soft
sweetens my tongue.

I reminisce
that warm September afternoon
lost amongst the trees
beyond the Golden Gate Bridge.
Your long brown hair
tousled by the breeze.
I stop to brush a strand from your eyes
and see anticipation
a torrid yearning
wanton pleasure.

I stand behind you
my breasts firmly against your back.
Brushing your hair aside,
I softly kiss the nape of your neck.
Quivering, your body surrenders.

Feathered grass - autumn leaves
our playground.
Entwined in passion
my lips explore your breasts,
supple, vulnerable
sensuous curves, taut
voluptuous nipples
awaiting my attention
of which I hungrily comply.

Writhing in tune with the wind
your body cries for release.
However,
from your breasts
I cannot pull away
my hunger not yet satisfied.
So, I decide
to let my fingers
- do the walking -
and set your passion free.

Back to reality
I open my eyes
licking
the sticky, sweet praline
from my fingers.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4457
Nov 22, 2012
 

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The oscillating dome danced down so
I let the prestigious prick panhandle and paddle along my river.
Watched the waters slip oil onto the soil
Like it had before for a thousand foreign courts and oracles;
Fleshy phantom anvils still arresting me by me skivvies.

I confessed:

“Two cuckold captors
apprehended me apples;
pinched me colonial crowns still grazing
on me blushing construction!”

So criminalized by his punctuated
and persistent deliveries
I swallowed my own moon like it was Oriental.

I crowed and crowed and cowered.
Crawled into the wet and up the handle!
Cradled the crown and then devoured
all the courtiers sidling down.
Swallowed the sweet incense
into my purple plush lips.

Distinction for the strange,
sticky, derby designs
still dancing deliciously down!
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4458
Nov 22, 2012
 

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(She said......)

I was old enough to be

his mother.

I watched his body move

like sweetgrass in spring,

and he smiled as he bent over

to run his hands,

brown as maple sugar, along my

tires to make sure they were true.

Squatting down to inspect

my chain, his thighs spread

wide, bone and muscles lengthening

under low-slung khaki shorts.

Each one of his fingers touched

the stain of what was left

of the oil as he lifted it gently,

black smudges migrating up

to his temples as he brushed back

his long, amber hair.

I was happy to let him

fix everything.

When the bike was ready,

my tongue became smooth

as a pearl when I called him over

to adjust the seat again.

He leaned near me,

and his skin smelled like the sun

on slickrock sand.

His arms were long and when he stood,

I could hear

the murmur in his ribs.

Mothers of boys are dangerous.

We have pressed our mouths

against the small flesh

that came from us, extracting ambrosia

from flowers only we can find.

He was so beautiful, I was afraid

to speak.

If I opened my mouth,

yew berries, little mariposa souls

would have rattled out instead of words.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4459
Nov 22, 2012
 

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I want you in my bed...
your body my blanket
covering all parts of me
keeping me warm...

I want you in my body
filling me up
claiming me
leaving your mark

I want your hands
touching
exploring every part
searching out my body's secrets

I want you to take
revel
enjoy
what is here for you
for the taking

Let me pleasure you
fill YOU up
satisfy your every need
your every desire

You will never crave
again.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4460
Nov 22, 2012
 

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"I miss the length of you"
She said;
"Slipping easily into my cun t
The way our hips move
Locking into place....

I miss the sex of you
Driving in and pulling out
The slippery slickness of flesh
Drowning me down.....

I miss the force of you
Filling the length of me
The way you boldly move
When we fuc k".
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4461
Nov 22, 2012
 

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I am a quill pen dipped in soul-black pitch. You are my notebook.
I open you and begin to inscribe your pages.
Fuc k love....... We make poetry.

I kiss memories from your forehead and swallow them whole,
smoothing the lines that housed them. We make each other younger.
Our bodies grind together like clock gears to turn back time
because what we're doing is timeless, ancient and futuristic, holy,
our lips and tongues clasped like hands in prayer,
flesh bitten and held like communion wafers,
your fluids wine to my tongue.
I smell salvation in your sweat.

You taste like autumn, your body exploding
in bursts of fire and gold as my tongue searches your curves,
seeking renewal as I penetrate you in an act of gentle violence,
and each thrust is Excalibur extracted from the stone.

King me.

Let's roll around in the dirt until we make it clean,
transform our spinning bodies into drills
aimed for the heat of the earth's core
just to make it seem cool by comparison.
Let's shave the moon's pussy and go down on her together,
stick our tongues through stars to make them numb
just to feel the pins and needles when we kiss each other
back to life, our lips double stitched with iron twine.

Let me be the lightning that splits your clouds,
your rain pouring out to a standing ovation of thunderclaps.
Let me drown in your flood, my lungs full to bursting
with just a fraction of your beauty.
Let me inhale you.

Let me be Oedipus to your Mother Earth.
I swear I'll be the brightest son.

Nestled in my arms for shelter, you whisper,
"No more metaphors, baby........

"Let's fuck.”
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4462
Nov 22, 2012
 

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hot summer day

heat, humidity high

little bit of clothes

sticking to my body

hands over sweat soaked skin

dripping with desire

crazy, horny

aching, needing, wanting

cat in heat

ass in the air

"fill me"

she said;

"do anything

dirty, naughty, nasty

I'll be your bitch...."
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4463
Nov 22, 2012
 

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He opened a fresh Sharpie

and handed it to me.

It's acid tang settled in my throat.

He watched as

I struggled to write

Property of -

on the Venus Mound

His Venus Mound

The shaved area above my sex

This is poetry after all

And it is his property

Carefully,

upside down and backwards,

from my point of view,

a kinder like scrawl.

Tiny razor bump and

the sharpie skipped, then

wobbled as it hit the dip of a faint stretch mark,

A souvenir from the child I bore.

PROPERTY OF -

Then with somber purpose, He

took the sharpie, and

signed his name.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4464
Nov 23, 2012
 

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She laughs like thunderclaps
and dances like hot mercury,
a hip drip slow poison
that slides over your skin.

I can't take her high strung highway.
I am not allowed her dew petal lips
parted over my sleeping chest.
Her muscles, taut with the weight of me,
are not mine.

I can't have her background chatter.
The husky lilt beneath her no shit
sherlock voice is not mine.

Her wanderer's long and
short strokes are not mine.
Her quick to unclothe and
slow to re-robe are not mine.

As much as I might will it,
her wide spread,
salutary thighs are not mine.
I use her openly.

To the beckon of my two fingers
she comes to me on all fours,
slow wound round my wrist and lit loose
like bottle rockets
to spit hot fury all down my palm.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4465
Nov 23, 2012
 

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She told me;

"I want it to smell like snowfall in September

gingerbread and old words

fresh laundry in the wintertime,
when moisture rises and scents freeze seconds after recognition

a calendar, compass, solar-operated windmill
with a confidence of numbers and directional patterns

your workday: nine hours: no lunch-break

high-impact exercise—no shower

protein:
large molecules
amino acids

fermented dairy and honey
dried apricot commingling with whiskey

morning breath after a night of oral sex and no mouthwash:

I want it to smell like a cun t.

I want it to sound like Lou Reed serenading Andy Warhol’s co ck

Anne Sexton eating out Virginia Woolf
breaking between orgasms to reapply red lipstick and smoke a joint

erotica read backwards : I don’t mind beginning with an orgasm

slammed skin against water

sixteen cellos playing in both ears,
a waterfall of fingered strings, until blisters form until each traveling note descends
a forced entrance of F sharps, Bs, G flat

the removal of seeds from a pomegranate,
muted tearing of flesh

repetition of push ups, when chest-skin stretches and
moans emit from within cardio-inebriated organ

I want it to sound like a steaming iron against wrinkled gauze,
the sizzle of smoothness,
blended with coarse hairs leaving a mark.

fingerprints tapping against plastic keys, spelling out restrictions, or
informal invitations

the migration of a tongue licking one side of sticky, stuffed, folded, addressed
envelope.

a moment of silence, when breaths gain momentum and search for an exit sign
when gags take the shape of a padlock

I want it to sound like slowly stirred soup,
progression of boiling water

commands. commanding!
do you prefer manager or supervisor?
are you allergic to adhesives?

I want it to sound like me inside you.

I want it to taste like bananas foster or
beer on a day of ninety-three degrees

blood from all the circulation.

lemon bars with a weather forecast of sifted sugar confusing the color

tin. copper. rind. leather./friction.

I want it to taste like jalapenos,
curving teeth and teardrops competing with sweat stains.

I want it to taste like everything you’ve ever eaten, questioned
or straddled.

like the bark you rubbed up against that time,
giving your thighs seven splinters
and my pus sy three orgasms.

like the cotton you’ve climbed into, out of, and tried on

curdled celebrations, incomplete
and
in need of an ending…

your vibrators: the red one. striped blue. the other made of glass.

your dietary restrictions,
and the chocolate bar you slip between lips when no one is around.

I want it to taste like a cun t.

I want it to feel like four-hundred thread count,
woven tightly per square inch
an intricacy of fibers and leftover positions.

a final joint after nineteen years of dedicated inhales and swollen lungs
the expense of tar and excluded conversations
love affair leaning against signs measuring
twenty feet from establishment
flavored staleness and shame.

can it feel like that?
can it feel like that?

I want it to look like a Kandinsky, colorful and confusing
vast and open to interpretation

I will need some time to study it:
decipher the angles
I am slow at mathematics—
refuse to use calculators,
so I will need to use my fingers

and when I am done
and no longer thirsty
or conceivably hungry,

you will offer me a napkin
in the shape of your mouth
then,
wait twenty minutes

until I am ready for seconds."
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4466
Nov 23, 2012
 

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My tongue's mind fights against me,
it wrestles for control,
when it discovers I am the stronger one,
it recruits my memories
and together they argue against my better judgement,
they remind me of the wet trail
left through beads of sweat on her hip
as my tongue, that persuader of thought,
glided along there last night.
My day's task requires concentration,
but the night's memories overtake me.
I am weak, I am weak.
I can taste the soft skin of her neck,
her open mouth and eruption of breath,
her body pulsing as I descended in indulgence
to the sapidity of our pleasures.
I am weak, I am weak.
You old tongue, you've won,
my chair is empty as this day's work ends early,
you shall get what you seek.

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