erotic art, photos, and poetry

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july 22, 2018

57

Friends I no longer trust.
I’m too shy
to toss a playful glance
at the one who fires
my passion.
People are quick to mock-
the slightest
indiscretion gets noted.
Oh mother, where can I hide?
The flames
of desire ungratified
wither the heart.

book: Erotic love poems from India
translated by: Andrew Schelling

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June 22, 2018

fuck

She pulled her dress off
over her head
and I saw the panties
indented somewhat into the
crotch.

it’s only human.
now we’ve got to do it.
I’ve got to do it
after all that bluff.
it’s like a party –
two trapped
idiots.

under the sheets
after I have snapped
off the light
her panties are still
on. she expects an
opening performance.
I can’t blame her. but
wonder why she’s here with
me? where are the other
guys? how can you be
lucky? having someone the
others have abandoned?

we didn’t have to do it
yet we had to do it.
it was something like
establishing new credibility
with the income tax
man. I get the panties
off. I decide not to
tongue her. even then
I’m thinking about
after it’s over.

we’ll sleep together
tonight
trying to fit ourselves
inside the wallpaper.

I try, fail,
notice the hair on her
head
mostly notice the hair
on her
head
and a glimpse of
nostrils
piglike

I try it
again.

by: Charles Bukowski
book: love is a dog from hell

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June 8, 2018

When I was at my most beautiful

When I was at my most beautiful
town after town came crashing down.
I caught glimpses of the blue sky
from the most unexpected places.

When I was at my most beautiful
people were dying all around me
in factories, at sea, on islands without names
I lost my chance to make the best of myself.

When I was at my most beautiful
none of the young men brought me tender gifts
all they knew how to do was salute
and set out for war, leaving only their glances behind.

When I was at my most beautiful
my head was empty
my mind obstinate
but my arms and legs shone like chastnuts

When I was at my most beautiful
my country lost the war
how could all of that have happened?
I rolled up my sleeves and marched around my humiliated
town.

When I was at my most beautiful
jazz flowed from the radio
I devoured the sweet exotic sounds
the way I smoked my first forbidden cigarettes.

When I was at my most beautiful
I was so very unhappy
I was so very awkward
and so terribly lonely.

So I decided I’d live a very long time
Like old man Rouault
who painted his most beautiful work in his old age
if I could

by: Noriko Ibaragi
translated by: Leza LowitzMiyuki Aoyama
book: other side river

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May 27, 2018

[i carry your heart with me (i carry it in]

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

by: ee cummings
book: i carry your heart with me
illustrated by: mati mcdonough

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May 15, 2018

Love is a fire

Love is a fire
It burns everyone
It disfigures everyone
It is the world’s excuse
for being ugly

by: Leonard Cohen
book: Leonard Cohen poems and songs (Everyman’s library pocket poets)

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May 3, 2018

Her

I had been told about her.
How she would always, always.
How she would never, never.
I’d watched and listened
but I still fell for her,
how she always, always.
How she never, never.

In the small brave night,
her lips, butterfly moments.
I tried to catch her and she laughed
a loud laugh that cracked me in two,
but then i had been told about her,
how she would always, always.
How she would never, never.

We two listened to the wind.
We two galloped a pace.
We two up and away, away, away.
And now she’s gone,
like she said she would go.
But then I had been told about her –
how she would always, always.

by: Jackie Kay
source: www.poetryarchive.org

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Apr 24, 2018

Your stem, my flower

hotel rooms did this
a naked anthem about
rhythm and power

expectations here
because we were built for that
your stem, my flower

we come together we come together we come

babies could be made
but you and I are free birds
we don’t have a nest

hearts could be broken
but that’s how i will know life
that’s what i expect

by: Tanya Davis
book: At first, lonely: poems by Tanya Davis

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Apr 15, 2018

Marriage

It is not love
keeps them
in the dining room
course after course
captured and silent

Not hate
fierce and voluble
or apathein

or even indolence
that passionless breeder
of moral pestilence

It is not habit
the explanation
when nothing
can explain

But fear

Fear of loneliness
making them more
achingly lonely
and alone

by: Irving Layton
book: Lovers and Lesser Men

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Apr 9, 2018

Blues

pbNichol

by: bp Nichol
book: As elected selected writing

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Mar 31, 2018

9

Women of intrepid
charm
can’t be stopped –
they’ll even steal what they want.
Why be timid? Tears cannot bring
satisfaction.
You want him,
he’s hungry for sexual pleasure –
try some crudely explicit suggestion
and make
him your own.

Translated with an introduction by: Andrew Schelling,
Shambhala Library.
book: Erotic Love Poems from India

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Mar 24, 2018

Tuesday Love

If pictures are worth a thousand words
and memories are forever
then eternity might be bought
for a roll of Kodak
and a High school term paper.

He lives his life believing
that every Tuesday people fall in love
every Tuesday around noon.

So he dresses up
and buys flowers from a cart in the town square.
and waits, smiling as the people-pass.

Me and her would sit together on her front porch
and lean way back in our chairs.
She’d talk about the weather
or the color red
and show me how to make bendy straw bracelets.

When the sun sets
his smile and his flowers fade.
He walks home to his apartment
and loosens his tie.
In the bathroom, he looks in the mirror,

“Next Tuesday.”

by: jordan stewart
book: every tuesday around noon

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Mar 18, 2018

14

i like my body when it is with your
body.  it is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.  i like what it does,
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss,  i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting fles . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

by: e.e. cummings
book: 100 selected poems

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Mar 10, 2018

My life in robes

After a while
You can’t tell
If it’s missing
A woman
Or needing
A cigarette
And later on
If it’s night
Or day
Then suddenly
You know
The time
You get dressed
You go home
You light up
You get married

by: Leonard Cohen
book: Book of Longing

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Mar 2, 2018

Kiss

There has to be a small seed of amnesia
in every kiss or we’d remember

how there’s a small seed of ending
in every beginning. In the language

of deciduous, green means again
and again is a word that must be

repeated. Like a kiss
because we forget everything: the dark

channel of water our hearts have swum
to be here, the small boated nights we leaned

from, our hope barely afloat,
the thin branches divining loss. We forget the pale

path of moonlight we clung to like a railing.
We kiss and the trees in the streetlight are green.

The winter, the worst we’ve had for years,
is behind us. Maples maybe, or oak, each leaf

a whisper again and again, each kiss a wish remember
and then forget.

by: Sue Goyette
book: Undone

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Feb 23, 2018

Blow her mind and shatter her fears

she isn’t complicated,
she is a song.
and once you find
her rhythm,
you will
feel her music.

by: J.M. Storm
book: In my head

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Feb 12, 2018

White Bee

White bee, you buzz in my soul, drunk with honey,
and your flight winds in slow spirals of smoke.

I am the one without hope, the word without echoes,
He who lost everything and he who had everything.

Last hawser, in you creaks my last longing.
In my barren land you are the final rose.

Ah you who are silent!

Let your deep eyes close. There the night flutters.
Ah your body, a frightened statue, naked.

You have deep eyes in which the night flails.
Cool arms of flowers and a lap of rose.

Your breasts seem like white snails.
A butterfly of shadow has come to sleep on your belly.

Ah you who are silent!

Here is the solitude from which you are absent.
It is raining. The sea wind is hunting stray gulls.

The water walks barefoot in the wet streets.
From that tree the leaves complain as though they were sick.

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul
You live again in time, slender and silent.

Ah you who are silent!

by: Pablo Neruda
Translated by: W.S. Merwin
book: Twenty love poems and a song of despair

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Feb 1, 2018

15

All night the two of them
exchanged
intimate words-
now dawn
the household parrot
chatters it out to the in-laws.
She slips a ruby
from her ear, horrified,
into the parrot’s beak-
it could be a pomegranate seed-
and stifles the
unconstrained cries.

Translated with an introduction by: Andrew Schelling,
Shambhala Library.
book: Erotic Love Poems from India

trusting your gut

Jan 2, 2018

beds, toilets, you and me

think of the beds
used again and again
to fuck in
to die in.

in this land
some of us fuck more than
we die
but most of us die
better than we
fuck,
and we die
piece by piece too –
in parks
eating ice cream, or
in igloos
of dementia,
or on straw mats
or upon disembarked
loves
or
or.

:beds beds beds
:toilets toilets toilets

the human sewage system
is the world’s greatest
invention.

and you invented me
and I invented you
and that’s why we don’t
get along
on this bed
any longer.
you were the world’s
greatest invention
until you
flushed me
away.

now it’s your turn
to wait for the touch
of the handle.
somebody will do it
to you,
bitch,
and if they don’t
you will –
mixed with your own
green or yellow or white
or blue
or lavender
goodbye.

by: Charles Bukowski
book: Love is a dog from hell

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