So the other day I wrote this sex poem thingy and I’m really surprised by how much I like it, and I wanted to share it with you. Warning: it’s got somewhat explicit bits in it, and I was inspired by nothing in particular except maybe a touch of Mumford & Sons fever. Also, please don’t steal it or anything un-nice like that. You will miss out on my love, and puppies will not lick you, and rainbows will be gray. Thanks, and enjoy (or don’t, and simply remind yourself the world is beautiful and life is good and forget about this poem).
Words like filthy poetry on a filthier tongue.
Trembling sighs drawn out like a blasphemous prayer
And an arch, a curve of flesh-pale back and neck.
He said the word “fuck” like a sin-red secret
And it was a wild thing, to be filled and savored and fucked.
Words, beautiful words that tripped and gurgled
Over dry, parted lips before dripping and splashing
Sex-hot and ripe onto flushed, shimmering skin.
He spoke in colors instead of sounds,
Dark, forbidden blues and lush, glowing golds
And moving together was a sinuous glide
From maddened fever to the slow tangle of bodies.
Tongues and teeth and nails dragging into the current
Of rippling muscles and sweat-sheened flesh.
Breathy moans tumbled sweet as rainwater
From bitten-bruised lips open and searching
And the world shook for a moment
Washed clean and white and pure
As they rose and crashed together.
He spoke a name and a curse
And the filth of it was a terrible pleasure
And it was everything wrong and right and good.
S. L. Bond, ©February 2013