Bold, Alan Norman (ed);
Making love: the Picador book of erotic verse
Pan Books, 1978, 252 pages
ISBN 0330255851, 9780330255851
topics: | poetry | erotica | gender
When his mouth faced my mouth, I turned aside And steadfastly gazed only at the ground; I stopped my ears, when at each coaxing word They tingled more; I used both hands to hide My blushing, sweating cheeks. Indeed I tried. But oh, what could I do, then, when I found My bodice splitting of its own accord? (tr. John Brough)
Hallo Germaine that's a fine skirt you have A fine skirt for a queen A cruel queen Let's feel the silk of it Silk from Japan And trimmed with wide lace made on no machine Your skirt's a silken bell whose double clapper Your legs have struck the passing of my fancies O Germaine now I ring it my breast heaving My hands press down upon your willing haunches Your bedroom O my bell is a fine belfry My hands touch silk and seem to tear my ears Those pegs are gallows on which skirts are hanging Those hanging men are dazzling my eyes Motionless as an owl the oil lamp watches
she being Brand -new;and you know consequently a little stiff i was careful of her and(having thoroughly oiled the universal joint tested my gas felt of her radiator made sure her springs were O. K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her up,slipped the clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she kicked what the hell)next minute i was back in neutral tried and again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my lev-er Right- oh and her gears being in A 1 shape passed from low through second-in-to-high like greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity avenue i touched the accelerator and give her the juice,good (it was the first ride and believe i we was happy to see how nice she acted right up to the last minute coming back down by the Public Gardens i slammed on the internalexpanding & externalcontracting brakes Bothatonce and brought allofher tremB -ling to a:dead. stand-
That portion of a woman which appeals to man’s depravity Is constructed with extraordinary care, And what at first appears to be a simple cavity Is really an elaborate affair. Now doctors of distinction have examined these phenomena On numbers of experimental dames, And classified the organs of the feminine abdomina And given them delightful names. There’s the vulva, the vagina, and the jolly old perineum, And the hymen in the case of many brides; There are many other gadgets you would love if you could see them, The clitoris and lots of things besides. So isn’t it a pity when we common people chatter Of the mysteries to which I have referred, We should use for such a delicate and complicated matter Such a short and unattractive little word.
A is the Artfulness in the words he uses B is the Blush as she gently refuses C is the Creep of his hand on her legs D is the Don't she tearfully begs E is the Excitement his hand getting higher F is the Feeling of a intense desire G is the Gasp as her garter he touches [do-da] H is the Helplessness she feels in his clutches I is the Itching that makes her feel hot J is the Jump as he reaches the spot K is the Kiss with which she rewards him L is the Love she now feels towards him M is the Movement they make to the bed N is the Neat way she opens her legs O is the Opening now fully revealed P is the Penis already peeled Q is the Queer way she feels when it's in R is the Rapture when sweet pains begin S is the Stroke getting longer and longer T is the Throb getting stronger and stronger U is the Unction that now freely flows V is the Vim he puts in his blows W is the Wish for it over again X is the Xtent of both pleasure and pain Y is the Yearning that makes her heart throb Z is the Zambuk he rubs on his prick zambuk : s african ointment for sores
Young homosexuals and girls in love, and widows gone to seed, sleepless, delirious, and novice housewives pregnant some thirty hours, the hoarse cats cruising across my garden’s shadows like a necklace of throbbing, sexual oysters surround my solitary home like enemies entrenched against my soul, like conspirators in pyjamas exchanging long, thick kisses on the sly. The radiant summer entices lovers here in melancholic regiments made up of fat and flabby, gray and mournful couples; under the graceful palm trees, along the moonlit beach, there is a continental excitement of trousers and petticoats, the crisp sound of stockings caressed, women’s breast shining like eyes. It’s quite clear that the local clerk, bored to the hilt, after his weekday tedium, cheap paperbacks in bed, has managed to make his neighbor and he takes her to the miserable flea-pits where the heroes are young stallions or passionate princes: he caresses her legs downy with soft hair with his wet, hot hands smelling of cigarillos. Seducer’s afternoons and strictly legal nights fold together like a pair of sheets, burying me: the siesta hours when young male and female students as well as priests retire to masturbate, and when animals screw outright, and bees smell of blood and furious flies buzz, and cousins play kinkily with their girl cousins, and doctors glare angrily at their young patient husband, and the professor, almost unconsciously, during the morning hours, copes with his marital duties and then has breakfast, and, later on, the adulterers who love each other with real love, on beds as high and spacious as sea-going ships- so for sure and for ever this this great forest surrounds me, breathing through flowers large as mouths chock full of teeth, black-rooted in the shapes of hoofs and shoes.
How dare you make love to me like that, In that cold, silent, uncommitted way, Using your prick like a mechanical pumping-engine And thinking of Playboy I’m hot and wet, man Opening like a Venus Flytrap, Streaming from all orifices And screaming with agonizing Life-enhancing, mad, entrancing Cunt-enchanting Joy. And there you lie, Worrying about the next-door-neighbours And wishing the bed springs wouldn’t creak And refusing to bloody well SPEAK. And when I bite your thighs You’re praying that the marks won’t show When you have to strip for your daily drip In the city gym- (must keep fit)- You hypocrite! Quick! I want your rough beard To lacerate my breasts, but you turn away And you prefer it the back way, That’s fatal Because it’s so damned good I’m shouting more and hotting up the pace, But at least that way I cannot see the fury on your face. You Woman hater! Oh, I’m really away now (bugger the neighbours!) Your piston-engine prick Is tearing the living daylights out of me And I’m wild with it, But why don’t you bloody swell SAY SOMETHING? Are you enjoying it, damn you, Or are you just a machine That’s wound up And forgotten the words? I remember past loves, Past beds, And the torrent of fire and honey From the mouths of the wild And wonderful men Who knew to love With lungs As well as loins, And the sticky plethora Of kisses over an under Drowning sounds So lewd and beautiful That all my heart and cunt Were burning equally. Oh you cold, stingy Uptight, unyielding sod, How do I know Whether my ecstasy Is boring the pants off you (forgive the pun), Or whether your fastidious Distaste is aimed at me Specifically, Or at the whole race of Swallowing, wallowing women And wanton cunts, Or whether you yearn For an ice maiden Or a marble goddess, Or for that dreadful Mrs Lloyd Who wears hats And doesn’t like it. All right, you’ve come now (silently) And you’ve shuffled off Looking slightly out-of-sorts And embarrassed by that Ill-bred piston-engine which will Take you unawares Despite your finer feelings. And of course you wouldn’t kiss me Or say it was wonderful, But hurried off to wash, Remembering germs That lurk in private places And nasty notices In public lavatories. I’m clean, damn you, But I won’t be for long If you go on insulting me With your cold and disapproving Silence. I’m still going, still Coming, still pounding out Gorgeous obscenities In our sweaty, unhygienic Incorrigibly creaking Bed. And there you are Washing my cunt away The taste of me With Dettol. Look here, old sport, I warn you, When I’m through here I’m going to sleep with every Man, boy and tramp I can lay my filthy paws on. Painters, plumbers Unshaven bummers, And Irish labourers And men who read meters, I’m going to drain their last-gsp drop (DON’T STOP!) And make my life’s work Having it away, And let’s hope, by God, They know their way about a woman And what’s a damned sight more mportant, They don’t forget The words that fit the play. (online at the itch) --Erica Jong (b. 1942): The Long Tunnel of Wanting You p.234- This is the long tunnel of wanting you. Its walls are lined with remembered kisses wet & red as the inside of your mouth, full & juicy as your probing tongue, warm as your belly against mine, deep as your navel leading home, soft as your sleeping cock beginning to stir, tight as your legs wrapped around mine, straight as your toes pointing toward the bed as you roll over & thrust your hardness into the long tunnel of my wanting, seeding it with dreams & unbearable hope, making memories of the future, straightening out my crooked past, teaching me to live in the present present tense with the past perfect and the uncertain future suddenly certain for certain in the long tunnel of my old wanting which before always had an ending but now begins & begins again with you, with you, with you. Links: listen to Vanessa Daou's version of this poem on youtube
the wingless thing man ... - e.e. cummings Most men use their cocks For two things only: They stand up pissing & lie down fucking. The world is full of horizontal men- Or vertical ones- & really it is all the same disease. But your cock flies over the earth, making shadows on the body of women, making wild bird noises from its tiny mouth, making music & food for thought. It's not a wingless thing at all. We could call it Pegasus-- If it didn't make us think of gas stations. Or we could call it Icarus-- if it didn't make us think of falling. But still it dips and dives through the sky like the gilder, in search of a meadow, a field, a sun-dappled swamp from which (you rightly said) all life begins.