Erotic Poetry

"Life is a Sexy Goth Chick" an erotic poem by Schofield Alan

She blew into the room like a destructive, drunken leaf
Confused which side of her head her face was on
Which way her knees bent
As if she’d only just been bipedal for the past 12 seconds
The twenty years and 70 seconds prior, she’d been cartwheeling.

Black and raggy
Dizzy.
A tornado that hit a Hot Topic in the Amazon somewhere
Smelling like orchids and black tobacco
Like rain and weed.

The wreckage found hospice on a couch across from me
Eggshell legs with dark outlines draped over an armrest.
Her skirt crumpled up too far past her knees.
Too far.
(But not far enough).

There was only enough black hoody to cover her scars
Gaping safety pin pricks, injury patches, sloppy surgeries.
Crooked, rusty zipper teeth clinching
But failing to contain two soft, pale polar bear cubs
warmly hibernating. Breathing deeply.
A hot pile of eyelinered flesh and polyester.
The whole mess rested on an easel of elbows.

She’s free. But not in the emancipated sense.

“Do you smoke?” Her tongue was sent slithering
over lips like sandwich bags filled with blood.

“No.” I wanted to sweat, but the moisture was elsewhere.
Salivating.

She’s free in the sense that she’d cost me nothing.

“That’s too bad,” a gray mummy finger fell from her pocket.
She put it to her lips, “Because I like to share.”
Spark.

Suki by Lee Cropper

A cat from under the couch found familiar grooves in the armrest
And idled like an ibex on a mountainside, purring.
Her dimples deepened as she inhaled
and she slowly blew a steamy trickle into the cat’s ear.
The cat’s eyes went from vertical to orbital
then sloshed back in its head. It purred like a bad cough
like sucking the last of something through a big straw
and fell to its back. To dream.

She let her head hinge backward and blew more
hot, mauve exhaust into the air.
I felt infected with vampiral tendencies
watching her marshmallow neck stretch tighter
watching the bear cubs breathe.
Her eyes were oceans of oil miles deep
where stars went to drown, sick of all that cold empty sky.
She can taste my solar pheromones
And she squeezes her thighs together.

I could’ve stayed in that room
in that memory-void haze vault
in the slow motion lust flood
with wet handfuls of electric skin
red palms
bruised lips.
Forever.
But, I had things to do that night.

She fell asleep, unraveled, and evaporated.

On my way out, I felt a cat tail crunch beneath my shoe.
It didn’t jump, or scream, or hiss.
It just stopped purring.