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The Best of 2013

Horrible Erotikishka Pomes
by Various Authors

Kisses Crops and Canes
by Ashley Lister

Kneel and Worship
by Ashley Lister

Sonnet 18+
by Ashley Lister

antecedent obliteration
by john e

It Slips Away
by john e

Your clothes
by john e

Sum of Parts
by Lisabet Sarai

Falls to Mabon
by Nettie Kestler

Scars
by Nettie Kestler

Undressing
by Nettie Kestler

In Suspension
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That Old Refrain
by Rose B. Thorny

Boomzooboom
by Sybil Rush

undressing
by Valentine Bonnaire



Archives

Haiku 2012
by Various Authors

Haiku 2001
by Various Authors

Limericks 2012
by Various Authors

Limericks 2007
by Various Authors

Micropoetry
by Various Authors


By john e
The Voyeur Leaves
Acorns and Moss
Molly Was Not...
Doing Without
Stopover
subtext
A Sometimes Belligerent Prosody


By Nick Nicholson
Watermark
All Days Valentine


By Nikki Isaak
Firewheels
24/7


By Raziel Moore
Does poetry have rules?
Where is my poetry?
  Slut-Hoe
or The Poem of Nineteen Fucks (For C.M.)
© 2002 by A.J. Heard

 

She said I was a slut-hoe, because I travelled
to meet you, already wanting to fuck you,
knowing I was going to fuck you, and I did fuck you,
with lustful passion in the heart of San Francisco,
in a public spa rented by the hour.

I walked in unapologetically, bare-faced,
laughing, as excited as any kid on Christmas Eve.
Not caring who might see, swept right by
unconcerned with the bouncer at the door
as we held hands, as we danced down the stairs
to our own script of Ali Baba's treasure cave,
to re-write Scheherezade's 1001 Arabian Fucking Nights,
the sixty minute version.

We fucked for an hour,
while licentious funk filled the air
and nothing could be heard
but the hiss of our sighs,
full-mouthed moans and the slurping
sound of juicy skin against skin
as sensations filled to overflow
regulated by an occasional laugh or giggle
in celebration, in joyful excess,
at being alive and fucking together.

You called me a wonderful lover,
like a dying man telling his beads,
and I loved it, wanted to hear it
again and again as I felt your cock slipping
and sliding in my wet folds,
my pussy waiting patiently,
for the moment to be filled
and creamed by you like an eclaire
for Sunday brunch.

Our own heat steamed up the room,
making skin hot to touch,
as we melted and puddled on the platform bed,
never making it to the hot tub or in-room sauna.

Interrupted for a moment
by the insistence of the phone,
then we fucked again,
revelling in the feel and taste of each other
not stopping until called once more
by that electronic watch dog
guarding minutes and dollars.

Clothed, we rose to the surface kissing,
touching as we walked and talked
and fucked some more with our eyes,
as people looked at us, unable not to,
drawn by the fuck-glow shining from our pores.

She called me a slut-hoe because I fucked you
and it wasn't an accident,
and I didn't let you feed me first,
and I didn't play the reluctance game,
and I wanted to fuck you
and I let you know I wanted to fuck you
and wanted you to fuck me
and didn't care that you knew,
and I didn't get drunk first
and I let you know I want to fuck you again,
and would have fucked you again that night
but we ran out of time
and because I can just barely wait to do it again
and I told you
and I don't care
and I do care that you enjoy fucking me
as much as I enjoy being fucked by you
and fucking you
and I will do it again, soon.



© 2003 A.J. Heard. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.


Poets live for feedback!
If you enjoyed these sonnets, please send comments to
A.J. Heard

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