Tag Archives: poetry

Silver Siren

With an outstretched arm,
He beckons her, hair
Tousled like fallen leaves, eyes
Partially slitted open.

Climb onto my legs,
He begs, while she stands, bare
Breasts scooping up
Towards the ceiling.

Come, come,
Join us, she says,
Her fingers curl and point.
He wants her.

He doesn’t see the rules
Carved into her flesh,
Invisible and welcomed brands.
Come, she whispers again.

But his fear has set it, and
His nakedness mocks
Like a house of mirrors,
He wants her, alone.

One last try,
But her hand slides
As if oiled in preparation,
A tin woman,

She does have a heart but it’s
Locked beneath silver paint
And aluminum.
She trails off,

Leaving a door open
So he can hear the squeaks
Of her movements, they
Echo like hands, sliding

Over his cool skin.
His groin flexes
As he catches her lingering musky scent.
Come, come, come,

She murmurs.
He stumbles up, half-asleep,
Searching. Come, come,
Come, her whispers

Sliver like snakes
Squeezing the air from his chest.
Her voice is louder now,
Singing behind a corner.

He pivots to find her,
But her hazel eyes aren’t there,
Nor her long, spidery limbs,
Or her messy straw hair.

All that’s left are her lips,
Pink and chaffed from repetition,
They heave open
And then close,

Their wet, hungry gravity
Pulls him in.

Come, come, come,
She whispers.

pennysblog_silversiren

Things I Masturbate To

This poem was inspired by Harmony Eichsteadt’s poem “Things I Have Masturbated To” from the Bedpost Confessions Postcast 9, as well as Harper Elliot, a sex writer who wrote a similar poem. Here is my version.

Things I Masturbate To

Of course there’s the obvious.

My boyfriend’s long curly hair tickling

my thighs as his mouth worships my every

fold, and his thick fingers pulling me to life

from inside out, and then his hard, tall

cock filling me up until I’m overflowing,

until I’m empty of all the come

and sweat and breath I possess.

 

And there are others, those who don’t

realize they exist naked in my head, like

the girl at the dentist’s who cleaned my teeth,

her thick lips hovering above mine like a spaceship,

ready to suck me up, or my friend’s shy roommate,

an old co-worker, a vanilla girlfriend, my Spanish professor,

and the guy who works at 7-Eleven.

 

Often, it’s more abstract, a group of people

whose faces I can’t see, a thousand hands on

my every exposed inch, a crowd cheering,

another couple watching, or even just a hot

mouth stuck on me, requiring only

my come to survive.

 

Sometimes it’s light hearted, wandering

fingers while the TV laughs with me, or my

cat eyeing me curiously on the couch, as I pant

and heave and moan my way

across the finish line.

 

Fiction occasionally joins me as well,

my favorite characters coming to life, dicks

and limbs rising like the dead from my

twisted head, sometimes cold fingers

and fangs or a vicious killer at my neck, my current

favorites are Tate and Dexter, even better

fucking me together.

 

And then there are the stranger ones, alien

tentacles probing and sucking, beastly

creatures with multiple members, headless

figures, and cold lifeless bodies, the burning

grip of the devil incarnate, and ghosts or

demons, but usually not zombies.

 

The hardest to admit, are the ones who could care

less about my consent, dark shadowy figures that

push me down and tie me up. They strike

me and shame me, but I always enjoy it.

These have been with me as long as I can remember,

even as a young girl, pretending to be kidnapped, arms

pulled back at mattress edges, eyes wide and lips

pressed, warmth growing between my little

legs as I am alone with the part of me

that always hides.

 

And sometimes, as someone who reviews

sex toys, it’s just something on my To-do list.

I’m a pioneer for research, thinking rather

un-sexy, almost clinical things like,

how sticky is this lube, and what is that light taste,

citrus? Or I really wish this had a longer

handle, or a wider girth or more texture, or

ow! oh god this thing is murdering my clit,

or I’m fucking glad this toy is waterproof

because I’m about to squirt

all over it.

 

Other times, it’s not really sexual at all, I’m

a blank sheet of paper, my mind

folds into itself, there are no thoughts and no

fantasies, no expectations or how do I look in this position,

or requirements or to-do lists or cleaning

the kitty litter or work or stress, only

 

the steady whiz of my Hitachi, or the quiet

circling of my fingers, only my breath whispering

to itself, my lips and clit blossoming, and the

quickening pace of my blood is enough,

the soft, warm, blanketing feeling,

the simple comfort of balance and equilibrium,

and remembering that my body is not a

separate entity, of holding on and then

most importantly,

of learning to let go again.

 

The First Time

We planned it like witches,

the ragged cut off shorts that cling

to my thighs like hands

and the soft white cloth

 

that adorns my virgin flesh like fresh

paint, lightly covering

a shiny new house.

We prepared the potions,

 

the stew of wine and blood and twigs,

and the yellow of tequila that shall drip

down our stomachs like honey to be licked

and devoured by greedy bees mouths.

 

The whispers will crescendo to loud chants,

and he will hold me from behind, circling

my ripe waist with his clenching

hands. We will repeat our ritual until it becomes

 

Alive and real as a doll, black eyes blinking

and voice crying, “hello, will you play?”

without pulling the string. Once she is alive,

the ritual pulls us instead, we lay still

 

as she strips her clothes and laughs, dancing

and stomping her bare feet around the fire, she breathes

beast like urges between our little legs

until we run on our hands and knees, and rip

 

our clothes into pieces and swallow

each other’s skin and hair.

When the sacred hour of fusing flesh comes, our frantic

energy subsides, giving way to the slow

 

trickle of a pain I’ve never felt, of splitting

my legs like chopped wood, leaving bits of shattered

tissue gathered beneath my hips to rot.

The act isn’t holy in the sense of god

 

but in the sense of something that must

happen, like the spider who must kill

and bury her young in her mate’s limp, warm body,

something which moves her eight legs

 

from a darkness deep within.

When it’s over, she doesn’t regret

the violence, the ritual, or the killing,

and the male thanks her

 

from silent lips for sacrificing his body to Mother

and hungry offspring. Like the spider, my first

kneeled and thanked me

for my gift of blood and flesh,

 

and I grinned and laughed

as I tightened my legs around him like a web.

 

 

 

 

Kiss Me There

I confess, I want your warm lips
wrapped around, wet and soft, I want
the sound of sucking, the quiet and
subtle whisper of in and out, the look
in your blue eyes when your mouth
is full of me, tongue busy back
and forth and in and out and
around my smooth pale
skin, I need you to lick and touch and
wash my flesh with your lips, I feel
you saying you love every
inch, every part, my eyes, my
wrists, my ears, my legs, and every
hair, and the mole by my belly
button and the black ink on my hip and
the dimple on my chin and the scar
on my left breast, I know you adore all
of me when your solid arms
hold my legs and you
thrust and bring my
toes to your mouth, as you

kiss me there.

 

 

Your Hands

In honor of Jake’s birthday today, I want to share a poem I wrote for him last year. Jake and I don’t usually give big, expensive gifts for birthdays and prefer to just do something fun together. This year I got him a Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness tshirt because we are obsessed with Parks and Recreation (it’s even funnier than The Office!)and a pearl snap shirt. I’m not sure what we are going to do to celebrate today since Jake prefers spontaneous fun to planned birthday events. My guess is we’ll probably go to dinner and then downtown, but who knows… And on with the poem:

Your Hands

I knew I loved you the moment you showed me your hands. You said
at some point, I’ve broken each finger, like when you smashed
bike into ground, hands
crumbling on impact, bones crunching and twisting easily
reforming, molding, and shaping
like they were meant to.
You held up your hands, wide palms spread
open and said, now they’re all a little
crooked, each finger points in a slightly different
direction, when you said it you never broke your
expression, not one little crease on your forehead,
no crack in your voice,like
the pain meant nothing, or maybe
you just enjoyed healing. Now,
you lie next to me, with that same calm
face and untroubled expression, and
I’ve only had my eyes open for five minutes but
all I can think is how I want you
to shape me like
clay in your hands, and how I
need to know what it means
to be shattered
and broken, need to feel flesh
healed, to touch
every crooked finger.