- Erotic Poetry
- A Hot Sex Scene
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Click hereWe have forgotten last rain —
wetness shunned beneath graves,
roadsides, while we walk breezeless dry.
I ask the strangers to turn out our sun,
but they smell of gasoline and sex,
fueling us with their want
as we lead them to the place:
Cracked floors, bare and spread
from wall to window,
with straight backs,
no cushion or plush for pushing,
only wood but soon sweat,
skin, and cling.
We watch the heat waving
between chairs, cocks,
and six penetrables.
Count them: three, four, five, sex.
Brown, with wide smile,
shaved from toes to beneath arms,
trembles to Deep Sleek.
Someone whispers Deep Sleek
from outside the window
where noon builds bonfires on our backs.
Wild Cry burns shadows out of the corner
until the place is solar.
Wild Cry is a palm presser,
bent and touching boards,
her one, two, three,
the only shade for him and him
and him, stroking far into the heat,
groaning ultraviolet, Fuck!
We are beckoned, sol-blinded,
fire-stirred, and kissing the sun.
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copyright d. dixon
august '04
previously published
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- COMMENTS
lorencinoover 15 years agoA complex conversation between communal arousal and the raw, driven nudity of a sun-fired corner of the earth where sweat and heat make the sensuous inevitable. I'm not even going to begin to pretend that I understand the specifics of this poem, but it builds an edifice of sensuous abandonment so unerringly that, without hesitation, I proclaim it a gem.
