- Erotic Poetry
- The Stylization of Self
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the burnished steel of our bed,
as metallic glow pours from the picture-box
and rearranges us in formalized poses,
reflecting graphs of chromium-coated skin
backlit in diagrams of thermonuclear weapons
that flash in blurred ellipses
over sections of our bodies,
The curve of an exposed breast
The soft cushion of a buttock
The arch of a damp perineum
reminders of fresh sensual quarries:
You clasping my breasts to a single globe
the moisture on your lips as you descend
and engulf my stiff nipples,
distracting me from these out-of-character acts.
Your body framed within the contours of my own,
flashing hundreds of perspectives
of flickering mouths, necklines, navels, tongues.
You encage yourself in the fork of my thighs,
break codes hidden in my musculature.
My hands memorize the geometry of your penis
and enclose its radius within my vulva,
drowning our sexuality in the light
of soft-drink commercials multiplied across
the glistening surface of my rising and falling buttocks.
'The Cold War is over'
announces the man in television
(but we know better)
Our semi-metallic body parts interact in new junctions.
You slap me, try to force your flaccid penis into my vagina,
middle finger looking for my anus along the parabola of my cleft,
your empty face clicks on and off in masks of anger and distress.
Your semen runs down my left thigh onto the pool
of sweat and synthesized intimacy soaking the silk sheets below.
Your head swings in my direction, as if remembering,
but you are silent:
it doesn't really matter for people like you.
For people like us
Our space is minimalist,
anonymous and functionalist to the core,
a colourless
frozen reminder of texture,
and torn pages of countless novels
line the wall over our bed,
a chill sterility of words,
a chill sterility of us.
- COMMENTS
dcloveover 5 years agothis avery sweet write and to the point
I myself fine it vert hot and erotic love how it is done
Ashesh9over 10 years agoof soft-drink commercials multipied across
the glistening surface of my risin' and fallin' buttocks .
as a mucho experienced commentator said elsewhere , " these 'em Killer Lines !",Lauren
Impurityabout 13 years agoThis is romantically, philosophically, linguistically and poetically amazing. <3
KOLKOREalmost 17 years agoIf people think that talking metaphorically hinders understanding they don’t know what they are talking about and if they need proof they can go to this poem to learn how we all (to different degrees) try to figure out what’s going on; who we are; who the people lying next to us are and what the hell we are doing here… <P>
When things get strange or difficult to comprehend we have to start with metaphors – whether we want to call them by that name or not whether we are humans or even programmed machines. <P>
It’s all one big experiment. Takes some time and patience. For me, initially, the first extended image of the thermonuclear weapons did not sit too well with a couple of people having sex (if not making love), but that does not mean it was a minus; not in this poem where a confessed narrator is professing to search for no less than her – SELF (at least in that here and now). In this context it was not ‘better’ or ‘worse’ than either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers of first approximation by a binaric searching process for a meaning. Nevertheless, I got the picture. <P>
On the other hand, the efforts to search for meaning in the realms of geometry or the mathematical representation of reality as presented by graphs and curves have reminded me of quite a few previous poems I have read by Hynde. And again, I was moved by this unique – I’d say one of the staples of Hynde- ‘hot –cold’ mixtures. The hottest scenes or feelings and the ‘coldest’ metharoic images to describe them, as if to freeze their heat or to rationalize their inherent irrationality or chaotic nature; thus baring them to be subjects to an almost almost unbearable tension. As I mentioned in previous comments the allusion to the Metaphysical Poets and John Donne in particular is never too far in my mind when I read Hynde. <P>
Artistic jargon; Urban alienation themes, even world geo-politics politics are all recruited into the effort of making sense (while not appearing to do so) of what could be the most surreal and vulnerable moments of all in most peoples’ lives; simply put, the ever re-examined intimacy on both ends of the intimate equation in the post coital stage. <P> Again , like in previous poems the effort to hide the vulnerability under thick, seemingly impenetrable layers of language which criss crosses numerous semantic fields, is at final analysis the touching effort of all. <P>
It seems to me that we all are in the same 'room', exposed bare skinned to the same potential intimate dangers, as if we were facing real, not diagrams of thermonuclear weapons.<P>
Thanks for this poem. <P>
KOLKOREalmost 17 years agoIf people think that talking metaphorically hinders understanding they don’t know what they are talking about and if they need proof they can go to this poem to learn how we all (to different degrees) try to figure out what’s going on; who we are; who the people lying next to us are and what the hell we are doing here… <P>
When things get strange or difficult to comprehend we have to start with metaphors – whether we want to call them by that name or not whether we are humans or even programmed machines. <P>
It’s all one big experiment. Takes some time and patience. For me, initially, the first extended image of the thermonuclear weapons did not sit too well with a couple of people having sex (if not making love), but that does not mean it was a minus; not in this poem where a confessed narrator is professing to search for no less than her – SELF (at least in that here and now). In this context it was not ‘better’ or ‘worse’ than either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers of first approximation by a binaric searching process for a meaning. Nevertheless, I got the picture. <P>
On the other hand, the efforts to search for meaning in the realms of geometry or the mathematical representation of reality as presented by graphs and curves have reminded me of quite a few previous poems I have read by Hynde. And again, I was moved by this unique – I’d say one of the staples of Hynde- ‘hot –cold’ mixtures. The hottest scenes or feelings and the ‘coldest’ metharoic images to describe them, as if to freeze their heat or to rationalize their inherent irrationality or chaotic nature; thus baring them to be subjects to an almost almost unbearable tension. As I mentioned in previous comments the allusion to the Metaphysical Poets and John Donne in particular is never too far in my mind when I read Hynde. <P>
Artistic jargon; Urban alienation themes, even world geo-politics politics are all recruited into the effort of making sense (while not appearing to do so) of what could be the most surreal and vulnerable moments of all in most peoples’ lives; simply put, the ever re-examined intimacy on both ends of the intimate equation in the post coital stage. <P> Again , like in previous poems the effort to hide the vulnerability under thick, seemingly impenetrable layers of language which criss crosses numerous semantic fields, is at final analysis the touching effort of all. <P>
Maybe we are in the same room, exposed bare skinned to the same potential intimate dangers as if we were facing real, not diagrams of thermonuclear weapons. Thanks for this poem. <P>
doormouseover 19 years ago"You clasping my breasts to a single globe
the moisture on your lips as you descend
and engulf my stiff nipples, "
Got mine hard lol
(god I hate being first to comment lol) ;-)
