Archive for Erotica

The Poetics of May

Posted in Fiction, Poem with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 1, 2017 by Rathan Krueger


At the start of last month, I started a new creative exercise. The day before, I write three words, all stream-of-consciousness. The next day, I force myself to write a poem about them, then leave three new words for the morrow. It’s been an interesting and challenging thing that I’m continuing this month. Keeps me creatively fit as well as prepares me for the day a decade or so from now when I add being a musician to my renaissance list. I was also inspired slightly by Emily Dickinson and her absurd pile of poetry. Here are some of my favorites.

May 6th, 2017 (mistreatment, locomotive, stars)

The engine grinds them
Sinews and gristle snag and snap twixt the gears
Atomized blood a steady cloud
The squeal comes from voices, not brakes
The flames of combustion
Fanned by adoring hearts
All for a magazine cover

May 8th, 2017 (tape, repetition, clouds)

Rhapsody on strips
Unbelievably high on currents
Noticed only by aviary beasts
Rooted in their confusion
Utmost and plentiful
Nature despises the laboratory
Rushing past abominations
Undulating through condensations
Nary one makes it alive

May 11th, 2017 (breasts, graphite, Spain)

Nights of nuclear paint under ultraviolet light
Swimming with sweat, sex, and sounds of the vox populi
Ibiza reigns and rains with no trace of soudade
Her endowments glow bare and bright, and I am grateful
I woke to her number near a pencil, not the stairs

May 20th, 2017 (blood, clay, apathy)

As you mold coldly twixt my fingertips
I notice you are the only feeling
That exists about me
The sanguine flow within
Stiff as you in contradiction
If only it went beyond hyperbole
I finish and we look the clown

May 22nd, 2017 (upside-down, clitoris, jagged line)

A thousand threads
Pierce through the dark
Suspending barriers
Decorated with chevrons
A giggle of wind
Makes millions of threads soar inverted
Lighting the way for a break in time
To your tangled plain
And tender hill

May 24th, 2017 (fire, disappointment, sane)

You may take purchase
Of finer banalities
But make no mistake
You play in a holocaust of vanity
Each singeing lick
A memento of mischance and apathy
As you make your bedlam
As you fade away

May 25th, 2017 (silence, wires, grain)

The world is chaos and phlem
Tangled in pulsing currents of now
Sent to the mill to be pulverized into acceptance
‘Til the quietness of your still heart reigns

May 28th, 2017 (addiction, chainsaw, well)

Screeching down mildewed walls of stone
Brick by brick, descending into cylindrical darkness
But for the sparking interruptions
Deeper and deeper I sink
Regretfully… greedily
‘Til the water blankets me
However, serenity loves a taunt
Thus I’m denied my final splash
Still I fall, still I reach, still I fall

May 31st, 2017 (Pocky, slide, thunderstorm)

The tumultuous sky spits upon us
And lashes out with forked tongues
Onto those conductors electric
Some unfortunate ones are planted in playgrounds
Ladders attached for clamoring hands
Leading to plummeting surfaces
And woodchips crackling undertow
A sated child watches
As they nibble on Japanese delights


The Sullen Doll

Posted in Fiction, Poem with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 6, 2016 by Rathan Krueger

It dangles
From the ceiling, the sky… from underneath
Its strings sing nervously
From flesh, sanguine-stained
Memories of red gave way to caked blackness
The once-turgid strings are brittle due to the arid nature of neglect
Yet they still hold, yet they still sing
The body is still warm, you see

Agony and despair… that is their melody
Played in time with the distant clock
Fading more with each titillated breath
A melody she taught herself to play

Her clock has almost forgotten how to chime
Though it is almost midnight
She does not lament, no
This has all been her choice
Each nick, bruise, and lash
If she has one regret
In her life abruptly lush with ecstasy and torment
It is that she never learned moderation
Lucretia, the patron saint of overindulgence

I believe it began with a kiss
As all worthwhile things should
His fingers were lost, entangled in my hair
And I liked it
They pulled, his strength made the gesture a dull ache
And I liked it
The familiar roughness made its way to every part of me
And I Loved It
My adamantine heart was melted by an exceptional sensuality
He warned me to nurse my endeavor, lest it became my addiction
“Watch it close, let it brew.”
But I yearned too hastily for so much more
The path to sainthood begins with death
Though I had no interest in piety
My hurried lust brought me to the Reaper, just the same

Lucretia eventually found
That there is a place in this world for everyone
No matter how deranged their desire
Even if it is to become the dangling woman
A gruesome plaything to her impatient appetite
A puppet… a doll

One last tickling shiver
And her fallow clock wafts finally into entropy

The dead are breathless
Yet there is an intimate truth on the wind
From their rictus grin
To your unwilling ear
“I’ll see you soon. Bound and able.”


The Grave of Linda Seward

Posted in Fiction, Poem with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 17, 2016 by Rathan Krueger

It began as a dare of the midnight variety
Twixt a guy, his girl, and the gate behind her
She dares him to hop it
He tells her she’s crazy
She then dares herself
She lands on her ass
And, though it hurt, she’s glad
Her skirt didn’t get caught on a spike
There were better ways to end their anniversary
She tells him to join her
Who knows what’s on the other side
It’s too late to be a hero, he thinks
But he caught a glimpse of her full-bottoms
She made sure
His favorite pair
She also made sure of that
He didn’t make it as cleanly over the gate
Though he managed to land on his feet
She thanks him with a kiss
He tastes like their dessert
Her tongue ring rolls in his mouth
A birthday present
He pulls her close
But she presses closer
They can feel each other’s heat from below
She taught him well
Before, he used to go straight for her bra
Now, he makes her anxious
A hand placed behind her neck
Another on her back
Where the line of her spine ends
His fingertips stroke there
Like the soft head of a kitten
Which makes her other feline
More than a little wet
An idea comes to her before she does
And she breaks away from him
She demands that it’s time to play Hide and Seek
Then runs away before he has a chance to stop her
Before she has a chance to reconsider
He sets out to find her
Though it’s too dark to see clearly
Such is nighttime in a cemetary

He walks carefully in her general direction
One minute, two
Not really sure how to find her
Or even if she’ll play fair
The big reason why they can’t play video games
Whenever she was about to lose
She’d flash him
She also got offended when it stopped working
Even without the bra
That was on their couch
So who knows what she’ll do if he fails
In this final resting place
Just as he’s about to take out his phone
And use the flashlight app to find her
He hears something faint in the distance
Like a whisper without words
It’s definitely her voice, though
He stalks his way closer
Not sure if this is part of the game
Until her consideration is in full view

When she realized that she couldn’t see him
She worried if he’d ever find her
But she didn’t want to stop playing
Didn’t want the night to end
Not tonight
So she found what turned out to be a gravestone
And sat astride it, deep in thought
The night was cool
As was the stone
Thus her wetness from earlier
Gave her quite the shock
She covered her mouth as she gasped
Then figured out how to lure him
Like a moth to a flame
Or a hunter to its prey
She began to grind herself against the stone
The situation did more for her than she assumed
Her lips made wet clicks under the fabric
And the chilly grave turned warm
And the warmth made her moan
And her moans brought him near

She could hardly see him
But she knew he was admiring her
And couldn’t help but smile
It was like the sun to him
His being there made her motions
He affected her moans
She was losing herself to the moment
And out of fear, out of yearning
He sealed her lips with a kiss
Lust made her hungry for him
Her tongue ring danced wildly in his mouth
He was also starved
But what he wanted to taste
Was tucked away behind his favorite pair
Made the gravestone shimmer

He lifts her high
Then bends her over
She lets out a giggle
Then rests her arms on the stone
And, looking at him from behind
Waves hers playfully
If she has one regret about their relationship
It’s that she can’t share a talent
She spent her party years perfecting
In a New Age sex cult
She’d be praised as the Goddess “Fellatio”
Some women don’t like the act
And she understands their reasons
But it was always fun for her
A game she played from the tip of her tongue
To the back of her throat
She could make them last hours or seconds
Such was her skill
She didn’t even mind the taste
(on a more personal note
(she’s particularly proud of lacking cold sores)
Yet, for all her moaning and demands
Her mouth was tiny
Try as she might
And she tried plenty
She couldn’t make him fit
Thoughts like these always pop in her mind
When his mouth praises her
As his tongue flits and swirls
As his lips earn their place
Her scruples melt away
And she embraces the grave

The sweet sound of her joy fills the air
But not for the first time this night
They have many more positions to try
And no one to tell them to stop
The dead are too ashamed to rise and be
Of how her hips sway atop him
Of how he makes her feel
When the lovers eventually finish
As the sun turns the sky purple
She looks at the carnal disasterpiece they made
And sees where they spent their night
The grave of Linda Seward

The Taste

Posted in Fiction, Poem with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 21, 2015 by Rathan Krueger

Sitting on our bed waiting sweetly for our game, her
Eyes saucer-black with lust follow me to our closet
Her breath’s slowness grows heavy with anticipation
As each piece to our game is laid near her shaking feet
A piece to bind her, a piece to make her scream with joy
A piece to blind her, a piece to bring her ecstasy
A piece to pull her to pain’s lament, all with a smile
She soon remembers her place, and kneels bare before me

Our intimate game of pleasure and pain moves slowly
She can but ache for the taste until her very end

It begins innocently with two words: “Yes, Master.”
Her hands strapped together and reach high for the ceiling
My hands grip her tender flesh, and strips of cloth and hide
Each slap erupts from her mouth a whine, and hints a moan
Soon, our game brings wetness to her brow and twixt her thighs
Her flesh turns vermilion with agony and craving
She squirms and yearns… with every heartbeat… she squirms and yearns
I ask if she wants to go on. She smiles. “Yes, Master.”

Our intimate game of pleasure and pain moves slowly
She can but ache for the taste until her very end

I slide my fingers in her silken, sad uncertain
And play in her pink, the pink of her wet chamber door
I bring her to the cusp of delight… and pull away
For this is the final piece to our intimate game
The piece she loves and loathes the most: to deny, deny
To make her orgasmic tide ebb and flow, never crest
Words are whittled away to primal groans as she waits
Until I feel she’s had enough… until I kiss her

So ends our slow, intimate game of pleasure and pain
The taste leaves her shivering, crying, and satisfied