Found: Erotic Poetry

 A few weeks ago I was walking early in the morning and noticed pages from a book scattered all over the side walk. I happened to look down and see a couple of lines that caught my eye. I picked it up and put it in my purse. A few days later I took the pages out and read them….this is what I found:




I yearn to fuck.

To feel my body incandescent 

glowing like a Xmastree 

‘neath yours. You turn

me on… I SWOON.

At the thought of your stiff poker

tempered by the fires of love, I SWOON.

At sight of of its bright garnet knob, ah!

O why? I wish to be so wholly conscious,


Deliver me beloved from

this soft sweet faint. Electrify

my body even as the ramrod of your manhood

pierces me, so that I may cry to you






These things I offer to the great God Eros:

-My wet and greeny gash and its attendant furze…

-My pruny anus, hidden, yet all unashamed…

-My ears that long to hear Him whisper, “Hump me!”…

-My nose that I may sniff His rutty flesh…

-My eyes that He may spew His seed on them…

-My mouth that aches to gorge upon His prong…

-All, ALL my apertures are His…



The Slippery Flesh


How slick and juicy is your body, dearest,

When all covered with your juices male;

When I inhale the sweat from off your torso

My lips do shake and all my face grows pale.

My frail hand then does slip upon your shoulder,

It slides so gaily from your chest to belly;

Oh! Did you but know that at that moment

My heart is thumping, and my knees are jelly.

And when that same small hand does reach your groin

It occupies itself to make me whole;

I pinch and prod and shake and agitate

Your monumental, proud and greased pole!


Oh! Let your sex stand tall like gallant sail!

I’ll act as if I’m a deli!

To feast upon your hot pastrami is my goal!



Adorable Legs


When I observe your adorable legs, hard-muscled, straight,

And thick-entwined with manly hair, I weep

That I am not your feet.

When I envision those puissant limbs athrashing

Through the quiet glade or pistoning the pavements, then

I long to be your socks.

When in between my own two trembling nether limbs

Your masculine ones do haul your eager frame, why then

Can’t I be your knees?

But it is when my eager orbs do spy upon you

Sleeping, and travel from your toes up to your groin


That I wish that I might be – your cock!



Raton Rose



Sweet Juices

Orange peels curling into spirals pulled by her teeth…her lips following after chasing the sweet juices of the world.

I awake to her kissing my tears licking them drop by drop, it seems she likes my sorrow more than my soul.

She tells me secrets she has written on the side-walk for the passer-bys.

I wonder whether she finds anything sacred. 

She burns me with her matches and I lay there with out protesting.

My body is sticky with sugar from the night before.

Champagne and dew lost moments stolen by you.


Raton Rose


This spider web is sticky with lust, catching its prey and wrapping them up tight, another morsel for the night.
I find my self caught and relaxed in the pleasure of captivity.
This penniless luxury is all to addictive.
A life lived like a modern libertine, I find my morals running thin… when debauchery is so strong with in.
Vitality pulses in every pore across my flesh and I have never felt so close to death.
Silver explosions in the blackness night, a call to lovers light.
Our bodies seem to be molded to one another, a strange familiarity an echo of what could be.
Passion, bliss and loss of innocence.
The world is folding in…. a crumbling of sin.


Raton Rose

An Old Poem

When did we began to crumble?
Or did we flak?
You flaked, I crumbled.
I crumbled from your flakes…they were to heavy on my heart.
I disintegrated back into myself.
Back into my world, my home….alone.

Raton Rose

Rose B. Grimm

Remember death when you look at me.

Remember death and you will see he is closer to you then me.

What has become of life when all I see is dark shadows of eternity?

There’s a soft tenderness in death’s foreverness.

Death is the only suitor who follows through making all his promises come true.

He seems a handsome man, a king of a strange enchanted land.

Are all the ghosts his brides?

Wearing white, queens ruling by his side…

I see death in every handsome man I see,

Am I merely pretending to be Persephone?


Raton Rose

Raton Rose

The Sleeper by Edgar Allan Poe

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steal drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All beauty sleeps! – and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right-
The window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop -
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully – so fearfully -
Above the closed and fringéd lid
‘Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold -
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And wingéd panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals -
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone -
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

Raton Rose

Tuesday by Zache Davis

Confusing you with my
false emotions
pretense of power,
shakes, wake up—wake up,
I promise I’m lying but
right now, it’s the truth
I will not regret
consequence forgotten,
sensitive beings,
wooing the will,
you break
and I let you down.
I never meant to.
Secret societies
friends and lovers
concealing the consequences
forgotten mistakes
wondering—will you fall for it?
My game, is not a game.

A passage from Casanova’s memoirs

“The young madcap suddenly proposed that the girls should dance a hornpipe in the costume of Mother Eve, and they consented on the condition that we would adopt the dress of Father Adam, and that blind musicians were summoned. I told them that I would take off my clothes to oblige them, but that I had no hopes of being able to imitate the seductive serpent. I was allowed to retain my dress, on the condition that if I felt the prick of the flesh I should immediately undress. I agreed to do so, and the blind musicians were sent for, and while they tuned their instruments toilettes were made, and the orgy began”

- The Memoirs of  Jacques Casanova Volume Five

Raton Rose

A passage from Henry and June

Then came June, all in black velvet, black cape and plumed hat, paler and more incandescent than ever, and carrying Count Bruga, as I had asked her to do. The wonder of her face and smile, her smileless eyes…

I took her to a russian tearoom. The russians sang as we felt. June wondered if they were really burning, as it seemed from their voices and intense playing. Probably they were not burning as June and I were.

Champagne and caviar with June. It is the only time one knows what champagne and what caviar is. They are June, Russian voices and June.

Ugly , unimaginative, dead people surround us. We are blind to them. I look at June, in black velvet. June rushing towards death. Henry cannot rush on with her because he fights for life. But June and I together do not hold back. I follow her. And it is an acute joy to go along, giving in to the dissolution of the imagination, to her knowledge of strange experiences, to our games with Count Bruga, who bows to the world with weeping willowness of his purple hair.

It is all over. In the street, June says regretfully, “I had wanted to hold you and caress you.” I put her in a taxi. She sits there about to leave me and I stand by in torment. ” I want to kiss you,” I say. “I want to kiss you,” says June, and she offers her mouth, which I kiss for a long time.

- Anais Nin from Henry and June

Spring Time

I see the girls in the park laid out like lollipops in bright colors sipping on their champagne.

Spring seems to strip away all chastity and turn ever prude into a accomplished libertine.

I raise my glass to this season of frivolity and drain it all to soon.

The flowers are spreading petal after petal across this city budding, blossoming, uncurling with no sign of ever ceasing.

Raton Rose


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 93 other followers