Archive for the ‘erotic poetry’ Category

When warm embrace
Becomes tight caress
Imprinted, skin on skin
Essential proximity
My face buried in you
As if you were oxygen
The need to clasp
To hold on tight
That abject hunger
Insatiable need
To inhale you
My fill

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My darling Purrrrrrrvert,

In honour of your birthday, I wrote you a poem (see below).

While my skill at creating poetry does not compare with Pablo Neruda, or Carol Ann Duffy, or Robert Frost or (ha, I wish) the wonderful Thomas Stearns Eliot, or any of the others we have discussed and love so much, it was, at least, written from the heart.

More than this, I cannot do.

Feliz cumpleaños. Ti amore querido,

Su gato de tabby rosado x

Time is an illusion
Lunchtime doubly so
Birthdays come but once a year
And very quickly go
It’s really not so easy
To put into a rhyme
How very much you mean to me
And do it all in time
To show you on your birthday
That very special day
That from within the cosmos
Your soul came here to stay
Such perceived insignificance
Or so some may have said
Brought thundering and mighty fruit
To bear upon my head
I don’t think I can find the words
To say how much I care
To adequately describe here
Your brilliance and your flair
Your wide and varied knowledge bank
Your sparkling blue eyes
Your evil mean and rotten ways
That take me by surprise
And make me grin so broadly
And make you purr with joy
How you can turn me in a snap
From tabby to fucktoy
Your warm and comforting embrace
Your softly dappled skin
That look that comes into your eyes
When I make your head spin
The expert way you tie me and
Restrain me to the bed
The joyous and exultant groan
Whene’er I give you head
How I love to submit to you
Be at your call and beck
How much I love my collar
When fastened round my neck
The feel of leather on my skin
Or whisk or spoon or smurf
I sing a song of love to you
On this day of your birth

(With apologies to Douglas Adams for shamelessly stealing his words as my opening lines. 🙂 )

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You fasten a leather collar around my neck

And attach to it a leash

Yet I have never felt more owned

Than when your fist is inside me.

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I am not a person who succumbs to sentimentality often.

Not that my consciousness cannot be tweaked by a sweet thought, or a kind word. Not that I do not have a deep appreciation of art and how it variously moves me, in one or any of its forms.

But sentimentality — of the artificial, uniformly packaged and bound variety, such as that perpetuated across the globe on Valentines day — leaves me colder than the mouldy piece of cheese at the back of my refrigerator.

I make a point of not participating in any calendar-scheduled romantic events, partly because for many years i was not in love and it made me feel excluded, worthless and inadequate, and partly because being of Jewish German, Polish and Lithuanian origin, i have a genetic tendency to be stubborn, argumentative and “just-so” about these things. Why should I necessarily demonstrate my love for another on *this* date?

Moreover, does doing so on this date make it more special, or does it detract from every other day of the year, and the love that should be going on 24*7? As if this date superseded any other, or precluded myself or my lover from doing so publicly at any other time.

It seemed false and manufactured, two of my worst fears when it comes to feelings between my heart and another. The fear being, of course, that said feelings were not genuine; that they had been summoned specifically in order to display how another heart felt for mine as a public, almost staged gesture. Which would prove me right, or rather, would prove Captain Paranoia right. I carry him with me, he sits happily and persistently on my shoulder, swinging his feet in the breeze and whispering mean and cruel nothings into my ear.

“He doesn’t really love you. He never did. He’s just doing what’s expected of him in order to keep the gossipmongers down, or to make himself feel better. It’s about him, and the rest of the world, not you. Never you. You’re not worthy enough of the attention from another — and why would he or anyone else be able to truly love one such as you?”

Have you ever noticed how Captain Paranoia has a Santa Claus-like quality in that he manages to affect many people all over the world, all at the same time? No? Just me then. OK.


When love is shown me spontaneously, particularly in light of the above, I accept it with no strings attached, and no second-guessing. It takes more than a single occurrence for me to be able to return the love as love per se, but i can and do reciprocate as honestly and genuinely as I can.

My Dom and my lover — the same man, in the event that this is the first piece of Elegant Smut you’re reading — sent me a poem today.

This is not an unusual event. We often exchange poetry, since we both share a love for language and especially the beautifully intricate way in which a poet uses imagery to suggest feelings, emotions, notions, ideas, pictures and sensibilities. Imagery that belies the fact that, were they to be communicated using plain speech, they simply would not have the same effect.

Either way, today, I choose to share this poem with you, with all due credit to the original poet and translator. The beauty of receiving the poem today, February 14th, the traditional celebratory date for the various Valentines who existed, but not as a “Valentine”, is very special for me. Much like everything he says, does or sends to me. Much like everything he is. Intended with love,  but not because he has to.

Thank you, my dear. Today you touched my heart, although have no fear, it was not for the first time.

El Alfarero (The Potter), by Pablo Neruda

Your whole body holds
a goblet or gentle sweetness destined for

When I let my hand climb,
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me, as if
my love, they had made you out of clay
for my very own potter’s hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist
are missing in me, like in the hollow
of a thirsting earth
where they relinquished
a form,
and together
we are complete like one single river,
like one single grain of sand.

—Translated and © Mark Eisner 2004, from City Lights’ The Essential Neruda

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“You will write to me, won’t you?” he says, as he turns to me just before we part company.
“Er, like.. duh. ” I reply, somewhat inelegantly, belying my self-imposed titular comportment.
“No, what I mean is, i want you to write something specific.”
I raise a curious eyebrow, and gesture that he should elaborate.
“I want to know what made you think “Oooh, yes, more of this, more, more!” and what made you think “No, no, stop, no, don’t do that again.”
Again with the single curious eyebrow. “Was it not obvious?”
“Mostly, but i want you to be specific. There was a wealth of toys and playthings involved — which were better for you and which less so?”
Toys and playthings. I’ll say. I was the biggest of the playthings, even he would be the first to admit this. But it would be less an admission — implying confessional or sinful revelation; more a proud declamation. He is a self-confessed feline, and as such likes to have things to play with.
Playthings. Yes. That would be me.
It’s the sports bag i notice first. It is, frankly, huge, and is also a surprising colour.
“You said it was your big black bag of tricks! That’s not black, that’s khaki!”
“That’s one way to know if someone has met me — ask them what the colour of my big black bag is…!”
Out of said bag come a number of hiking pouches, each filled with a wide variety of implements of torture and pleasure, depending on your viewpoint from where you sit on the kink-o-meter. To say I was speechless is understating it to a huge effect. My eyes were like saucers, and my jaw hung open. Not so much at the level of evility and kink arrayed before me, but at the quantity. The best i could manage was a feeble “Fu-u-uck.”
He then took out a large halloween party carrier, shaped like a cat, naturellement — rawrrrr…. and told me to select what i wanted to play with today, and to put the items in there.
The items began to be shown to me, in order of how they’d fallen out of the sports bag. There were beaters, floggers, scrapers, strokers, pinchers, restraints and a remarkably wide variety of pervertibles. I recognised a large fish slice, and a silicon oven-glove in the shape of a dog from a bag containing kitchen-inspired instruments of kink — and then i saw something that looked mighty familiar.
“Hey, I have that very spatula! Except, of course, i actually use it when i cook.”
He looked me straight in the eye, almost snorting in an effort to restrain the bubbling mirth.
“You pervert.”
I laughed as hard as he did, and gasped. “I’m *so* blogging that.”
It took a lot longer than I’d anticipated* to set things up, but eventually i found myself lying on the bed, arms akimbo and restrained, one to the side and one to my ankle, using two types of leather wrist cuffs (one fur-lined intended for suspension use; very pretty and tactile), and legs — naturally — apart.
I must just take a moment to explain something here. Such a position is one that a person would only ever find themselves in consensually. It’s very easy to feel exposed and vulnerable. I was lucky enough to feel neither — only warmth and love. It didn’t matter what he did — if it would please him, it would make me happy. Plus, as his plaything, his big interest was in experiencing my reaction — that was a big part of what turned him on. The consent was almost tangible, the feelings were intense, and we both glowed — I could almost see it.
He straddled me, looking down at my smiling face, and restrained naked body, and ran his hand along my skin, before bending to kiss me.
“Do you want me to blindfold you?”
A mute nod, and 30 seconds later, and the most effective blindfold covered my eyes. “Another hiking pervertible — it’s a head band — warm on the peaks, and the most thorough blindfold I’ve found to date. It knocks the eye-covers that you get on an airplane, into a cocked hat.”
Indeed it does.
I lay there feeling like the most pampered submissive on the planet. I couldn’t move, and i was very aware that i was to abide by the rules, if i did not wish to be punished — said rules being a. not to come without permission, and b. to inform him if i were close to coming. But i like the feeling of being restrained. I enjoy the taut pull of rope on the ring of my cuff, and the feel of his fist entwined in my hair as we kiss, holding my head where it suits him.
I have said to him, several times, “It’s this feeling I get when you pull my hair — that’s how I know I’m a pervert. Whenever i worry that i’m dabbling, or I’m really vanilla and i wonder who the fuck am I kidding, — that’s when i remember the joy of  feeling of utter submissive helplessness, and dependence on the will of another — and how it speaks directly to my soul. And I know — I’m a kinkster at heart.”
Our time that day was short to begin with, and it flew by so quickly that i half-felt as though I’d dreamed it. I could write all about the thundering g-spot and gushy orgasms, not to mention the joy of combined lovemaking-fucking that I haven’t experienced in so long… it makes such a difference when you care about your Dom. Even more so when the feeling is mutually deep and intense — as it is, or so he tells me. (Meow.)
The dreamy quality of the afternoon was enhanced by my sensory deprivation, but no less than by the warm, dominant feline-like man who took care of me so well. It is to him i purr and dedicate this piece, knowing that it is only the first of many.
One more thing — in answer to your* question, YES to everything, and more, more, more. 🙂

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
  — William Blake

 *Yeah, I see you shiver. And yeah, I know who you are. Angel. Rawrr.

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Let us go then, you and I,

When the afternoon is spread out against the sky

Like a patient plastered on Mai-Tai’s

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of male cum-guzzlers in cheap saunas

And used condoms slathered in K-Y:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of lewd and depraved intent

To lead us to the usual question . . .

Oh, do not ask, “To be fucked?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room businessmen cum and go

Talking of the young studs they wanted to blow.

And so I entered that subterranean habitué of debauchery,

and didn’t wait long for a man to pleasure me.

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