WordSlut

Love Poem (erotic poetry)

This is a poem I wrote six years ago from a collection I am forever editing. I put "her skin" in brackets - thought the line was too long,, put in "her skin" because I worried the reader wouldn't know she was remembering his hands passing over her skin, he had such huge hands . . .

She remembers his hands traversing

(her skin)  a colossal wave crossing continents and how

he stood beside her silent startling 

all in black. Naked before his eyes, she is 

a quivering leaf lacking strength, folding

in at the knees, cunt turning

over starting and restarting, a throat,

the nape of a tender neck, a mind where

images collide, a seeking tongue 

without words, legs apart, tensed, 

veins like waterfalls on a raring

downward course, caught

in the net of his glance, her eyes

the wanderings of his soul. 

A soul searches for a lifetime, gliding

over land, sinking into oceans silently soaring,

slow dancing over to rest 

gently on a disarming prick, and if

he whispers in his low voice, she will

come in the rumblings of his timbre—

when a man enters a woman, his cock

leaves a mark, a memory a measure, sits

country swinging inside, rocking 

her to the heavens and back that 

she might sing the only song of oh and 

honey sweetie and yours. But when

a man’s heart finds its point in his prick,

dislodging barriers, in that moment

life is what it is meant to be, has substance,

power, lacks certainty, and appearing frail

trembles—the leaf sways and dips, landing

lingers with curved edges under

the midday sun’s perennial burrowing,

heat streaming always summer, yet ever

a shady spot,  a wraparound porch with

one of those gliding chair swings. A cunt

is a place  to stay in, find repose, gather 

music, and this morning, with clothes 

sliding over, she is naked for him.

Past Midnight with a Glass of Cheap White

What do I have to do

parade down the avenue

with my legs spread wide

taking any cock inside

hell I got some pride.

but oh to lie under you like spreading

under a willow tree and staring

up at the sky, wondering how 

stars still shine in your eyes

in the morning, and baby it can rain

with the aim to drown me, its only

an ocean spray, nothing 

about tears, a vacant cunt

on a Friday night, no sign 

out on a splintering post, but when

I see you ambling down the street, your

thumbs in your pockets and

your prick leading the way, my mouth

as wide as my eyes ready

to take it all inside cuz honey life’s 

on fire and I’m not the one

to put it out, not me with my hair

all wild and my head held high, there’s

a man drawing near and I know its you with

your face something jagged, features 

disheveled, you got a cock like none other

and I been thru a few

lying here in my high bed with cheap white

wine, my eyes lazy from laying

in the grass, milky weeds and sun, so why’d

you pass and pause and pass again,

I never saw you naked and when

I sucked you tip to bottom your broad

belly scraping my skin my voice all

cotton candy, would you—

so I knelt between your legs, looked
up and laughed with my throat, said

I saw heaven in your balls.
And then I grinned.

On Writing

behind my knee caps and under
my toes, my ancient back and the line
down my shins─slaving over a hot computer. How
is that different from the fifties when I walked
through Rockland Park to home-cooked
meals and then dashed off? All day,
I selected ingredients, added
spices, don’t ask for specifics, all I know is

I reached into the heart of my fridge, surprisingly
empty even on a Monday after a full weekend─I cut,
shredded, cooked, stirred, testing just a spoonful
for anything forgotten, not too late
to throw in like a stone cast sideways, one ripple
if lucky possibly two, imagery helps
on a hot cooking day. I burned my toes,
my soul aches, can’t even say

I created a banquet, that guests arrived
in limousines, the menu standard fare, clothes
still in the dryer, ready to fold. I hear words
as continuous sounds tumbling
round and round, I see love in the same
way, mildew in a dryer rotating
without heat. I’m very.

Very, very. So kiss me madly, letting me lie
here in the shade, nothing required, nothing
ventured and not a thing gained. I’ve been
cooking all day, no one complimented me on
inspired creations, asked for seconds, chatted
after desert. It’s been a long scorching
day at this writing stove and I have
to sleep. Won’t wait up for you.

Copyright Janice Colman 2009

U B th' Hiway

ther’s 2 things that i love
words an’ music babee
words an’ music
shee-it, i wish
i had legs from here

2 ther an’ a high big
ass i wish
i had tits to match an’
long black-wild
hair an’ a smile that culd make

th erth swing open an' honee
when i’m with u thats how
i feel, like i’m queen of th wurld, six
feet tall an’ when i press

my body against u, we’re
right in tyme, cunt t cock we
stand smack tight against
each othr an’ my hips

are swingin swoop de doo
raz a ma taz, soo ee
i wantya babee yada ya
ooee. dont ya know i
smile all smirk an’ snide-wide

in yur ear, flick my tongue
on th side of yur neck, i cross
th street of yur lips, right
an’ left side of th drivr–
u bee th high way, an

i’ll take a drive in th country, jst
movin along takin in th fresh air,
th corn, animls in ther pure postcard
posin. an’ i might take

sum allurin sideroads, discovr
a pristine lake evn i know
th wurd, undress walkin randumly tward
or in de-creed order bottom t top

or top t bottom, but th point
is by th time i get
to lappin yur shores, i can’t wait
to thro myself in but i don’t, i tease
my ownself - toes in, toes out, up

to th calves, arm bendin over,
nipple jst submerged, ass kissin
th sun–oh honey my cunt
yearns, buzzin right up

an down for u, an’ when
yur on fire u know th words
r tru, my leg hurts, knee hurts 2,  lisn
i’m sayin i need

2 go for a ride, take me
fast take me slow, fingr on
my belly, mind on what’s below
fuck me, stay

any which way, i’m tired
of this weed, that music, i’m out
of fuck an’ i’m so in
luv with u make my mind sing an’ if

i’m outta tune, tone deaf, disruptin
evn th clouds, honey I luv
yur voice, yur th sexiest man alive, u got
th biggest pair of balls in town, whethr

yur up or down, th look th grandnss
of yur prick nestled
in yur orange  hair so I know this
must be heaven, remembr

that summer night u drove me clear
outta town i kept askin
where u takin me, laughin and giggling
an rubbin yur thigh with u grinnin

all the while like i nevr seen
since and the stars like heavens blanket
lyin ovr us, i drank like i was in the desert,
i jst wanna tell u th stars are hidin

under these covers, but if u tiptoe an
lift th corner, th one on th bottom
at th right, u’ll see stars shinin so bright
evn ur blind eye will blink cause it’s all

about fuck, th stars th music on a saturday
night, trees swayin like ripe asses, wind’s breath
flarin under skirts and dresses, it’s all
fuck and cock and reversing gravity
to come and come and come.

jack in janice

jack, i said, this is janice–i thought
shit such a sexy name jacknjanice
wanting to say jack c’mon over here, catch
the next flight, fuck me cause

i wanna fuck a literate
dude, i mean he doesn’t have to quote shit,
doesn’t have to whisper words in my ear, although
i’d love a breath of air and if he kisses

my neck i’ll, what the heck, can’t even
deep a cock anymore, fuckin out
of practice too lazy to write words like
he does this and then he doos dat
and then he’s slurpin on my cunt makin

all deese slurpin sloppin noises, he slaps
me on the ass you can hear WHAP! leavin
red fing r prints behind on my
be hind let me shove it behin ya,

I love your beehiny, whatya got baby show
me whatya got–i got what all th other
girls gots 2 tits.1 belly button, 1
cunt with 2 lips, 1 assholes, 2
cheeks, 1 mouth, 1 soul, maybe yours,

1 tongue and with yours makes 2,
1 cunt feelin all anxious and
zippy inside skin on tits raised
for strokin, 2 nipples
elongated from suckin, under

my man’s t-shirt on my bare
skin tonight with my cunt on
fire and sizzle spark fizz hum
hummin steady rhythm

stays on motor moanin,
fuck me jack just
find your place on top and
slam bam in, ram

and slam-bam ram, you won’t
get any complaints from me no
upright mission with holy
intentions not me, not this fuck (up)

with the wrecked-up hip and swollen
red beneath my left eye, fuck
me jack maybe I write lousy
poetry but i’m
a good fuck.

Copyright Janice Colman 2009

The Poetry of Cunt

the poet martin wrote: one more thing,
where I'm from cunt is
about the worst word imaginable.
you seem to use it tenderly and I'm not trying
to be funny. what's the deal
there?

the poet janice wrote: vagina sounds too clinical, pussy
purrs and generally I don't like felines. vagina’s a name
for a quim queen or a prairie cunt. to regulate, ground
for sneaking out and coming home past one–vagina!
you’re grounded, don’t you know how
to manage your parts? grounded
for a month, tucked away in a closet,

and the chick with the disgraced cunt walks wilted
wearing pink so all the kids know that
if they peek under her skirt and crinolines,
there’s an empty space or worse,
a prosthetic vagina. an adult ashamed
might choose vagina, a word

whose first letter hides near the end
of the alphabet, but whose last
is first, cause you just can’t get away
from a cunt, even saying the word aloud
has guts and bravado. Now,

I can call a man a prick,
"Oh you fucking prick!" while he fondly
boasts about its heated heists and women
waving fans hotly chat about this prick
and that. But a cunt, baby,

is a real living thing, raw sex
and honest. it’s a word
of endearment like I love you sweet
sweetest of cunts, didn’t another
great poet, not named martin–some dude

called Will, compose in a slash
that bit about goodnight sweet cunt and
parting being sweet sorrow, cause you know
it’s true. when a cunt and a prick love each other
there is nothing gonna separate them, not
age, not another woman. that eye on a prick’s head

is straight focused in a taut loving line
with a cunt clearly in front. So I wondered,
when southern martin penned, cunt’s a baaad
word, what the fuck's this man scribbling, does
his cock take offense and if so baby,

cunt cunt cunt million times, it’s about your
cock, martin, with its eye
at the tip, the first line of vision taught,
that tactile tingling line
between a cock and a cunt, something

magnetic, something about love, lust
aching, hope, dreams, something
about trembling, waiting, so
how’s it bad, martin from the south. shy cunts
leave a latch on the door cautiously

opening and if you peek gently in, you’ll catch
sight of a fucking flower bed, a hot house
with tropical plants, Oh this cunt
is a tropical plant shifting colours, so’s
you never quite know

the season or what the weather's
like. you gotta test the temperature, baby,
when you're loving up an authentic cunt, shit
what a word and such a generous welcoming,

taking off the latch, letting
you come right on in and giving
you a tour, sneaking you to the back room, peering
into secret cupboards with glowing treasures so tightly
packed that when you open the door, they fall,

honey baby mine, sinking
into your arms, down to your cock, there really
is a botanical garden inside and a waterfall
to sit under and recite
the poetry of a cunt.

Copyright Janice Colman 2008

When Garth Ass-Fucks My Soul

Garth’s a tall wide-square box man. We often argue.
His mother is Pentecostal. He was slapped around and
chain whipped, I saw the raised lightning scar
from boiling water poured on his thigh, traced the tip
of my index finger on its raised worn smoothness
in our early days when I sucked on his frost-bitten
toes, his mother having cast him into
the Ontario winter small town cold. He ate

chewed food from garbage cans, his sisters spitting
leftovers on the floor, while his mother crashed
holy roller, eat or I’m going to whup you, slashing
the air with a bicycle chain locked in the
cutlery drawer for just such fanfare and now
Garth is a tall-wide square man with a quicksilver
mind and spreading balls. His hands are like butterflies
on my hips when he takes me from behind. Sh sh

he says and sings lullabies to ease the pain. I guess
I love him for his spreading balls and the way
he places his hands on my hips, for
his orange pubic hair and his festering
love. Sometimes I want to slam him out the door
that stands like a stage set without walls, yet
he holds me, his left arm like a fallen tree
blocking roads, traffic, ongoing life.

When he drapes his left arm across my back, I duck
underneath. It’s true he’s a tall wide barrier and nothing
gets across or through. You think you got me I say, but
inside I’m fuckin’ outta here. He knows
he can’t hold me cause I’m an ex
body-builder escape artist, can’t fathom
that rage barrels down and on its exit, stops

at an en-route highway cunt with its gift shop of
memories such as Garth’s balls overlapping
his redwood thighs, his hands on my hips while
he sings his gentle ass-fucking lullabies. I know
all his secrets at least quite a few, I’ve got
the balls of a tree-stomping lumber Jack
from the north with a poet’s southern heart
and an artist’s ego. But if

he surrounds me with his unyielding arm
one more time, I think this highway cunt’s gonna
open its doors and post a sign—everything’s
on sale. How can I stay all
pissed off at a man who sings lullabies with
his big hands lying gentle on me while
he’s ass fucking my soul.

Coyright Janice Colman 2008 (Excerpt from upcoming poetry collection - Headstrong Poetry)
Wheh Garth Ass-Fucks My Soul

c'mon home

when you kiss my
lips an’ fondle the 2
beneath, oh fuck me i smile
with my teeth

fuck me baby hard sendin
me to heaven
in yur back yard, layin
undr th stars i can’t re member

so well, oh jack jackie jack c’mon
honey i wantya so bad, th ferst
smart fuck i evr had. ya don’t have
ta sound high brow t me, cause
i like yur eye lashes, jst

slurp your hand down sayin 
baaby mmm an’ kiss
my neck, i’m tired sweet
cock, goin t bed alone, jack come,
c’mon home.

Copyright Janice Colman 2008

jack n' janice

jack, i said, this is janice–i thought
shit such a sexy name jacknjanice
wanting to say jack c’mon over here, catch
the next flight and c’mon over here,

fuck me cause i wanna fuck a literate
dude, i mean he doesn’t have to quote shit,
doesn’t have to whisper words in my ear, although
i’d love a breath of air and if he kisses

my neck i’ll, what the heck, can’t even
deep a cock anymore, fuckin out
of practice too lazy to write words like
he does this and then he doos dat
and then he’s slurpin on my cunt makin
 
all deese slurpin sloppin noises, he slaps
me on the ass you can hear WHAP! leavin
red fing r prints behind on my
be hind let me shove it behin ya,

I love your beehiny, whatya got baby show
me whatya got–i got what all th other
girls gots 2 tits.1 belly button, 1
cunt with 2 lips, 1 assholes, 2
cheeks, 1 mouth, 1 soul, maybe yours,

1 tongue and with yours makes 2,
1 cunt feelin all anxious and
zippy inside skin on tits raised
for strokin, 2 nipples
 elongated from suckin, under

my man’s t-shirt, his on my bare
skin tonight with my cunt on fire
and sizzle spark fizz hum
hummin steady rhythm

stays on motor moanin,
fuck me jack just
find your place on top and
slam bam in, ram

and slam-bam ram, you won’t
get any complaints from me no
upright mission with holy
intentions not me, not this fuck (up)

with the wrecked-up hip and swollen
red beneath my left eye, fuck
me jack maybe I write lousy
poetry but i’m
a good fuck.

Copyright Janice Colman 2008

Kema from Martinique

If I go I am never coming back, never
again I will set my feet on this earth. I’m
a good boy, not a criminal, not Kema.
I have done nothing wrong.
Not for love? Kema?

Never. That’s it.
So you’re saying pride is more
important than love?
I’m sorry?
Alors. tu penses que, pride, fière, c’est
plus important que l’amour?
I’m a man, a real man, how do you say, not

macho, big tough. I want for you
and your girls, not to be, not to, tomber.
Je nes laisse pas jamais tombé.
Jamais. I will write everyday. I want to know
everything what happens. I need
to know. When I come back only you,

you are the first person
I want to see. No one. Only you
and your girls. I have something
now, plus de musique, I have
a girl. At Content Connection I say, I have
a beautiful girl. I am lucky. Every day
we write. You will not forget
Kema.

When Kema touches my heart at the back
of my throat, he laughs even though
I choke. Maybe it’s because
I have less practice. I’m alone
a lot. I want my hair to fall across

a man’s chest, his fingers
to rub across my lips. I want him to bruise
my lips with his kisses, sweep my hair across
his thighs, his chest his neck his
face his cock. I want to stand

at that scissor-sheered edge, to feel I would
travel to remote territories for this man Kema
from Martinique. That’s all
that I want. Is it asking too much?
Do you think?

Copyright Janice Colman 2008

The Forests of Rousseau

His body like a dense shadow broods
over her restless sleep, she shifts
and sighs, within the tide of her sleeping
breath, she worries whether

her heartbeat rivals his sullen resolve,
whether she can sing unscathed within
his seething mass, pulled toward such blazing
light, she has been warned about mirages, the aftermath
of longing defeated. What if

she dresses for rain with galoshes
and an old coat, hoping for eventual sun, perhaps
a sand dune. What if he is all
there is; she is forever thrashing through

his body always murky as sunless
skies prevail. What if she
wanders forever searching upon
disconnected lines and love
taunts grotesquely, her heart

remains weary, she forgets
how daylight feels, its colors
caressing, what love felt like, how
a catch in her throat could steal
her breath away. What if

she grows roots, water flowing darkly
through, and although you might think
she has been replenished, the truth
is that water seeping so far below the earth—

once she cultivated a plant quite alive,
lush even though times were not. Every morning
with great care she watered
the shrub with its random
white bulbs, believing they might
grow old together except

the excess of fluids eventually
drowned the plant which had reminded
her of the forests of Rousseau. She feels
a kinship toward the plant with her daily ritual
of tears and wonders about clichés, the romance

and inevitable truth within, she shifts
aside one sleeve and then another, always
another. He speaks of fallen angels, while
all she sees is the artful dodger with wings
and a cape.

Copyright Janice Colman 2008
The Forests of Rousseau

Heart & Cunt in the Morning

In the morning my heart
breathless beneath the pressed
pillow beside me, eyes
shoved between my big toe and
the next or hiding under my grandmother's
hand-me-down bunion, hands

squarely folded under
a Zeller's white quilt that could
crush any soul except mine, "Hurry hurry " as
pieces grumble, shift and slide, while
my cunt stark out refuses to budge, taking
a non-violent stance - you have to speak

kindly to a cunt lest it snap
open and devour, so I say
please, offer promises of forbidden
delight, possibly Turkish; it lifts
one eyelid and I know I'm on the right
track. A cunt can be lonesome, withdrawn, although

she gets out daily and I translate the world in terms
she can understand so in that dank dark
place where she lives, hope in the form of light
might filter in. A cunt needs
rambling conversation, requires water, some
form of (any) love allowing

it to lay down winter roots and shoot
up in the spring, this thirsty cunt cut down
before winter while still
eager to converse with the sun, I worry
even when all my parts finally
cooperate as I sit sipping
homemade coffee brew, and my heart

swoops down to my cunt, setting down
with her a speck, gently swinging on this late
autumn veranda before which
body parts strut to work. Sometimes
a man smiles or waves, but all the while
I am thinking a cunt without
a heart might be more at peace.

Copyright Janice Colman 2008
Be Kind to Your Fair Feathered Friend -- whole poem
Be Kind to your Fair, Feathered Friend

The Poetry of Cunt

the poet martin wrote: one more thing,
where I'm from cunt is

about the worst word imaginable. you
seem to use it tenderly and I'm not
trying to be funny. what's
the deal there?

the poet janice wrote: vagina sounds
too clinical, pussy purrs and generally
I don't like felines. vagina’s a name
for a quim queen or a prairie cunt. to regulate, ground

for sneaking out and coming home past one–vagina!

you’re grounded, don’t you know how

to manage your parts? grounded
for a month, tucked away in a closet,

 

and the chick with the disgraced cunt walks
wilted wearing pink so all the kids know

if they peek under her skirt and
crinolines, there’s an empty space or worse,
a prosthetic vagina. an adult ashamed
might choose vagina, a word

whose first letter hides near the end
of the alphabet, but whose last
is first, cause you just can’t get away
from a cunt, even saying the word aloud
has guts and bravado. Now,

I can call a man a prick,
"Oh you fucking prick!" while he fondly
boasts about its heated heists and women
waving fans hotly chat about this prick
and that. But a cunt, baby,

is a real living thing, raw sex
and honest. it’s a word
of endearment like I love you sweet
sweetest of cunts, didn’t another
great poet, not named martin–some dude

called Will, compose in a slash
that bit about goodnight sweet cunt and
parting being sweet sorrow, cause you know
it’s true. when a cunt and a prick love each other
there is nothing gonna separate them, not
age, not another woman. that

eye on a prick’s head straight focused
in a taut loving line with a cunt clearly
in front. So I wondered, when
southern martin penned, cunt’s a baaad
word, what the fuck's this man scribbling, does
his cock take offense and if so baby,

cunt cunt cunt million times, it’s about your
cock, martin, with its eye
at the tip, the first line of vision taught,
that tactile tingling line
between a cock and a cunt, something

magnetic, something about love, lust
aching, hope, dreams, something
about trembling, waiting, so
how’s it bad, martin from the south. shy cunts
leave a latch on the door cautiously

opening and if you peek gently in, you’ll catch
sight of a fucking flower bed, a hot house
with tropical plants, Oh this cunt
is a tropical plant shifting colours, so’s
you never quite know

the season or what the weather's
like. you gotta test the temperature, baby,
when you're loving up an authentic cunt, shit
what a word and such a generous welcoming,

taking off the latch, letting
you come right on in and giving
you a tour, sneaking you to the back room, peering
into secret cupboards with glowing treasures so tightly
packed that when you open the door, they fall,

honey baby mine, sinking
into your arms, down to your cock, there really
is a botanical garden inside and a waterfall
to sit under and recite
the poetry of a cunt.

Copyright Colman 2008

In My Room

 

 

In my room, a hight-pitched hum drones

in my left blocked ear, I can’t hear

my heart beat when Caroline talks

 

to herself, to me, to no one

in particular, but this silver pen slides

black ink muting a computer's deep

sleep chanting, pen on paper shines

 

even when I feel dull inside, wanting

a man, his arms, a French embrace, a wisp

of a summer sigh, something

shared, but all the men

 

have gone home or to someone

else’s home or left

the country

or lied

 

and I am left gliding

on paper with open sounds and yearning vowels

as my daughter walks right, left. forward,

talking in diagonals.

 

 

Copyright Colman 2008

In My Room

Jesus Christ What a Bastard

 I have this poetry collection I'm editing. This morning I was in a foul mood. I was editing for a four-hundred-and-twenty-pound finanacial wizard who had just emailed me. He says he's mostly muscle, but I know from where his hands sit on his stomach, that there's other stuff sifting around inside him. Maybe it's just his meanness piling up.

Last night I edited his work until my eyes edged out of their sockets with a clear mind to head toward my grandmother's sofa under my living room picture window. Still, I kept editing. This morning I received an email: "This is still loaded with obvious errors. I’m asking again that you not do these edits when you are tired." I reread my edit. Maybe I'd still change one or two sentences, but fuck (and I have to write FUCK although Steve the librarian from Baltimore says he's more selective in his verbal fuck celebrations), grammar and content were without fault. See what the financial man, whose name might be Garth, was pissed off about in his cold unappreciative way was I changed his words! His darlings! The man is turning into a fucking writer, a prima donna in drag.

So I checked out my unpublished poetry collection. Reading my own sex bits eases my mind. I still love editing, and even though I haven't had any in a while, I still adore sex. I like the texture of it. Then I did some research and it seems that sex writing is becoming mainstream. Damn. Gotta get the work out. Fuck fast and hard.

Here's a poem from the collection. An ancient one, true, but refurbished.

He struck her on the left breast, she
opened her legs leering
with her cunt. Cradling
his balls in her hand, she bit
him hard
on the neck

where are you headed, she
asked as he barreled his
way up her ass. To Ireland to shoot
my load he answered, she laughed
and scratched his right thigh, waving

her ass to the sky. He snarled
pumped harder, zipping
out of the room and reappearing
with a black kimono flapping
around him, I’ll try for the Orient

instead. Oh fuck, she said, as he plunged
into her cunt. As long as he was
in her he would never commit
seppuku, so he pumped away through
the night and all the next day and when

he was tired, needing a reprieve, to take
a piss, wolf down a pizza, he couldn’t
get out. So he remains humping
to this day, getting fat eating pizza, French
fries and MacDonald’s, pissing

without a care and who knows what
else while locked in her cunt, pumping
away. Jesus Christ what a bastard, locked
in a cunt, and humping eternally away.

Copyright Colman 2008

While the Librarian Sleeps

A librarian from Baltimore sent
me news about John the Plumber or
was it Jack, seems he’s not
really a plumber, did you see how
McCain’s right cheek juts
out like a wrecked ship or
like a pirate har har

did I tell you that even the stars

are sleeping and yet I tap,

a woman dressed in a black

wool turtleneck and unbuckled

jeans worrying about outcomes while

Joe and the librarian sleep.

 

While the Librarian Sleeps