LITEROTICA PODCAST
LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

It's the 2026 Poem-a-Week Challenge (This is a *poems only* thread.)

Hotel Frolic


The elevator door slides shut,
which means we have 21 seconds
(we’ve timed it well)
till it opens again at our floor.
Our lips wave-crash into one
another before the conveyance
lurches upward, your fingers
at my cock, both my hands deep
diving beneath your low-cut blouse
extracting silken-soft treasure my
tongue can’t wait to lick,
your nipples diamond hard between
my teeth.
The elevator clunks to a stop,
the door slides open,
and we step out into the empty
hallway, my throbbing bare cock
in your hand pulling me roughly,
urging me to hurry, quickly, quickly,
your tits hanging out and glistening,
making a beeline to our room where
we can
finally fuck
and breathe again.

(Poem #7)
 
Suzie

Checks the bird feeders
Making sure they’re well fed
In the Sunday snow
Digging a path to her friends

She’s sensitive
Caring, loving
Wanting to make the birds happy

She leaves the dead flowers up
“Winter interest” she sez
But she really loves
That the birds eat echinacea
And liatris seeds
Wild chives
And black eyed Suzies
All winter

Back home now
I missed her touch
Her blonde hair spilling onto my chest
Her open
Mouth
Stuck in the moment just before
The magnet repolarizes

She is a Hungarian beauty
That happy smile
Taking me round the world
Listening to The Leaving Trains
She’s looking at you

I make her pancakes
Buckwheat with
Syrup I brought home
From Canada
She mmmms

Lost

In passion

3/52
 
No telly-prompter.

If I were walking down the street woman would erect me. She likes me. Woman are yelling out their windows I say come bite me. Now they’re sending woman with lots of problems. I don’t know if aspirin will fix them. It doesn’t matter what you do. I have a great respect for woman. They come through the cracks. I say give me a break. They are mentally sexual. A lot of woman are switching to these really long putters. I say it’s really unattractive. And they like me. Woman sinking three footers. It’s a tiny hole. It’s chilly. It’s freezing. Woman in the bedroom could really use a big fat dose of global warming. Drill baby drill. I show them my crown. Do you like that? Isn’t that sweet and you wouldn’t believe woman’s responses. Frankly men don’t have time for the total woman correctness. I never look at them. I don’t have to. Believe me there's plenty of subject matter there.


[6] 👑
 
Intoning

It is a Sunday
when you wake up
To the grace of the Lord’s sun.
Do the voices still speak then? Are you ever
Free from their tentacled grammar?

But I imagine the swirl of thoughts,
When your page comes to you with word
Of arrayed English forces. Sir Fastolf,
The only Englishman with as bold a reputation
As yours, stands at the helm.

You order an altar for St. Martin de Sayssuel
To be brought to the field. There, you, crazy
La Pucelle, kneel in prayer,
Unguarded, as the English watch.

And your foolish men – they
Kneel! Lesser in number! Kneel! Kneel
To deep intoning,
Veni Creator Spiritus.

And when la mesa is done, and your
Troops rise to their feet with you,
They see the retreating backs of the English,
Their discipline giving way to fear.

II

Joan, putain des Armagnacs,
Were you mad?
Were your “voices” mere hallucinations?
What possession was this? What lunacy?

I think of you now, sixteen, virgin, reckless,
Sacred integument. Few believed you.
You were steadfast.

III

Today I see the chasm widen,
The voices still clamour
To altars on the battlefield.

All over, on streets,
In bedrooms, in darkened hallways,
In the dumpsters of our charred poetry,
I see kneeling figures, intoning,
Veni Mundi Spiritus

When will we see the retreating backs
Of our foes? How many bodies high
Before we traverse the crest?

Joan, sister, if the oceans
Part us, do we not deserve
The fervour of your lunacy?
Tell me which way my
pen must point.

Week 2, Poem 4, Total 4
 
Sestina on Writing

What can I tell you about my writing?
That it's trying to craft a jewel box,
a Fabergé egg, something elegant
and beautiful and, probably, useless
for any real-life, practical purpose.
That it's a personal experience

that strives to echo my experience
inside another human being. Writing
has no purpose other than the purpose
of capturing emotions in a box
like a chloroformed butterfly, useless
in their captivity but elegant

to behold. A poem must be elegant
both in phrasing and in experience.
A clumsy poem, a false one, is useless
to both author and reader. Good writing
seduces, sparkles, shines. Gives a good box
to ears and intellect. That's its purpose,

and it is an honorable purpose.
What do I mean, it should be elegant?
That the language used to craft the word-box
function cleanly, so the experience
is lived by the reader, that the writing
be transparent, quiet, even "use-less,"

the words chosen so it would be useless
to try to revise them, that no purpose
defaces the clean wall of the writing
like a billboard ad. That is elegant.
I want my reader to experience
my poems like paintings, perfect frames that box

vivid little bits of life in them, box
things both beautiful and true, not useless
filigree to mar the experience,
words and metaphors whose only purpose
is to crow "This poem is so elegant!
What a privilege to read such writing!"

That's it, in a box. My only purpose
is to build useless, lovely, elegant
poems—that's my experience of writing.

Week 5 : Poem 1 : Total 10
 
Blow the whistle

Not inhumane just indifferent
The sign said leave them alone
But you had to pet the buffalo
You tried and then they charged
A little late to find you were wrong
Now blame them they were at fault
Pack mentality now your a warrior
Warrior things you lack what it took
Propaganda fanned your inclusion
In the end and buried and dead
Your life didn’t change a thing.
 
Game of Hearts

Your gaze, a queen,
bold and unyielding,
dominates the board,
searching for moves.

I play my pawns,
small gestures,
each one a step,
a dance around your power.

A smile, a whisper;
the knights leap,
you lean in,
pulling the strings.

With every turn,
the stakes rise high,
I'll make a bold move,
one breath from checkmate.
 
Chambers We Cannot Simplify

You ask when the world changed the shape
I say it never did. We just stopped teaching children
how to name the ventricles of their longing,
stopped showing them the atria where grief pools
before it floods the whole goddamn system.

That outline they draw in red crayon,
that Valentine simplification
it's the first lie we tell them about survival:
*this is easy, this is safe, this fits on paper.*

But the heart is a fist that never stops clenching,
a muscle that works in darkness,
pumping what we cannot prove
through vessels we cannot see.

Four chambers that hold years,
that strain giving life,
that sometimes give out
like old pumps past their warranty
proving nothing to anyone
until they stop.

And still. *And still.*
The heart keeps touching what it shouldn't,
keeps knowing things before the brain catches up,
keeps recognizing truth in another person's ache
before they name it.

We've made a crime of reaching,
replaced *love* with *appropriate boundaries*,
taught children that connection
needs permission slips
and three feet of space.

But the heart doesn't follow policy.
The heart is an outlaw organ.
It touches what it touches.
It floods when it needs to flood.

Being is not emptiness,
not replacement, not absence.

Being is the way water finds water,
how we recognize the shape of loss
in a stranger's eyes,
how we know the weight of their particular drowning
without them saying a word.

On mornings so grim
we can't remember why the heart keeps going,
it does anyway. Thump-thump. Atrium and ventricle.
Taking in, venting out, taking in, venting out.

Not simple. Never simple.
Complex as weather systems,
as the way mountains hold water and release it,
as the reason some moments remind us
the dead are not gone,
just transformed.

We cannot simplify the heart for children
without teaching them that feeling is shameful,
that the body's truth needs to fit
a shape that makes adults comfortable.

But birth is violent. Death is violent.
Love is violent in its honesty.
Tell me how to draw *that* in a single line.
Tell me how to make *that* safe for greeting cards.

The heart is an echo chamber and an epicenter both.
It is seismic. It is proof
that cannot be proven.

And when we meet someone who reflects us
when we find that osmosis, that recognition
it's not despite the complexity.
It's *because* of it.

Atrium to atrium.
Ventricle to ventricle.
The blood knows where it's going
even when we're lost in the fog.
 
Requiem for a New Year

Now is the winter of our discontent*
Now subzero air won't dry angry tears
Now gunshot and lies can't silence lament

Now nothing excuses what they invent
Now threats, incitement won't freeze us with fears
Now is the winter of our discontent

Now their predations must fail, time ill spent
Now might falls to right, whistles, volunteers
Now gunshot and lies can't silence lament

Now calls for leaders, not this president
Now we must survive his remaining years
Now is the winter of our discontent

Now is the season for righteous dissent
Now is the season for action my dears
Now gunshot and lies can't silence lament
Now is the winter of our discontent

*From Shakespeare's Richard III, Act 1, Scene 1

Week 5, Poem 1, Total 12
 
Triolet

I wait when you say not yet.
Your smile slows time on purpose.
You let the silence do the threat.
I wait when you say not yet.

You tilt your head - I’m caught, reset.
You enjoy how patience hurts.
I wait when you say not yet.
Your smile slows time on purpose.
 
NKOTB
By Bear Sage

*First Communion*

I took the body of Jordan Knight
into my mouth every night,
glossy 8x10 torn from *Tiger Beat*,
kissed until the ink bled prayers
across my thirteen-year-old lips.

My mother said I'd go to hell
for the shrine I built inside my locker,
five faces watching me conjugate verbs
and pretend I understood
what "hangin' tough" meant
when my training bra still had tags.

But I knew ecstasy.
Sunday mass had nothing
on the congregation of girls
screaming ourselves hoarse,
offering our bodies up
to bass lines and synchronized spins,
learning how to want
before we knew the word for it.

*Stations of the Cross*

We saved our babysitting money like tithes,
slept on concrete outside Ticketmaster,
bore witness in sleeping bags
decorated with their faces.

Donnie. Jordan. Joey. Jonathan. Danny.

We knew their birthdays better than saints' days,
could recite their favorite colors
faster than the Lord's Prayer,
wrote their names in bubble letters
across three-ring binder confessionals.

The boys at school called us stupid,
said we were wasting our time
on guys who'd never know we existed,
but they didn't understand
we weren't waiting to be chosen.

We were learning to choose,
to claim our desire out loud,
to scream it from nosebleed sections
until our throats turned raw and holy.

*The Laying On of Hands*

Sarah's cousin's friend
touched Danny's sleeve at the mall,
didn't wash that hand for three weeks,
held it up like stigmata.

We pressed our palms against hers,
second-hand salvation,
learned to kiss on poster mouths
taped to closet doors,
teaching ourselves the mechanics
of wanting something
so hard your jaw aches.

*Transubstantiation*

Sister Monica said
pop music was the devil's work,
made us want things
good girls shouldn't want.

She was right.

We wanted loud.
Wanted in packs.
Wanted until our parents
couldn't afford the phone bills,
couldn't stop us from wearing
their faces across our chests
like armor against anyone
who called us stupid.

*Amen*

Those Boston boys didn't save us.

We saved ourselves,
learning to love something
bigger than ourselves,
to scream until we couldn't,
to want without apology,
together, loud, alive.
 
Cosmic Love.

We were willing with whoever whatever whenever without love and never say they were love. All because you came for me that day I will always be in between two kisses with a monster in a minute separately we can be together. Separately together we can be momentarily cosmic love. All because you came for me my hair in corn marigolds and garlands. I made you made me your unworthy vanilla never wiser girl. You were my monster in a minute all because you came for me I kissed you you kissed me. We were only two kisses in love that day. We you said we were born momentarily to be cosmic love.


Nine.
 
Last edited:
Two Things

When night appeared like an apparition,
Two things happened at once -
But like all things, these two things
Made no sense to me,

And I am tempted to write it off as just
One of those things that happen for
no rhyme or
Reason, which prompts me to think of the stars,

Those things by which we navigate,
Things we write about, as ‘constant as the
Northern star’ or ‘ you are my sun, my moon,
And all my stars,’

All the while forgetting that those stars
Are mere reflections, ancient fossils
Of light-years long dead stars, their death
Lament reaching us too late,
All too late to make sense of things - ‘what matter who is speaking?’ Beckett’s Unnameable, says - but we never stop,

And so, I try to crack open the mystery
Of those two things that happened
When night appeared like an apparition.

Week 2, Poem 5, Total 5
 
Last edited:
Fuck Falling in Love
By Bear Sage

I'm not falling in love
Fuck that
The sudden stop
You know at the end?
That fucking hurts

You don't see it coming
One second you're fine
The next the ground disappears

Your stomach lurches into your throat
Everything tilts
Horizon gone
Up is down is sideways is nothing

And you're dropping

Fast

Faster

Wind tearing at your face
Eyes watering so hard you can't see
Can't breathe
Can't think past the roar in your ears
And the sick animal knowledge that
This ends badly

Your heart's trying to punch through your chest
Rioting against your ribs
Every nerve screaming
*STOP*
*GRAB SOMETHING*
*ANYTHING*

But there's nothing
Just air
Just them
Just the idea of them
And you're clutching at that like it's solid
Like it could save you

It can't

The ground is coming
You can feel it
That split second before impact
Where time stretches
Where you see everything
Every stupid choice that led here
Every warning you ignored

And you think
*Not again*
*Please not again*
*I can't.......*

**CRACK**

Bone on concrete
Breath gone
Everything shattered

That's falling in love

Fuck that
 
Week 5, poem 10


A necklace of pearls,
Your hair in my hand,
My sweat on your skin,
Just like we planned.

Your husband is grateful,
But he has one more request,
"Fill her," trembling whisper,
That's how he likes you best.

You look at him and smile,
You begged for me and cried,
In pleasure, pain and filthy restraint,
But you never looked at me and smiled.
 
Vegas, baby

Neon haze shimmers.
The Strip pulses with color,
slots whispering secrets, longing
a whole city begging to watch
what happens next.

Fog wraps around us like a velvet curtain,
your body pressed to mine,
hips aligning with slow, ruthless intent.
Heat blooms.

My breath stutters.
Your mouth finds my throat
soft, then sharp
and the city shivers with me.

Our eyes lock,
questions unspoken,
the city becomes our witness,
every heartbeat echoing our truth.

Fingers trace paths down trembling skin,
a silent promise lingered in the air,
the world outside fades,
leaving only our whispered names.
 
Unheimlich

They threw away the babies
At the edge of faith, arriving
There not a minute too soon
Then sat around a campfire
Telling stories of the not-yet.

The days would be filled with sunlight,
In the not-yet, the babies, the Devil’s work
Made manifest in tender flesh,
Yes, there will be light,
And all roads will lay open.

The fire gave them warmth, thawed
Their aching bones, old, forlorn, worn
By the care they had given to the babies -
A thankless job, they all agreed, nodding
By the fire.

And at the edge of faith, they heard
Echoes of the long discarded voices,
Unheimlich, uncanny, hovering
Like a canopy of burnt words.
But the open road beckoned,
But the open road beckoned.

Week 2, poem 7, total 7
 
Last edited:
Into the Feminine.
The Un diminishing
Nature of Heat.

In the puberty of whether.
First comes the weather
then the expulsion of rain,

a wash the flood plain
flashes luteinizing lightening
in rapturous rupture,

-the release of cotton puffs

Then cleverly this monsoon
leaves the moon with her
hottest ever flushes



10 Inspired by @Angeline ‘Acquiescence and cotton puffs’
 
Last edited:
Memories of Her

Small circles swirl
Expanding forever outward
Held close but losing focus
And farther from the past
In a clandestine dance
Like the galaxies
Hidden in plain sight
Among the starry sky
Seen only in contrast
Though rarely exposed
Mingling with one another
In one way conversations
Of rippling space and diluted light
Tossing their eternal farewells
Out into the endless nature
Of possibility

4
 
The curse of repetition in Ancient Greece.

Hereby the variously named Sisyphus, Sisyphos is re-sentenced.
Nearby forward rolls his rock back and back and back and forth.

Therein became he the birth of the laborious and futile Sisyphean.
Wherein the cursed Sisyphean futile and laborious was birthed.

Thereof this fool of a son of King Aeolus of Aolia cheated death.
Whereof the mountain ever looked upon the rock and Sisyphus.

Therewith his rock the first Sisyphean looked upon the mountain.
Wherewith Sisyphos cursed still rolls back and back and forth his rock.




[7]
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Similar threads

Angeline
It's the 2026 Revise-a-Poem Challenge (Comments welcome!)
4 5 6
Replies
127
Views
3K
Angeline
Angeline
42BelowsBack
POETRY. LINKED READINGS ONLY THREAD
2 3
Replies
62
Views
1K
Angeline
Angeline
Angeline
2026 News
2
Replies
44
Views
2K
42BelowsBack
42BelowsBack
Angeline
Please read the Forum Guidelines
Replies
4
Views
131
Angeline
Angeline
Waeponwifestre
I’m Laying Down the Gauntlet - Your Dumbest Poems Based on Terrible Ideas
2
Replies
42
Views
765
nudeblaqgirl
nudeblaqgirl
Back
Top