I Wrote Some Poetry About Sex

A close-up of some rope marks on a white person's (my) torso alongside a cute little mole, because choosing an image to represent the abstract concept of poetry about sex

Hey, folks! I’ve been having a really rough time with my mental health, and writing whole blog posts is a bit beyond me at the moment. However, apparently writing poetry (mostly while stoned) is not beyond me, so I wrote some poetry about sex. I’m really self-conscious about my poetry – even, like, the ridiculous poem I wrote about Christmas – so please be kind about it. And if poetry isn’t your thing, don’t worry, because I do have a few blog post ideas up my sleeve and I might one day soon have enough executive function to actually write and publish them.


how do you write poetry about people having sex?

 

how do you make magical someone 

(or maybe more than one someone) 

mashing their body against yours – 

 

or how do you speak that magic to strangers, 

without letting some of it be stolen by the breeze 

impossible to translate in its sweetness

 

how do you say, convincingly,

that even as the hot-wax-sting bit your skin

the flame on the candle was beautiful

 

or that feeling fingers stretch your cunt

felt so good, felt so fucking good

that when you came, you felt God 

 

how do you explain, fully,

that you bit her because you love her –

and she loves you in part because you bit her 

 

and that your bruises are like love notes

left liberally across your flesh

along with licks and kisses 

 

how can you replicate in words the dark glow of the dungeon

where you made half your closest friends

and where you once got choked half-unconscious

 

or the sound of cum hitting your skin, the heat of it

the heat of other people’s holes around your fingers

and the way their muscles tighten to hold your hand

 

how do you talk beautifully about the twitch of a dick in your mouth

the texture of someone’s scrotum under your tongue

and the melody of moans you can elicit with your lips

 

how do you bottle the lightning that arcs between you?

how do you capture the magic and the mess?

how do you write poetry about people having sex?

How Christmas Stole My Sex Drive

Stock image of a singular red bauble sitting on a gingham tablecloth. In the background there are out-of-focus fairy lights.

‘Tis many nights before Christmas, and all through the ‘net,

Retailers are asking, “Have you bought Christmas gifts yet?!”

They advertise knickers and dildos and vibes,

In hopes that I’ll make horny last-minute buys;

But as soon as I haul my cute ass into bed,

It won’t be shagging that fills up my head,

Nor wanking, nor stripping, nor even a snog –

I won’t even think about giving blowjobs.

Instead I will worry and panic and fret

About food, cash, and coursework I’d rather forget;

This holiday, Christmas, does not make me randy –

Just think of ‘zines that scream, “Cut back on the candy!”

And sensory overload in all of the shops,

And freezing my tits off under thermal tops,

And then there’s the pressure to re-dress myself

As ‘Ms. Claus’ or ‘Candy Cane’ or a ‘Sexy Elf’,

And everyone’s posing with tinsel and lights

To take their nude selfies (I mean, Jesus Christ,

Surely that’s dangerous and tricky besides –

Who wants a fairy light poking their backside?!)

And then there’s the fact that I’m travelling home:

At this time of year, trains are even more prone

To be filled up, delayed and just generally fucked,

So I know that my journey is going to suck.

And let’s not forget I’m autistic as hell,

And made physically sick by that fake pine tree smell

And have meltdowns whilst shopping, thus causing a scene

And am truly enraged seeing red next to green

Change in routine makes me anxious and mad

At a time of the year when I’m meant to be glad.

The depression and trauma don’t help that one bit –

I spend most of December just feeling like shit.

So no, I won’t have my “sexiest Christmas yet”,

(though the rest of the year I’m a downright strumpet),

And I will not be swayed by marketing ploys

That beg me to buy lingerie and new toys.

Instead I will wrap myself up nice and snug

And drink vodka lemonade right out of a mug,

And watch Dr. Who, when that’s on the telly,

And try not to fear what I put in my belly.

With all this to contend with, I’m sure you’ll agree

That I might not ever find Christmas sexy –

But that’s not a problem, because no matter what

I can spend the rest of the year being a thot.