Forbidden Poetry

Wet Dreams

She is not singing a siren song.
She does not need to, with breasts like those.
And those two shells are teasing,
miniscule, iridescent, and placed just so—
I want to pull her seaweed hair
and ask if she feels anything, down there.

But when I go to touch,
she smiles and slides
elusive, to the sea.
And so I dive in
to the deep blue ditch—
To the maritime bed
of the liquid illicit.
But I find my hands are fins,
and I find that we are fish.

A love like this could not be bestial.
A love like this is nature on nature,
undulation and odor,
over and
over and
now we are kicking, making
the shiver of eddies
slip between our scales
and my brains are busting
for breath, but God
Damn, I never knew fish
could move like this and now
we’re swimming towards the surface we
are almost at the surface we have
almost hit the surface and
one
last
swift
kick
and,
and—

Breath. I ascend
to a breath.
The air in my room is holy, musty,
and I feel the throbbing of my body in my bed.
I can feel the salted sea still damp between my legs.

   -Ava Williams

 

Fucking In the Library

I go to meet her
Up on the fourth floor,
Led by curiosity,
And wander the shelves.

In row B I find her,
And brush the dust off her spine
And slip off her cover slowly,
Caressing her hard back.

Her golden eyes stare back,
As I pick her up
And set her on the desk,
Fondling her pages.

I finally open her heart,
Splitting her paper
And creasing it
As I enter her text.

But I hear steps
Coming up the stairs,
So I skim her,
Thrusting my mind into her faster.

The intruder catches us,
He yells, “You perverts, get out!”
I close her pages
Quickly after finishing.
I love a good fuck in the library.

    - David Mucklow