Submissions by Betty
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
“Fuck it, it’s fine,” Olivia Rodrigo
EROTIC POEM
Published
1st Jun 2022 2:15am
1st Jun 2022 2:15am
Unicorns aren't real you dumb c**t
#unicorns
384 reads
8 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
29th May 2022 8:36pm
29th May 2022 8:36pm
The only thing I liked about you was the sight of your tongue on my hypothalamus
#emptiness
339 reads
8 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
30th Jun 2013 12:54pm
30th Jun 2013 12:54pm
atavistic
something about the endless ache
causes me to slip back in time
not a few days or weeks,
but back through the
lizard part of my brain,
to some primordial ooze
where a version of me,
something pre-feral,
has flopped on land
for the first time seeking
to eat
to breathe
to fuck
as I hitch across the land,
body dripping
with instinct and
the fecund taste
of need
something catches my eye
and my mind pants,
as you slide to me taking in
(teeth and nails and hungry eyes) ...
causes me to slip back in time
not a few days or weeks,
but back through the
lizard part of my brain,
to some primordial ooze
where a version of me,
something pre-feral,
has flopped on land
for the first time seeking
to eat
to breathe
to fuck
as I hitch across the land,
body dripping
with instinct and
the fecund taste
of need
something catches my eye
and my mind pants,
as you slide to me taking in
(teeth and nails and hungry eyes) ...
1490 reads
9 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
20th Jun 2013 12:43pm
20th Jun 2013 12:43pm
picture of you
Any jackass with a cock can call himself a man;
but the essence of man
is more than a shot in the dark;
a drip of white lust.
(Though, that is quite nice
in the right hands.)
Man is folds in a curtain,
more revealed as it's pulled back
from the pane,
and the essence of it,
of pure masculinity,
needs no
definition.
But were it to require one,
were someone to demand
man be clearly defined,
I'd bark laughter,
throw away the pen,
pick up a brush
and
...
but the essence of man
is more than a shot in the dark;
a drip of white lust.
(Though, that is quite nice
in the right hands.)
Man is folds in a curtain,
more revealed as it's pulled back
from the pane,
and the essence of it,
of pure masculinity,
needs no
definition.
But were it to require one,
were someone to demand
man be clearly defined,
I'd bark laughter,
throw away the pen,
pick up a brush
and
...
1837 reads
17 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
14th May 2013 11:10pm
14th May 2013 11:10pm
Aural sex
Heat haze shimmers around my legs,
the soles of my shoes
melt into the tarmac
as the Boeing at the end of the runway
punches it.
Fists clenched,
chest heaving,
I dare the fucker
to knock me down
as it barrels closer,
faster,
an unstoppable
object forcing my
peripheral vision to widen
as I become a
speck
before its vastness.
It hits 250,
255,
260,
the nose lifts
just before it hits,
engines roar like a full-body slam
as it rears over me. ...
the soles of my shoes
melt into the tarmac
as the Boeing at the end of the runway
punches it.
Fists clenched,
chest heaving,
I dare the fucker
to knock me down
as it barrels closer,
faster,
an unstoppable
object forcing my
peripheral vision to widen
as I become a
speck
before its vastness.
It hits 250,
255,
260,
the nose lifts
just before it hits,
engines roar like a full-body slam
as it rears over me. ...
1208 reads
14 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
5th May 2013 5:12am
5th May 2013 5:12am
Until the sun takes a flaming shit
I think I need to take better care of myself,
because I want to be the last person on earth.
Pretty ambitious, if I do say so myself.
The sun will burn out in, oh,
four, five billion years;
but in a mere three billion years,
the oceans will boil up in a swan song;
a final cloudy testament that
we ... were here.
I need to be here when that happens.
We left a mark beyond the landfills,
deeper than the filth and the scourges
More than a mark,
I think we left some
strange pocket of exhale,
a litany of unsaid...
because I want to be the last person on earth.
Pretty ambitious, if I do say so myself.
The sun will burn out in, oh,
four, five billion years;
but in a mere three billion years,
the oceans will boil up in a swan song;
a final cloudy testament that
we ... were here.
I need to be here when that happens.
We left a mark beyond the landfills,
deeper than the filth and the scourges
More than a mark,
I think we left some
strange pocket of exhale,
a litany of unsaid...
1259 reads
10 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Betty
