Our Latest Get Jazzy, Talk Dirty Poetry and Short Stories --Read them in our Upcoming Issue: Work by Robert Beveridge

Body Play

It's never “make love”
when we talk
always “fuck me”
or in more intimate moments
“fuck my cunt.”

When you lie pressed
against my side I feel
your heartbeat tick
and wait for detonation.

Our love is earthy,
sweet, the garlic
and peppermint 
of your breath, the sweat
between your breasts
or on your thighs

I want a purer love
some vague romantic notion
of armor and dragons
the hand of a long-haired princess
who's not concerned
with impotence, disease
death; she knew some
knight would rescue her.

What dragon can I slay
to win your hand?

Romantic love
what with fucking and all
may itself be the dragon now
you've got to sheath your sword
before you even think “combat”
and full body armor
is recommended.

Tell me:
does our sex
make me a fool?
I confront the dragon naked
trust the thickness
of skin (or skull)
sword unsheathed, agleam
if the greedy scabbard
loosens it

a bit of hand-to-hand combat
then in for the grapple.

Instead of fire
this dragon breathes
garlic and peppermint
whispers “fuck my
cunt, fuck me,
you silly knight,”

and I wonder
if the dragon 
will turn into a princess
if I can only say
“make love to me”

* * *


I've always wanted
to get you into an airplane,
the other passengers
in first class
as we join the mile-high
club, or whatever.
A balloon
would do, though,
or even a crop
duster, if that's
what it takes (so long
as we have a pilot).

There's just something
about the exchange of tongue
and tooth while surrounded
by air, something
dangerous, a temptation.

* * *

Earth Tones

It was the rain
that started it (isn't
it always?), the sound
of quarters on vinyl
the way forty-mile-an-hour winds
skittered the drops across
the pavement, made them triangular,
venomous snakes' heads
on the prowl for random tires.

The rest stop ramp is welcome,
and the pause. Other cars
surround us, their occupants
for the most part massed
beneath the building's overhang.
We had rolled the windows half-
shut at the onset,
but the splatter
of cold fallen water
across the front of your sweater
quickened, made ragged
your breath, and you
shifted in your seat,
squirmed beneath the wheel,
thighs shifted a little farther apart.

The look in your eyes,
in your moistened lips
and the cluster of sweat beads
on your forehead said “kiss me”
and I did, surprised and pleased
with the force of your lips, the way
our mouths melted together
as they do just before orgasm,

the way you took my hand
and pushed it
into your shorts,
how the warm moistness of you
the cool moistness of your breast

how you responded to my fingers
slow and firm upon you
the low rumble, muscles
clenched, cry
wrenched from your lips
as you came against my hand.

You are feral, primitive
in your pleasure. Your smile
whispers luscious promises,
delivers with lips and tongue
and a second wave of tension
and release

with that smile you pulled
my hand away, rolled down
the window, let in the rain.
Head leaned back, eyes closed, you let
the drops play over you
drench you, let that second wave
shudder through your system.
The tension of the drive, the sex,
the orgasms drained away
how you bent, engulfed me
in your lips' sweet softness,
firm and close and cool
with summer rain,

the way the water sank
into your clothing

how I pulled as much
of it away
as position allowed
watched the rain bead
on your skin, rubbed
it over you

the way it warmed
upon your back, your ass
my palm

glow of cheeks in rain
and headlights
water collected in the furrow
of your lips
eyelids tight shut. Your hands shook,
and your body,
and you smiled the smile again,
opened your mouth, caught
rain on your tongue.

You were something different then.
You became the feral woman
of your smile, a creature
of instinct, sensuality, lost
in your passion, your release.
In that moment, you were
the creator, the creation,
aflame with beauty, truth,

the power and the glory
forever and ever, amen.

* * *


How I want you, here
how your body touched
with sun through leaves,
dappled with it, draws.

This is what we dreamed:

our island, its rocks
and forests and the little house
in the center. Clapboard,
dusky blue, and shutters, white. 
The driveway the only road,
the wooden covered bridge
our tie to cities, lands beyond
this world of ours. The flowers,
orange and purple speckled
round the house, jellybeans thrown
by a playful child.

In back, the gardens, herbs
we cut, potatoes. Through it
a trail to the forest, oak
and pine and birch. Beyond,
pink pebbled beach and sea
but not now. Not now.

Now the clearing, just off
the path. We picnic here
at times, lie back and watch
the sun stroll past the treetops
send its light to dance through leaves
and kiss you.

This is what we dreamed, and how we paid

in the coin of sweat,
of tears and touches, 

How fresh you look, pale blue
eyes closed, face upturned
on our blanket, wine-red
and thick. How you could be
a part of this landscape
here, naked, in the sun, curves
caressed with oil.

Shift, turn over.
You hand me the bottle.

Fingertips, coated, trace
your spine, spread outwards.
Even, slow strokes to cover
you, attract the sun. Touch
of oil on thigh, calf, cleft
and buttock. Light strokes,
you shift again, legs spread
a little wider. You know
this game and play it well.

This is what we dreamed
and this is our goal.

How you ask me
with a shift of thigh
how I answer

You are slick, my body
glides atop you. Legs press
together, fingers twine
we come together, moist
where there's no need of oil.
You turn your head, take
my lips with yours.
The sun above us sees, approves.

This is what we dreamed
how we fulfill it.
This is how we paid,
in the coin of devotion.
This is our place.

* * *

Jamie's Room, Drunk, 3AM

Chris, the drunken bastard,
flung a bottle of cologne
against the wall six months ago,
and still, if we don't smoke,
the smell of Polo whispers
against our noses.

As usual, I'm sitting
on the unused bed
as you and Eileen, cuddled,
lie on yours.

All of us drunk since nine,
everyone else has stumbled home
to get some sleep
before next morning's classes.

You get up, of a sort,
wander towards the bathroom
after negotiating the doorway.

Eileen catches my eye—
after all these weeks
her gaze still echoes
through my temples.
She unbuttons the third button
on her shirt,
flashes me her breasts

I knock another back,
fix the next,
countless since around eleven

by the time you get back
her shirt is in position again
and I'm back against the wall.

I wake up the next morning
with my bedsheet covered
with Polo-scented blood
and the taste
of illicit nipples
on my teeth

Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Riverrun, and Third Wednesday, among others.

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