Erotic Poems I

Erotic Poems I Marketing 101 by Michael R. Burch Building her brand, she disrobes, naked, except for her earlobes. Erotic Errata by Michael R. Burch I didn’t mean to love you; if I did, it came unbid- en, and should’ve remained hid- den! Mini-Ode to Stamina by Michael R. Burch When you’ve given so much that I can’t bear your touch, then from a safe distance let me admire your persistence. First Base Freeze by Michael R. Burch I find your love unappealing (no, make that appalling) because you prefer kissing then stalling. Less Heroic Couplets: Negotiables by Michael R. Burch Love should be more than the sum of its parts— of its potions and pills and subterranean arts. Less Heroic Couplets: Sweet Tarts by Michael R. Burch Love, beautiful but fatal to many bewildered hearts, commands us to be faithful, then tempts us with sweets and tarts. Cover Girl by Michael R. Burch Cunning at sunning and dunning, the stunning young woman’s in the running to be found nude on the cover of some patronizing lover. Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors by Michael R. Burch At six-thirty, feeling flirty, I put on the hurdy-gurdy... But Ms. Purdy, all alert-y, kicked me where I’m sore and hurty. The moral of my story? To avoid a fate as gory, flirt with gals a bit more wh-rey! Nun Fun Undone by Michael R. Burch Abbesses’ recesses are not for excesses! Less Heroic Couplets: Sex Hex by Michael R. Burch Love’s full of cute paradoxes (and highly acute poxes). Who Can Understand Her? by Michael R. Burch Who can understand her? Can the stars, uncertain in their radiant argosy, who never saw such love, nor such desire, as when she bent to tower over me, her hair a perfumed waterfall descending, and then her breasts, and then—ah!—Ecstasy! Retro by Michael R. Burch Now, once again, love’s a redundant pleasure, as we laugh at my childish fumblings through the acres of your dress, past your wily-wired brassiere, through your panties’ pink billows of thrill-piqued frills. Till I lay once again—panting redfaced at your gayest lack of resistance, and, later, at your milktongued mewlings in the dark. When you were virginal, sweet as eucalyptus, we did not understand the miracle of repentance, and I took for granted your obsessive distance. But now I am happily unbuttoning that chaste dress, unhitching that firm-latched bra, tugging at those parachute-like panties— the ones you would have gladly forgotten had I not bought them in this year’s size.