Winona Ryder, Leeches, and Data-Entry: The Best American Erotic Poems

Nicole Ankowski — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 16:55:00 GMT

Can a poem be sexy and hilarious? Do people still dream about Winona Ryder? Is this woman telling the truth, or just being all metaphorical ‘n’ shit?

I love to masturbate, especially
After a poem of mine’s accepted in
A literary magazine. Shit —
I open up that letter, smile awhile
And think, “This one goes out to Don, a total
Tool who I temped for in ’89:
Data-mother-f*cking-entry this.”
Who’s got “inappropriate footwear” now?

People send Nerve a good many erotica books. Some are sexy, some are funny, some are downright strange (not that there’s anything wrong with space-alien nooky). We love literate smut, though you can only stack ‘em so high before you’re facing an erotica fire-hazard. So in preparation for a big, sexy Housing Works donation, I was flipping through the stacks (just counting, I swear), when I stumbled across The Best American Erotic Poems: From 1800 to the Present. From Winona Ryder, to leeches, to tittie-shaped spaghetti to Charles Bukowski…here’s a little sampling. They’re hotter than any screengrab of Jenna Jameson, in my humble opinion.

When a man hasn’t been kissed
by Jeffery McDaniel

When I haven’t been kissed in a long time,
I walk behind well-dressed women
on cold December mornings and shovel
the steamy exhalations pluming from their lips
down my throat with both hands, hoping
a single molecule will cling to my lungs.

I sneak into the ladies’ room of a fancy
Restaurant, dig in the trashcan for a napkin
where a woman checked her lipstick,
then go home, light candles, put on Barry White,
and gently press the napkin all over my body.

I think leeches are the most romantic creatures
because all they want to do is kiss. If only
someone invented a kinder, gentler leech,
I’d paint it bright pink and pretend
Winona Ryder’s lips crawled off her face,
up my thigh, and were sucking on my swollen

bicep. When I haven’t been kissed,
I create civil disturbances, then insult
the cops who show up, till one grabs me
by the collar and hurls me against the squad car,
so I can remember, at least for a moment,
what it’s like to be touched.

(2002)

Another Motive for Metaphor
by Jennifer L. Knox

I love to masturbate, especially
After a poem of mine’s accepted in
A literary magazine. Shit —
I open up that letter, smile awhile
And think, “This one goes out to Don, a total
Tool who I temped for in ’89:
Data-mother-fucking-entry this.”
Who’s got “inappropriate footwear” now?
“The inappropriate footwear’s on the other
Foot today, you hick,” I tell him, tell
Them all, as, lifting up my shirt, I notice
Nipples! Mine (O, gorgeous areolas! —
Pink as peonies)! And ass (my bouncy
Pony, prance in skintight smarty-pants!)!

(2005)

Dinner at George & Katie Schneeman’s
by Ted Berrigan

She was pretty swacked by the time she
Put the spaghetti & meatballs into the orgy pasta
            Bowl — There was mixed salt & pepper in the
“Tittie-tweak” pasta bowl — We drank some dago red
            from glaxed girlie demi-tasse cups — after
which we engaged in heterosexual intercourse, mutual
            masturbation, fellatio, & cunnilingus. For
dessert we stared at a cupboard full of art critic
            friends, sgraffitoed into underglaze on vases. We did
have a very nice time.

(1982)

Conjugal
by Russell Edson

A man is bending his wife.
He is bending her around something that she has bent herself
Around. She is around it, bent as he has bent her.

He is convincing her. It is all so private.

He is bending her around the bedpost. No, he is bending her around
the tripod of his camera. It is as if he teaches her to swim. As if he teaches acrobatics. As if he could form her into something wet that he delivers out of one life into another.

And it is such a private thing the thing they do.

He is forming her into the wallpaper. He is smoothing her down into the flowers there. He is finding her nipples there. And he is kissing her pubis there.

He climbs into the wallpaper among the flowers. And his buttocks move in and out of the wall.

(1976)

Their Sex Life
by A.R. Ammons

One failure on
Top of another

(1990)

Hunk of Rock
by Charles Bukowski

Nina was the hardest of them
all,

the worst woman I had known
up to that moment
and I was sitting in front of
my secondhand black and white
tv

watching the news
when I heard a suspicious
sound in the kitchen
and I ran out there
and saw her with

a full bottle of whiskey —
a 5th —
and she had it and
was headed for the back porch
door

but I caught her and
grabbed at the bottle.

“give me that bottle, you
fucking whore!”

and we wrestled for the
bottle
and let me tell you
she gave me a good fight
for it

but
I got it away from her
and I told her to
get her ass out of
there.

she lived in the same place
in the back
upstairs.

I locked the door
took the bottle and a
glass

went out to the couch
sat down and
opened the bottle and
poured myself a good
one.

I shut off the tv and
sat there
thinking about what a
hard number
Nina was.

I came up with
at least
a dozen lousy things
she had done
to me.

what a whore.
what a hunk of rock.

I sat there drinking
the whiskey
and wondering
what I was doing
with Nina.

then there was a
knock on the
door.

It was Nina’s friend,
Helga.

“where’s Nina?”
she asked.

“she tried to steal
my whiskey, I
ran her ass
out of here.”

“she said to meet
her here.”

“what for?”

“she said me and her
were going to do it
in front of you
for $50.”

“$25.”

“she said $50.”

“well, she’s not
here…want a
drink?”

“sure…”

I got Helga a glass
poured her a
whiskey.

she took a
hit.

“maybe,” she said,

“I ought to go get
Nina.”

“I don’t want to see
her.”

“why not?”

“she’s a whore.”

Helga finished her
drink and I poured
her another.

she took a
hit.

“Benny calls me a
whore, I’m no
whore.”

Benny was the guy
she was shacked
with.

“I know you’re no
whore, Helga.”

“thanks. Ain’t ya got no
music?”

“just the radio…”

she saw it
got up
turned it
on.

some music came
blaring out.

Helga began to
dance
holding her whiskey
glass in one
hand.
she wasn’t a good
dancer
she looked
ridiculous.

she stopped
drained her drink
rolled her glass along the
rug

then ran toward
me
dropped to her knees
unzipped me
and then
she was down
there
doing tricks.

I drained my
drink
poured another.

she was
good.
she had a college
degree
some place back
East.

“get it, Helga, get
it!”

there was a loud
knock
on the front
door.

“HANK, IS HELGA

THERE?”

“WHO?”

“HELGA!”

“JUST A MINUTE!”

“THIS IS NINA, I WAS
SUPPOSED TO MEET
HELGA HERE, WE HAVE A
LITTLE SURPRISE FOR
YOU!”

“YOU TRIED TO STEAL
MY WHISKEY, YOU
WHORE!”

“HANK, LET ME
IN!”

“get it, Helga, get
it!”

“HANK!”

“Helga, you fucking whore…
Helga! Helga! Helga!”

I pulled away and
got up.

“let her in.”

I went to the
bathroom.

when I came out they
were both sitting there
drinking and smoking
laughing about
something.
then they
saw me.

“50 bucks,” said Nina.

“25 bucks,” I said.

“we won’t do it
then.”

“don’t then.”

Nina inhaled
exhaled.
“all right, you
cheap bastard, 25
bucks!”

Nina stood up and
began taking her
clothes off.

she was the hardest
of them
all.

Helga stood up and
began taking her
clothes off.

I poured a
drink.

“sometimes I wonder
what the hell is
going on
around here,” I
said.

“don’t worry about
it, Daddy, just
get with it!”

“just what am I
supposed to
do?”

“just do
whatever the fuck
you feel
like doing,”
said Nina
her big ass
blazing
in the
lamplight.

(1992)

Buy the Best American Erotic Poetry here.

Speaking of Bukowski, what serendipity! Nerve photoblogger Autumn had some deep thoughts on the dude, in a recent post:

I'll bet that at least half of Bukowski's women faked their orgasms.
4/8/2008 7:30:00 AM

"unrelated half-naked girl on a pool table."

"I love women that get a specific and sincere pleasure out of faking their orgasms, where the acting gives them a different kind of high. I dreamed last night that Bukowski's redhead resurfaced and made a public statement that she faked her orgasms and none of his books were true, and that he was an asshole. This wasn't news to anyone and everyone wondered why she was on tv in the first place. I think she was on David Letterman, or maybe she was on Jo Soares.

In other news, I'm a bad pool player. I have a tendency to smack the balls too hard."

From the Archives: The Jeffrey McDaniel Show

Nicole Ankowski — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 18:10:00 GMT

Need a little help writing love poems for the big Hallmark holiday tomorrow? I’m not sure you need follow poet, professor, and author Jeffrey McDaniel’s lead…but these poems might very well make you ache, remember what it’s like to try to hold back when you’re on the brink, and validate your fears: Yes, other people also imagine horrible games of Ex-Girlfriend Jeopardy.

You’ll laugh, you’ll wince, you’ll think about Winona Ryder’s lips in a whole new light.

From the Archives: God Gave Adam a Huge Cock

Sarah — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 18:00:00 GMT

Inspired by the huge penis-boy Miss Information lent her time to today I searched the archives for other instances of huge cocks and lo, I found this poem by Joe Wenderoth. “In the Garden,” is a re-imagining of the creation story in which Adam has a huge cock and God gives him a blow-job. It is outrageous, hilarious and perhaps not for those who are offended by light-hearted sexualization of sacred religious texts. Here is an excerpt:

“And so in the garden there was silky-good pussy and a huge cock, and this pleased God, and this pleased the boy, and God's eyeballs rose up through the boy's cock and spilled out into the pussy, for which the boy was always at first grateful.”

Read the whole poem here. Really, it’s worth a read.

From the Archives: "for my swiffer wetjet," poetry by T. Cole Rachel

Sarah — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 18:00:00 GMT

The swiffer gets sexy.

“what is not to love
about something with such purpose, slim
and hard, the heft of it, the glide
of its downy underside”

From the Archives: Poetry

Sarah — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 18:00:00 GMT

Today, a poem from 2001.
"You ask me how I want to do it.
On a chair, I say, face to face."

Nerve Insider : poetry

Winona Ryder, Leeches, and Data-Entry: The Best American Erotic Poems

From the Archives: The Jeffrey McDaniel Show

From the Archives: God Gave Adam a Huge Cock

From the Archives: "for my swiffer wetjet," poetry by T. Cole Rachel

From the Archives: Poetry