Let's talk about sex, baby.

I tried to find a poem about lust to post on my blog (what do I know about writing about lust- for that matter, what do I know about writing poetry) because it is February, the month of lust, the month of my birthday, the month in which 9 months before my parents must have felt some lust (they couldn't have fought all the time).
I wanted a poem about lust by a woman- could a man's lust be like mine? What does he feel when he's inside me, when I'm tightening around him, back when that used to happen?


But the love/lust poems are by men, or are all rights reserved, not allowed, off limits, like the beautiful people who only date beautiful people. Could I find lust on the television, in the movies, in commercials hawking beer, by watching the plastic people fake fuck other plastic people?


I looked for Sor Juana de la Cruz (the erotic nun) poems, for Emily Dickinson poems, through Elizabeth Barrett Browning sonnets. Let me count the ways in which I feel lust for thee: for thy sense of humor, thy ability to quote literature, thy dark hair and piercing blue eyes, thy manliness that is not too muscle bound. If thee existed.


Let's talk about sex, baby. Or not- Jane Austen survived, I can too. Maybe I've just been looking for lust in all the wrong places. Perhaps I should be looking for lust in the Shakespeare and Lawrence poems. In Warren, in Cummings, in Auden, in Coleridge. In ashes and dust, for fire and light, for electric charges sizzling along my veins. For twitches and moans and the taste of sweat. For sated lazy stretches of trembling muscles. For clichés and originality.


I tried to find a poem about lust to post on my blog. Preferably one that I liked.