Sex without Love. How many kind of sex do you know?

Sex without Love. How many kind of sex do you know?

Sex without Love, a marvelous poem for a marvelous Sunday, by Bethany W Pope.

Sex… how many kinds of sex do you know? Sex… a great topic for authors of all time. Today, Bethany W Pope shares a poem titled ‘Sex Without Love’. Enjoy its rhythm, timing, structure and selected words and of course, think about it meaning. Have a nice Sunday, Yareah readers.

Sex without Love. How many kind of sex do you know?

Sex without Love. Foto: Wikipedia . Author MPF

Sex Without Love by Bethany W Pope

My father built the green platform tree house

high in the parched straggle leafed oak.

A square Robin-Hood nest

with the live trunk in the centre,

supported by thick radial branches

that sprung from that heart.


I lay flat on my bare stomach,

tanning through leaves around the edge

of my briefs, my grass-colored swimsuit.

My brown hair spun and raveled with leaves,

narrow face buried in the bright skin of an orange,

cheeks sticky and clotted with pulp.


Across the aluminum chain link fence,

in the neighbors razor-burned yard

(they sliced the trees at the root for easier mowing)

between the blue wound

of the above-ground pool

and the feculent, fish crowded river,

a cluster of mongrels put on a show.


My chest was bare and cagey with ribs,

flat little-girl nipples still five years from breasts

kissed the splintery pine boards.

The left one, grooved like the slit of a flat-headed screw,

burned with an ant bite that raised

to a pustule and longed for scratching.


I slouched forward on arms

hard and gray at the elbows,

lost in the fight.


The bitch stood still and panting

in the packs hot centre,

a white pit-bull mix with strong teeth exposed.


Her vagina, blood-swelled, puffy

as lips padded with collagen,

or the site of a particularly vicious infection.

As the males writhed and bit each other,

pouncing, rolling, exposing their tender bellies

and bright red erections,

she whined and whined for satisfaction.


For me, the fighting was the best part.

The impersonal violence, the sudden blood.

The way gaps opened at the throats of the rivals,

ears, flopping, black, erect, tattered like silk

slicked over with water. The barks and the howls.


Even my Dalmatian wanted in on this hunger,

though he was neutered.

His empty scrotum hung like a slack cold purse

flapping behind his penis

which pushed like new lipstick

from its white fur coat.


He strained at the rope

which bound him to the orange tree.

I shouted reassurance at him.

‘Shut up, boy. It’s all right.

You’re not missing anything good.’

Like I knew anything at eleven years old.


The winner was mostly Rottweiler,

a great dark thing of muscle and force.

A good face, I thought.

Broad and dog-grinning with tan painted eyebrows.

His equipment much larger than my dog’s,

the color of raw steak, matching her cleft.


They were made for each other,

drawn together like halves of the same creature,

separated by force. They slotted in close,

sword into scabbard, hiding the wound.


The vanquished foes dispersed at the first thrust

and even my dog found the slack in his rope.


A flurry of motion, the black haunches jackhammering,

the white tail pulled awkwardly up,

four ears laid flat against two sleek skulls,

both mouths alternately peeled from teeth

and open for nipping at nape or taut neck.


I watched from my perch, easily bored

now that the thing which interested me

was over and past.


Afterwards both parties looked smaller,

a little ashamed of themselves, without satisfaction.

They couldn’t detach.


I discovered, much later, that his head

had swelled to arrow-point,

forming a plug to keep his sperm in and all others out.


He lifted his large paws from her ridged spine

and rotated sideways, round their point of intersection

until both their tails were pressed together,

jutting out towards the yard.


Crouched against each other’s backs,

genitals welded for hours,

they stood there between the river and the pool,

on the dead grass studded with dandelions,

Their hind legs shaking, waiting

for the infection to pass, the fever release them.


Lying on my hot boards I bit the skin

of a new orange, my mouth flooding with bitter oil

that gave way to sweetness.


My attention wandered, entirely taken

after a moment with a large bull anole lizard

perched on a high branch, expanding his scaled neck flag

the color of strawberries, his spine and tail ridged

with a fleshy crest that signified maturity.


I watched him signaling with pushups.

The female, small, brown, flagged,

approached, hungry, across wood.

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Bethany W Pope is an award winning author of the LBA, and a finalist for the Faulkner-Wisdom Awards. She received her PhD from Aberystwyth University’s Creative Writing program. Her first poetry collection, A Radiance was published by Cultured Llama Press in June. Her second collection, Persephone in the Underworld has been accepted by Rufus Books and shall be released in 2016. Her work has appeared in: Anon, Art Times, Ampersand, Blue Tattoo, The Delinquent, De/Tached ( an anthology released by Parthian), The Writer’s Hub, New Welsh Review, Every Day Poems, And Other Poems, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, The Quarterly Conversation, Tears in the Fence, Ink, Sweat and Tears and Planet. Her work is due to appear in the next issues of Poetry Review Salzburg, Acumen, Magma, Music& Literature, Anon, and The Screech Owl.

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