Poetry – Wanderlust


I paint a picture on your back

it’s a map of the world

all the places we have seen and all the places we will go.

Trace the curve of your spine

down Route 66

to a diner in a desert

where we’re strangers to the world outside the door.

Making love under the stars,

near the small of your back,

in a red pick-up truck

leading to the world we’ve never known.

Let the sun set and rise,

near the nape of your neck,

let’s drive for miles and lose the time

and find our own way.

Let me hang on to the strength

of the promise on your shoulders

and the thought of sleeping with a suitcase

ready underneath the bed.

Take my hand

you have my heart

and my soul and my body

take me far away

and seal our world on the inside of a kiss.

Tell no soul,

but yourself,

tell my heart where we’re headed

run away with me and drive along the highways of desire.

In a red pick-up truck,

with just a suitcase and our love.


© Jillian Boyd, 2013

Poetry ~ Hooker Lady

Hooker Lady

by Jillian Boyd


Come here,

 come here

I will show you

A good time

I am your

hooker lady

and I will seduce

you in rhyme

Do you


Pink champagne

Do you want


Be tickled

In the

Heart and in

The brain

Do you want

Me to stir

Your loins

Do you

Want me to purr

Like a kitty

There is

A decadence

To my touch

That you must earn

For I am

High class

Made to be admired

Made to be desired

And to please me




Come to


Come to

Your hooker


Please her

Tease her

Make her moan.

And if you

Can’t do






Poetry ~ Drunk

I walk the line

between conscious and drunk.

Occasionally tipsy.

Occasionally completely hammered.

Not on alcohol.

But on experience.

Drunk on the gifts life give me.

Drunk on power.

Drunk on powerlessness.


Breathless but still breathing. 

Sober is far away.

And it’s better.

Because sober is reality.

Sober is the expected, the usual, the questions and the duties.

If that’s what real life is

I prefer being drunk

on the oddities, curiosities and loveliness of life.

It’s better that way.


©Jillian Boyd, 2013

I Can’t Sleep

The sheets feel cold.

My back uncovered.

No arms wrapped around me.


Toss and turn.

Frightened of the big bad dark.

I want to touch,



Warmth and comfort.

Love words at the bite of early dawn.

Holding hands.

To not be restless.

To not fear the ghostly night.

To feel my body resting at last.

I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep without.

I can’t sleep without knowing 

that I’m not alone in this bed.

That when I wake up,

you are there.

And I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep without.

I can’t sleep without you.


©Jillian Boyd, 2012

Half Of My Heart Is Missing

Memories fade,

like specs of sand in a desert wind.

One pile of slush,

gooey fragments of the lovely times.

The times where it

didn’t feel like I had

woken up in front

of a brick wall.

It’s like a rib

cut out from my chest.

A piece of my body


Half of my heart is missing.

Half of my soul is asleep.

My body is half-numb

half in a state between

alive and weak.

I want to wake up

from the ashen desert

from the dark landscape unknown

I want a hand to hold

A heart to keep

Another soul to guide me home.


This Fire ~ Poetry


My god

Do I ever

melt at the tone of your voice

sizzle at the heat between

our bodies

cry out in frustration

too much fabric

covering your bare bones

my god

I want to make you mine

can`t you see

can`t you feel

the way my body

yearns for another kiss

another touch

another taste

of the tip of your tongue

the warmth of your lips

and the curve of your hips

you make me spark

a fire beyond

all known desire

and I feel in my gut

the bubbles of

champagne ecstasy

drink me

eat me

devour my body with your greedy lips

lap at the honey

between my thighs

and make the fire

burn and

consume our

hungry lust

Take me

Shake me

Build me up with each thrust.

For this fire

deep in my soul

can never be sussed.


Jilly Writes An Ode

Inspired by Ashley Lister`s article on the ERWA blog, I decided to give writing an ode a go. This is my first attempt, and…. well, read on…



Eyes as glittering as gemstones
A smile bright like morning sun.
I want to ride you till you`re senseless.
And stick a finger up your bum


And I call myself an erotica writer…

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The One-Hundred Year Old Tree

Tell me a story

about you and me.

Making love at the base

of a one-hundred year old tree.

Is the smell of springtime in the air?

The grass damp from morning dew?

Do people see us?  

Do they stop and stare?

At the friction between me and you.

Is it high summer?

Does the sun dance off our naked skins,

does the gentle breeze blow away our sins?

Are we sweat and lust and hunger for more?

Giving in to passion`s lore.

Or is it autumn?

Do we lie entangled in a mass of leaves,

kissing, loving, carefree?

It doesn`t matter to me.

Because no matter what season,

Spring, Summer, Fall or Winter,

It will always be you and me,

making love under the one-hundred year old tree.



Phoenix/I Rise



Sweet burns

across my skin

as I combust like

the mortal sinner

My body turns to ash

fading in the gentle breeze

I will not be broken

neither in spirit

nor body

by words

and careless deeds

and spats of toxic dust

I will burn to the ground

Oh I will burn down

but as all Goddesses do

I will rise from the ashes

of my former shadow

and like the phoenix

I will

fly away.