23 Monday Sep 2013
Tags
… things don’t really change
i’m standing in the wind
but I never wave bye-bye
— David Bowie, Modern Love
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Illustration and art
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23 Monday Sep 2013
Tags
guilt, Johnny Cash, plagiarism, poem, Poetry, sonnet, The Other, Western Culture, When The Man Comes Around
You said, “steal only from the dead, rarely
do they file plagiarism charges.” But
we the dead do not suffer fools lightly
in all your hundredweight and penny pound.
You don’t even know what a banyan tree
looks like, so how can you sit under it?
Mecca means nothing but Robot TV.
Instead you rip off the Jews, yet omit
the small detail that those words are not yours.
So, you say, what does that matter? We built
our world on the shoulders of the Other.
Plus, they are our words now, it’s what our wars
prove. Yet you still don’t know the word for guilt?
Odd, that theft to you could ever matter.
note:
The line “hundredweight and penny pound” was stolen from Johnny Cash’s song “When The Man Comes Around,” and it doesn’t even rhyme with“but” … But …!
22 Sunday Sep 2013
Tags
I love the drowned, love, low tide, ocean poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Take me to the unexplored dark once more.
I know all about this pressure. Without
you with me I’ll never get to drift pure
in these deep waters again. Ignore doubt
and the shaking needle of the meter.
I do remember you holding your hands
out to the far surface, your face under
pressure was beautiful. Then failed commands,
screaming, rupture. Once love you kissed my skin,
breathed me in until I filled you. You should
have lived on love instead of air. Hell bound
you could only see yourself escape in
rising sea foam, while the rest of us stood
at our posts, watching you flee as we drowned.
22 Sunday Sep 2013
Tags
death is love, lucid pleasures, naked lust, poem, Poetry, poor banshee, sex magic, sonnet, ugliest of words
It’s a weird world. She tells me of a date
and how later they both fornicated.
Yeah, that’s the word that she used, “fornicate,”
one of the ugliest words to describe naked
lust, sex magic, lucid pleasure. But she’s
foreign, recently dead and her English
broken. What do I know? I lost the ease
of my tongue when I passed, too. Her anguish
and fear with sex, especially anal,
remains, bit daft, since she’s lost her booty.
She’s more mist, more soul made froth. You living
call lust sin; but if you’re not a lustful
soul death tends to be … shocking. Poor banshee,
love won’t hurt you. That’s what death is: loving.
21 Saturday Sep 2013
What can bind us to another? Crimson’s
smear on the tongue. A stain no spell can break.
Blood is blood is blood. I’ve drunk from demons
like you before, felt that wild fiery ache
run all riot through me. I’ve begged, I’ve screamed,
I’ve been bled in turn, but not like that. Knives
reveal secrets, tell our fears. I blasphemed
when I took you inside me. Love survives
because it is love. Here are my secrets,
here are my fears. I’ll drink all that once ran
in your heart, all that you no longer need.
Call it greed or bondage, all that riots,
all that aches. It is where I first began,
where I’ll return. I’m hungry. I must feed.
21 Saturday Sep 2013
Hold on, urgently try. But gasps become
moans; a fire in every shuddering part
of your lungs, your legs, your skull. Each spasm
quickens, then that flavor, salty and tart,
fills your mouth. Weeds wrap around collarbone,
making subtle curves. Your flesh unstained
by whips or teeth, even when your last moan
turns to silence. Accept this gift of pain.
They did not believe you. They who pursue
your flesh simply to condemn it. Amour
is pain, even while taking your last breath
it is pain. I was there, I believe you,
for when they dredged the lake it proved what your
blush claimed; that beauty lies in youth and death.
21 Saturday Sep 2013
I have never understood the allure
of so-called innocence, that mythical
state, like virginity, they ascribe, pure
and fresh, to others. Using a carnal
measuring stick is foolish, every kid
I have ever met knows what’s going on.
Adults call it taboo, and they forbid
descent. They fear a new dawn: Amazon,
Babylon, Depravity; for the cult
of the virgin will always kill Eros
once a few parents are shocked into rage.
Call it Fire, or the Erotic Occult,
Venus, or the Phallic Stage. All of us
are burning souls trapped in this fearful age.
20 Friday Sep 2013
Tags
I call on the forces higher then I,
to wake the guide that sleeps outside, inside
the North, the South, the East, the West, the sky,
the sea and the ground. I call on the guide
that knows of my need, come with assistance,
come with dire speed. Sanctuary will not
be found here: in crystals and light, essence
of rose hip, runes bought at a store. Who taught
you this? Without death there is no magic
or art or life. The gods aren’t toys. They won’t
jump up each time you say, “so mote it be.”
Here’s the blood of our bond. Here’s the coptic
blade that served. I call on forces that don’t
answer, I call on guides that don’t serve me.
20 Friday Sep 2013
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Illustration and art
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20 Friday Sep 2013
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≈ Comments Off on notes on other people’s hubris
The moment someone starts talking about dualism, good vs evil, black vs white, female vs male, that’s the moment you need to stand up and leave the party.
― Yeva Anoush
Ancient societies had anthropomorphic gods: a huge pantheon expanding into centuries of dynastic drama; fathers and sons, martyred heroes, star-crossed lovers, the deaths of kings ― stories that taught us of the danger of hubris and the primacy of humility.
―Tom Hiddleston
We have no language that is free of the power dualisms of domination.
― Beverly Wildung Harrison
Carved on the temple [at Delphi] were the exhortation Know yourself … You are only human, so don’t try more than you are able (or you will pay the price). A recurring theme in Greek myth is the man or woman who loses sight of human limitations and acts arrogantly and with violence against forces he or she can never control, as if they too are immortal. And they always pay a terrible price.
― Barry B. Powell
You never really learn much from hearing yourself speak.
― George Clooney
memories of my ghost sista 