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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Monthly Archives: March 2014

onna bugeisha, my daughter [1]

28 Friday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Prose

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Tags

fiction, Japanese mythology, Onna bugeisha, prose, short story

 

I.
Once, on a bright morning in the month of March, with branches of blooming cherry trees framing the world, Kumori, a girl of some fifteen-years, sat on a low gunmetal-gray wall, watching party after party of armed men, retainers, their robes showing the crests of a dozen different local lords, riding up to the castle of the recently widowed Lady Kobayashi.

“I would love to know,” the girl mused to herself, lazily waving a sprig of cherry blossoms in the warm air, “just what ill-wind blows those rough-looking bastards here.”

She wasn’t sure what a ‘rough-looking bastard’ actually was, but she had overheard the phrase used in the wine-house that her mother worked in and was dying to try it out. Sunshine, dappled by the swaying branches above her, dazzled her eyes. The girl frowned, staring up at the white wisps of clouds set against the deep blue silk of a sky.

“Or is this about the sacred pledge, I wonder, that my lady made concerning settling, once and for all, her quarrel with Lord Watanabe? Or could she be intending to sweep the woods clean?”

It was hard being only fifteen and having a mother who worked in a wine-house. Most of her friends were already engaged in the Lady’s service. Soon they would be married off to the sons of local lords who remained faithful to the House of Kobayashi. Kumori, though, was considered too rambunctious a girl to learn the tea ceremony and calligraphy and powder her face each morning before the sun rose. However, just because she excelled on horse-back and could hit anything in the air with a bow and arrow didn’t mean that many of the girls who wore fancy kimonos didn’t have secret crushes on Kumori.

“Ah! here comes lovely Fuyu,” Kumori thought to herself, spotting a jovial-looking girl coming down from the direction of the castle. “She might be able to tell me the meaning of this gathering.”

Leaping to her feet, the girl started off at a brisk walk across the field.

“Ah, Mistress Kumori,” Fuyu said as Kumori stopped in front of her. The hand-maiden couldn’t help blush every time the ragamuffin girl was around, despite the expertly applied white powder, “what brings you so near to the castle? It is not often that you favor us with your presence anymore.”

There was reproach in the girl’s voice, though Kumori pretended not to hear.

“I am happier in the woods, as you well know, and was on my way there but now, when I paused at the sight of all these ruffians flocking in to Kobayashi Castle. What undertaking has Lady Kobayashi started upon now?”

“My lady keeps her own counsel,” said girl, “but I think a shrewd guess might be made at the purpose of a gathering. It was but three days since that her grangers were beaten back by all those rude, ruthless, landless men who call you kin; they caught in the very act of cutting up a juicy, fat buck, or so I am told. As you know, my lady, though easy and well-disposed to every girl who comes into her service, is not fond of vagabonds abusing their forest privileges on her land. Just three days ago she swore that she would clear the forest of these poachers. Or, I do not know, it may be, that this gathering of retainers is for the purpose of falling upon that robber and tyrant, Lord Toshio of Watanabe, who has already begun to harass some of our outlying lands. It is a quarrel which will have to be fought out sooner or later, and for my lady it seems the sooner the better.”

“Arigato, Fuyu-chan,” said Kumori. “I must not stand here gossiping with you. The news you have told me, as you know, touches me deeply, for I would make sure that no harm should befall my kin.”

“I plead with you, Kumori-chan, tell no one that the news came from me, for mild as Lady Kobayashi to those who attend on her at her bath, she would, I think, let me starve in the woods if she knew that I might have given a warning through which the brigands might slip through her fingers.”

“Do not worry, Fuyu-chan; I can be as silent as the rot on a tree when the need arises. Can you tell me when her lady’s forces are likely to set out?”

“Soon,” Fuyu replied. “Those who first arrived I left swilling Kobayashi Castle’s rare sake, devouring rice cake upon rice cake. The cooks of the castle have been hard pressed all day, and from what I hear, this band of ruffians will set forth as soon as dusk falls upon the walls of my lady’s keep.”

[to be cont.]

body, remember

24 Monday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Body Remember, Constantine Cavafy, erotic, poem

 

 

 

 

Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay,
but also those desires for you
that glowed plainly in the eyes,
and trembled in the voice—and some
chance obstacle made futile.
Now that all of them belong to the past,
it almost seems as if you had yielded
to those desires—how they glowed,
remember, in the eyes gazing at you;
how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.

— Constantine Cavafy (translation by Rae Dalven)

dreaming in saline solution

21 Friday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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dreaming in saline solution, edit, man's ideal monster, poem, Poetry, remix, sonnet

Soon when you’re good I’ll show you my Y, gray
shaped scar that cut my chest and clavicles,

sternum and heart, all in half. That which lay
in me was once on display. My devils

made no attempt to be subtle. The art
of the cross-stitch hurt but kept my ugly

bosom together. My guts, pulled apart,
slept on the dissection table. To be

as anatomically correct as this
was a horror-show. Man’s ideal monster

can’t be built, but we try. My Pygmalion
lover saw to that. Listen to the hiss-

whir of dark science that made me neither
god nor demon. I’m not even human.

onna bugeisha: daughter mine

19 Wednesday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

art, daughter of love, Onna bugeisha, poem, Poetry, sonnet

March 19, 2014 (12)

March 19, 2014 (11)

March 19, 2014 (13)

Around the body, puddled, as you breathe,
I feel your heart beating softer, slower,

drying begins from heated bodies. We
play in puddles, this sweet-scented moisture

that glows, cools, as the friction-induced beads
of sweat evaporates. Sunlight slavers

upon hard muscles, what falls, slashed through, bleeds
through these dappled down drapes —- gypsum lovers,

soft, lithe —- our aftermath. The story we’re
leaving for new generations. Daughter,

learn the sword, battle plans, the dialect
of war, for then you’ll protect the queer,

daft and fabulous. A godling savior
no man has ever been: divine, perfect.

dead thing

19 Wednesday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cum-sticky shrouds, dead thing, erotic horror, poem, Poetry, sonnet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The boy, at least as I drew him, was blind,
translucent, in gray oil against a pout;

more like a slash than frown, the bitter kind.
The girl, in my sketch, faded in and out,

pulled hair, and kicked my ass for suggesting
the things my pencil drew. What can I say?

Under full moon I’ve watched the dead kissing
and things that were only shadows, dim, gray,

made the beast with two backs, took shape down here.
Am I to blame for showing you what I

saw? Yes, perhaps. Of course. Tonight, the clouds
will hang just so. Dead thing; I’ll kiss that smear

from your lips. Second coming, indeed. Die
once more. I’ll leave you in cum-sticky shrouds.

sex without fear

18 Tuesday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic obscura, poem, Poetry, sex without fear, sonnet

 

Mother and son listened to the muffled
voices from the room next door. The babel

of vice in a love hotel. The ribald
grunt of bed-springs breaking. The carnal

sob that comes from a job well done. He played
with her hard nipple, toyed with her swollen

lips. She held his head until he obeyed,
her long curved fingers making a fountain

for him to drown in. Her mouth at his ear,
sliding down his naked skin, cupping him,

her mouth taking in his engorged boy-cock
down to its root. What is sex without fear?

Later, they sighed, sticky with their jism
and bliss. This is what we call “pillow talk.”

queimando, ardendo, incendiando

17 Monday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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ardendo, art, incendiando, poem, Portuguese translation, queimando, spliff

tumblr_m7mewlvhvg1rspimto1_250

Pretty and pink, I want to sleep.
Waiting for a touch, I forget you until daybreak.
I am the full moon, if I smoke a joint and excite my libido.
Burning, burning, burning, and then … ashes.

][][

Linda e rosada, quero dormir.
À espera de um toque, quero esquecer até o dia clarear.
Eu sou o lua cheia, se eu fumar um charro, e libido a excitam.
Queimando, ardendo, incendiando, e … cinza.

minha língua

16 Sunday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Tags

art, cunnilingus, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation

March 16, 2014 (2)

Drinking angels.
Saliva. My tongue.
My language. My words.

Lick my wings with your verb.
Until you feel the orgasm flower within my shoulders.

Slowly lick my clit, said the angel.
The pulse of your tongue touches it.
You devil, the angel said.
You leave me nearly dead horny.

][][

Bebem os anjos.
A saliva. Minha língua.
Minha lingua. Meus palavras.

Lambe-me as asas com a teu verbo.
Até que você sente a flor orgasmo dentro da meus ombros.

Devagar lambesse o meu clitóris, disse o anjo.
O dos teus pulsos isso língua toca.
Você diabo, disse o anjo.
Você me deixa de tesão quase morto.

do gosto da vida libidinosa

14 Friday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Tags

do gosto da vida libidinosa, erotic, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, taste of libidinous life

 

My skin and the wind
sings your verses
to the moon. Your body
on mine. Your willingness
to taste. Desire
to do crazy things before,
during and after. Your
tongue to know me.
My mouth to suck you.
Under the influence
of the moon
Under the taste of
libidinous life.

][][

Minha pele e o vento
canta teus versos
para a Lua. Teu corpo
no meu. Teu vontade
de sentir o gosto. Desejo
de fazer loucuras antes,
durante e depois. Da tua
língua a me conhecer.
Minha boca a te sugar.
Sob a influência
da Lua.
Sob a do gosto da
vida libidinosa.

the nightmare girl: chapter 1

08 Saturday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Illustration and art, Prose

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Tags

Ararat Burns, Armenian Genocide, art, Mariam Abandian, prose

March 08, 2014 (1)

A few days after her birth in 1879 in the Cilician town of Tarsus, in what is now considered to be part of southern Turkey, Mariam’s father walked to the local government building to record the event. Her parents wanted everything in order before they moved to the Ottoman city of Kars with their infant daughter. They had decided to leave their small town for there were no opportunities in Tarsus at that time and many of their formally friendly neighbors were grumbling that Armenians were to blame.

Mariam’s father was known to the government official in charge of name keeping and the issuing of birth certificates.

“Ah, it is you, Yeghishe, what can I do for you?” the official asked.

“Help me celebrate my very good news,” her father said. “I wish to report and record the birth of my daughter. She is to be called Mariamna.” Mariamna being the Russian version of the Armenian name, Miriam.

“Mariamna?” asked the official in disbelief. “No, no. Mariamna is no good.”

Her father had not anticipated any objection to the name he and his wife had chosen. It was, though, an old maxim of the Armenians of Tarsus never to question Muslim officials without understanding what was expected of them first. Her father stayed silent and waited.

The official said, “You are going to relocate to Kars, he, Yeghishe?” There were no secrets in their town. Naturally, the Armenians knew everything about each other. It was curious, too, that their Muslims neighbors always seemed to know about the business of the Armenians as well.

“You see? there is no sense in burdening your daughter with a Russian name. What Turk would do that? No, no. Use Meryem instead. That’s a proper Turkish name and she won’t be so despised when she grows. Yes, yes, Meryem. Your daughter will be better off,” the town’s official said, presenting the startled father with a document bearing witness that one Shahani, wife of Yeghishe Zildjian, had given birth to a daughter, Meryem Zildjian, on October 30, 1879.

The story of Mariam’s forced name conversion soon became part of their family lore, and before her first birthday the three of them left Tarsus for Kars. By then, Mariam had evolved into Mare, a nickname that her parents and friends all called her, ignoring the Meryem decreed by the funny little man in a red fez.

Mariam was a good name, it suited her nature well, for it was ancient and meant “the rebellious one” and in a world that was about to be torn apart in war and fire only the rebellious shall survive.

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