• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Monthly Archives: July 2014

hellbent

15 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Armenian heroine, art, blood sister, hellbent, Mama warrior, Mariam Abandian, poem, Poetry, sonnet

MARIAM1

Tonight let the rat steal the rice. The moon
is in love and even the starving flea

will be pardoned. Tonight, hunger, roughhewn
like love, goes down smooth. We’ve all been hungry.

We’ve all wished somebody would speak secrets
that are simply obvious. Big sister,

where is your story? Why aren’t the poets
singing about you? Mama warrior,

let me braid up your hair. I have no tongue
for tune, but for you I’ll sing any song.

Tonight, saddle up. The moon is absent
and the rat is full. No one else has sung

what you do. Sister, you’re my blood, headstrong
fairytale made flesh; violent and hellbent.

thrive

12 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Anahit on my tongue, break up song, Devil under my fingers, poem, Poetry, sonnet

lovers of the wand

And I imagine that this is how we
need to be: nude, warm, huddled together,

willing to survive anything with me …
Me? We! Except there is no we, lover.

No us. Nothing folded like paper in
onto itself. Nothing to protect us.

Just old skin and bone minus voltage, sin
and salt water. I’m a child of Venus,

Bacchus and Dryads. But you? Who knows now.
Who cares what you call yourself. I did once.

Songs that the hurt always sing. You’ll survive
and go off with someone else. Will your vow

sound just as hollow? Like hell, your brilliance
is to make a corpse look like it can thrive.

sin and sleaze

12 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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poem, Poetry, sin, sleaze, sonnet

 

Why does lust burn yet my new underwear
makes you wet? Why is it that when I lick

you here you moan, yet when I lick you there
you say, “No, not that! It’s dirty. That’s sick!”

It’s all sick. That’s the whole point. I asked you,
once, what you think of when you masturbate.

Pretty things, I found out. Nothing taboo,
but that can be fun, too. I was once jailbait,

just like everyone else. My fantasies
involve good and evil; it’s the one thing,

save a straight line, that’s not found in nature.
What I call divine you call sin and sleaze.

Where I pray you won’t go. You say, “Making
love,” not “Fucking.” I say, “I’ll take either.”

waiting for you at the gate

10 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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free verse, gate metaphor, my sweet rotten, poem, Poetry

My nectar will
make you swoon
my sweet rotten

scent will make
you sweat all
noon, your lunch
pale break,
coming

home bewildered
dog, shame-headed,
fury-foot, child,
hoping for more.

lick me here, swamp thing

05 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, haiku, Poetry

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Tags

Cthulhu, cunnilingus, glowing green, haiku, poem, Poetry, Swamp Thing

 

waiting for thunder
lightning along your green tongue
kiss me here, swamp thing

][

plagued by spring fever
wind parting long curling grass
licking red marsh earth

][

it won’t ever end
it won’t get any better—
this need to be loved

][

under all these stars
addicted to dark matter
Cthulhu, I cum

cropped marshlands

03 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cropped marshlands, forest gods, Great God Pan, homoerotic, metaphor, poem, Poetry, sonnet

forest_god

From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust

clear and erect into coming twilight.
How did Freud ever pass through such forests?

They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.

Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates

flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.

Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along

my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.

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