31 Sunday Dec 2023
Posted in Uncategorized
≈ Comments Off on
Author Archives: babylon crashing
lavash
27 Wednesday Dec 2023
Tags
blowjob, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, lavash, obscene sucking noise, poem, Poetry, power of grief, sonnet, spilled ink
There’s dough in my hair, flour on my fingers.
Lick them clean. These fingers. I’m leaving.
Kiss me clean. Obscene what this finger stirs
in you. All day long you’ve seen me making
flat bread. Lavash. Song of cracked wheat. Fable
of dough rolled flat, slapped against the Tonir’s
brick wall. The dead’s flat food and what the skull
won’t eat I will. Breathe in all these odors.
Simple smells at night fall imbued with grief.
When you make bread, you make me; when you roll
dough flat you touch me. I’m leaving; come clean
me one last time. My lips, my flesh, this brief
hint at soul. I’ll be ghostly so soon. Soul,
love me like this: obscene, obscene, obscene.
notes:
Lavash is a popular flat bread in Armenia. Tonir is a stone oven used to cook the bread, similar to an Indian Tandoor.
demotic
12 Tuesday Dec 2023
Tags
cum unto me, demotic, dusk, erotic poetry, milky spurt, past tense squander, poem, Poetry, sonnet, worship all
& I yanked your hair until you whimpered
& moaned. I call this, too, a sacred act.
This queer cheer. Odd? Odd that the only pact
between us was no pact at all. Squandered
without ache, spurt or need. Without my root
in your root cellar; stretch marks, scabs, stubborn
scars. Proof that the euphoric brute in Brute
Love is still love. Worship all that return
to yearn for a blinding flash. Milky spurts.
Spasms. Second comings. “Cum unto me.”
I did. Past tense squander. I am a thing
of dusk; a thing that divides & perverts
both day & night. Even murk is holy.
All this demotic. All this queer hexing.
bop
29 Wednesday Nov 2023
Meet me near the mine shaft. We’ll put “anal”
back in “Bacchanal.” You know my wet-wired
flesh, fat stall-fed steak, the hole in my skull
that lets the gods in. All that you’ve desired
is here; two palm’s worth, plucked from the motley
pelt of some goat; unkempt, tangle-haired, lop
-legged, chewing on the bark of yon gnarly,
oaken bough. I’m the “bop” in your “She Bop.”
The thrill you seek every Sunday in church.
Gods are a dime a dozen. But this thrill?
This kiss? This holy rude exchange? It’s this
that you want. Dreams to make you gasp and lurch
out of bed, goat dreams, god dreams, dreams to spill,
to flood. Come. The one faith I follow: bliss.
zealous
01 Wednesday Nov 2023
Tags
all my friends are dead and things, dead boy cum, dead little things, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Waking to the stench of cum and compost.
One more morning. One more old ecstasy.
Waking up with a stranger, with a ghost,
someone else’s dead aunt. You were puffy
with rot, zealous with a whiff of one more
fling, fuck, whatever. I’ve got a nephew’s
hunger for the taboo and your poor, sore
cracked skin. Let the souls of sex addicts choose
me and not the Nether world. Goosebumps came
as you dug your cracked nails into my skin,
as I clutched the sheets and groaned. Willingly
given. Brutally taken … without shame.
Death is a small price to find your fuck-twin.
Celestial desire. Queer mercy.
crossing and fixing
18 Wednesday Oct 2023
Summer comes dressed in tight blue. So do you,
bewitchingly. Proof that this Craft’s, “glamour,”
is more than just words. I named you: taboo,
godhead, my eldritch ne’er-do-well. You stir
in me and my cum-coked skivvies. Dour night
after night. Mirthlessly awake in bed …
so much glum cum so I named you: ghost-light,
just like religion, but with a godhead
climax. It’s been ages since I have … laughed
myself dizzy; sang, “tight blue/ tight like you;”
took to crossing and fixing. We all want
a bit of unreal; the “itch” in witchcraft;
touch of ghost-skin; to be one of the few
that you’ll gladly return to, just to haunt.
scars
04 Wednesday Oct 2023
Posted in Armenia, Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on scars
Tags
Armenia, artsakh, count the scars, Nagorno-Karabagh, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Less than a week. Thirty-five years of war
ended … like that. Already its become
myth. Lands none can return to; one more scar
for the soul. Scars … and the narcissism
that nostalgia brings will be the headstone
on my grave. Holy mountains I’ll never
return to. “Artsakh” comes out like a moan
each time I say its name. You’re dead, lover,
buried near Shusha. “Lick me,” you had said,
one of the things that your husband refused
to do; your tickled pink. Now all Artsakh
has been abandoned along with its dead.
Less than a week. All that forfeited blood
festering. The reek of yearning and shock.
notes.
Shusha is a city in the Southern Caucasus Karabakh mountains (also known as Nagorno-Karabakh). The Republic of Artsakh has, since the fall of the USSR, been fighting for their right of self-determination against their neighbor, Azerbaijan, which sees the entire region as part of its own.
Now [10/4/2023] a week has passed since the ethnic Armenians of Artsakh agreed to a ceasefire, agreeing that by the New Year the Republic will cease to be. It has been estimated that within 48-hours of that declaration more than 100,000 citizens fled Artsakh, leaving behind everything. I’m not Armenian but this loss and the dread of what horrors might entice an entire population to leave has consumed all my days of late, my dreams, my disbelief.
19 Tuesday Sep 2023
Posted in Historic Research, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on
Tags
Q: Have you ever wrote a poem or a song that provoked an emotion from you as you were reciting/ performing it? Did it make you cry as you listened to what you were saying?
Travel. Sudden lightning flash in daylight.
A word others use. “So from today I’m
trav’lin’ light.” As in atoms. The white
flash of a device going off. My grime
and bits settling down on your surprised
face. You. Someone had to plant these ghastly
boxes under this hill’s skin. You surmised
there are hundreds. Children have already
stumbled on four. We. Travel with me here.
I want you here when I mess up. Just once.
Wave your hands. Call out my name. You can hear
the light. Count the seconds. The short distance
it takes to get to you. A blur. Crayon
red. I rise up and all at once I’m gone.
The line, “So from today I’m/ travelin’ light,” comes from a Billie Holiday classic.
The background for this poem happened around 12 or 13 years ago when I had exchanged a couple of emails with a volunteer landmine deminer in the Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh) region of Armenia who talked about losing a friend whose device that she had been trying to defuse went off. “She was there and then she wasn’t.” That image stayed with me for a very long time. I’ve done a lot of things in life but nothing compares to those people who are forced to deal with all the unexploded ordnance left behind, often decades later, due to somebody else’s war.
The United Nations estimates that there are currently as many as 100 million unexploded landmines buried around the world. Mines are designed to be difficult to locate and their clearance is costly in terms of both money and lives. It is estimated that, in 2021, more than 5,500 people were killed or maimed by landmines, most of them were civilians, half of whom were children.
To answer your question, I wasn’t expecting this sonnet to get to me as it did. I hadn’t gotten choked up when I wrote it. By the time, though, I got to, “Call out my name,” I had developed that sobbing-stutter one gets when trying to talk and not lose it at the same time. It was a very odd sensation.
stirrin’
16 Friday Jun 2023
Tags
age difference, booty call, Crone of Raunchy Calves, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, milf, poem, Poetry, sonnet, stirrin', we wear short shorts, you're never too old to be someone's wet dream
Monsters are rare, being mostly sleazeball
dreams and inventions. To be infertile,
Crone of Raunchy Calves & Posh Booty Call
Shorts, is to be obscene. “What? This? Evil?
I’ve been doin’ this before you were born.
Wham bam, thank you, ma’am.” You cackle and pause.
“Men called me witch. Sappho called me pure porn.
I’ll call you … Raw meat.” For some, menopause
killed their libidos. For you? “These itches
get me drippin’,” you grin, spreading your heat
wide. “Scratch me right here, moon dog. My witch’s
cauldron demands … stirrin’.” You’re not discrete
as you scratch, like cum-sloshed selfies you send
to your children, dubbed, “Mom & Cub Offend.”
willendorf
05 Monday Jun 2023
Tags
big grrl sexy, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, fierce, Lizzo, milf erotica, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Venus of Willendorf
With my thick, awkward fingers you taught me
to plait your hair. Boundless hips like the earth,
you had said. Lizzo-fierce. Big Grrl sexy.
You can’t be a MILF without belly-birth
curves, thighs like mountains. Before work, after
your kids are at school, you’d drip, dark like plum
juice, like my tongue slick between, like a prayer
down for the Willendorf. Clits thrum, cunts cum,
you’d said. Neighbors talked, “look at them, howling
on her stoop, with some of the worst braided
cornrows ever.” They scowled, “and at her age?”
Fierce looks like many things, but fierce fucking
looks like this. Beyond rude. Beyond wicked.
Beyond the haters and all their daft rage.
][][
Notes:
Venus of Willendorf is a 30,000 year old statue, unearthed in 1908, and thought to be some sort of fertility idol by many male archaeologists at the time due to its, “exaggerated,” sexual features, and not, say, just simply erotic for desire’s own sake. This is why so many archaeologists are horrible at their jobs. When I refer to Lizzo as a, “goddess who walks among us,” what I mean is that she is revolutionary in the deepest sense of that term. She is giving voice and making change happen in a world toxic with body-shaming and fatphobia. She tells us, “I love normalizing the dimples in my butt or the lumps in my thighs or my back fat or my stretch marks. I love normalizing my Black-ass elbows. I think it’s beautiful.” Amen.
memories of my ghost sista 