25 Thursday Sep 2014
Tags
art, Dylan Thomas reference, eulenflucht, illustration, masturbating ghosts, owl light, Paul Celan reference
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art
≈ Comments Off on eulenflucht by owl light
23 Tuesday Sep 2014
[F]rom things lost you were cast out brow-splitter
clutch close glowing wick greet your memory
one skull then none, prayer-shards, my one-eye slur
moon-eye upon my forehead. Machete
scars here and here, a cigarette put out
in my ear half-devoured sinnerman.
In the wood, wine-fresh with weed, fresh with sprout,
damn with green fuse; I gagged it down began
clinging to this last evening, shredded, who
buried this splinter gagging on crypt and cask
licked each wood-hour scar of my ruined face
for I dig, you dig and the worms dig, too.
Give me earth O face, ugly face, my mask:
remember! I drink away this disgrace.
23 Tuesday Sep 2014
Tags
ditch your ankles, O mercy me, poem, Poetry, sonnet, tar troubled absinthe, tipped skull, what poets do
Roll of hundreds ginger vodka drunk on
method between our lips O mercy me
kiss like ruin makes a wasteland’s poor spawn
later weep tar troubled absinthe sassy
hips coaxed out of jeans, nothing here shockproof
save how I mothered you, your thighs all ripped,
tipped skull, craved a window cut in the roof
and poured it in fallow hormonal drip
in your bog veins like a ditch your ankles
around my ears the bar is dark it’s two
in the afternoon. This is what poets
do. No words. Just fucking, it’s what fuels
all the drinking. Trust me. I’m the one who
holds back your hair when you puke up your guts.
23 Tuesday Sep 2014
Tags
fellatio, iron booties, knits from your pubes, little fish, lo-speed, poem, Poetry, silent octane, skyclad, sonnet
Little fish, we grew up, I no longer
fit in your mouth on the first drop lo-speed
quivered pillowed my head to the center
a dot obscene puffing sea smoke like weed
burning a girl surfer’s kingdom skyclad
in the call coiled blood delight chilled down rain
pray a storm little fish little comrade
I miss your lips swollen silent octane
burning so much burns roots, harbors, black kelp
plucked, knits from your pubes. It’s darn criminal
the way you’ve let yourself go I’m slogging
into iron booties, chains, weights to drop
through the depths to you. Hold me kiss my skull
swallow me you used to without gagging.
21 Sunday Sep 2014
Tags
broken-topaz, chill embrace, citrine-red, flint-flakes, green-jasper, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, sonnet
Let the ground split open. Let earth deface
the one injured, the one in pain. May stones
take me far down into their chill embrace.
Without you I pray to be just rock-bones
frothing green-jasper that injured no one
flint-flakes for the want of a tongue, my stump
broken-topaz, a prairie in the sun,
citrine-red winter’s run rapture. I slump
against a blue wall. Everyday I vow
to give up writing words. Winter draws near.
All of nature soon sleeps. But I’m awake.
I seethe. I’m what gets left behind, somehow.
Let me crumble into chalk. All I fear
leaves me sleepless, a thing of want and ache.
][
Queime a terra, e transformar a minha carne em pedra.
Gire-me em algo bonito, mas sem graça.
Você fez a minha feiúra sentir divino.
][
Burn the land, and transform my flesh into stone.
Turn me into something beautiful but dim.
You made my ugliness feel divine.
21 Sunday Sep 2014
Mourning in pink thumping blasted bathroom
mother of us all the steady burning
of neck, of breasts, of furnace soured. My womb
is pure digital. Bolts. Sour-grass. Lolling.
Turn. I’ve sucked Phillip’s head that salt keeps fresh.
Metal in my mouth. Gag. I can’t keep
down. These ruins. Watch me spit up horse flesh.
Centaur’s dead pony. Let the dead gods creep
on stubs. I’m the field, the joy where calf-boys
gallop. I am one fucked up landmass.
Stillbirth that wakes in a hand-me-down dress.
Stillbirth that still sings. I’m chaos and noise.
And still I sing. I want to wreck your ass
like a mad god or a cruel headmistress.
21 Sunday Sep 2014
Poking of needles the weeping no veins
but we will take it, no matter how big,
receive a god, lucky animal, brain’s
crank-shaft, tongue’s slit, with four fingers we dig
into the threshing. These memories burn.
Evidence that this body is still yours.
Evidence it’s the reckless that we learn
and the long strides, wet boots, the horrid sores
discovered when stop turns to rest. I walked
away. I walked. Junk like wheat; like garish
dust; snort up, wolf down. All this fat purring
as the needle goes in. My body mocked
the gods who loved such need. Shafts fall. A wish
to want something that bad comes galloping.
18 Thursday Sep 2014
Tags
butterfly wing, erotic poetry, girl golem, haiku, neither god nor demon, poem, Poetry, Pygmalion, sonnet
bruised, bloodied and mad
the butterfly — so tattered
sister, I love you
………………………………………………………………..
][
Mottled tattoo——a taboo——beckoning
her to return to——sip the fine vintage
of his fourteen-year odd——essence needing
][
but a single nip from her——teeth carnage
blood-blood reopened——her tongue bathing in
his dusk boy——blood that sticky grin. The curve
][
of his cock above the sheet’s skin, boy sin
calling to her fingers. Who has the nerve
to go there when lust is neither legal
][
nor pure? Caught in——that dim shadow she did
nothing but obey as her cooled flesh warmed
and she called him her——cute anal angel
][
he was all——that’s taboo——what we forbid.
All that will leave us a monster transformed.
][
………………………………………………………………..
][
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.
][
………………………………………………………………..
spring delirium
suddenly the world and I
are one, drunk as fuck
………………………………………………………………..
][
If you were to rebuild me, fashion me
in your likeness, your image, spread me out
on the dissection table. With hasty
][
stitches suture in zippers, so without
pain you can have quick access to my heart.
I am a gray blossom, passion denied,
][
wearing other people’s pieces. Apart
from the shredded feral divine, I pride
myself that I have survived you. Perhaps
][
you’ll never feel guilt, just white static noise.
I might be a monstrosity, but you,
little god, you’re what happens when love snaps
][
and you get bored with me. You break your toys
so that you can fix them with nails and glue.
][
………………………………………………………………..
dreaming
in saline
solution
embal
ming
fluid,
paste,
stitches …
sewing butterfly
wings back on, monster, love,
kiss your bit of fist
18 Thursday Sep 2014
Tags
Cinderella Nasty, fear is irrational, Helena Bonham Carter, ill pleasure, June spark, poem, Poetry, sonnet, terror is rational, the demon of the cropped marshlands, The Rusty Toque, tryst
all the ancient classic fairy tales
have always been scary and dark.
—— Helena Bonham Carter
………………………………………………………………..
Truth like faith crawls in on disillusioned
claw-stubs. Talk of either makes me woozy;
the way marsh gas, fluid swamp rot, poisoned
][
bog air, causes me to wretch. Frequently
though there is a perverse pleasure, finding
myself neck deep in the muck, cautiously
][
navigating each step, while the singing
of unseen sirens tries to dissuade me
from turning back. I like that ill pleasure,
][
and it is a very ill thing to do:
debate the things we can’t prove or disprove.
Floating nearby, smelling citrus and camphor
][
in the air. Listening to those all those who
talk while the trees gently laugh, gently move.
][
………………………………………………………………..
][
The time has come to tell tales of the dead.
Strictly speaking, terror is rational
fear, fear of what is known; horror, instead,
][
is fear of all that is irrational.
The night versus the day. Dionysus
versus Apollo. But the erotic
][
world has no such separations; lewdness
is just what we make it. I know the sick
art to make you flood; the soft seduction.
][
A slick, sultry mouthful; these are queer tastes.
Do you care? Day or night? Crude or sublime?
Rational? Irrational? Moon or sun?
][
Living or dead? When your dam bursts
I will drown, going down for the third time.
][
………………………………………………………………..
][
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.
][
………………………………………………………………..
][
How much cold can you abide? If you kissed
me now you’d hear how the wind mews and talks
to you. Across the tundra of this tryst
][
you called me, like the warmth of a snow fox
in the endless night. I come from the west,
dreaming about blackberry juice; roughly
][
watching it trickle down your chin. Tongues pressed
tip to tip, although warm flesh on icy
metal never forgives. Little candle,
][
moppet, June spark, I would lick the hoarfrost
from your breasts, if I could; I think you’d just
sputter, though, warmth being such a fragile
][
play thing. How far will you go, my star-crossed
flame? The winter dark is my name for lust.
][
………………………………………………………………..
a piece of moonlight
tongued like in a fairy tale
Cinderella nasty
18 Thursday Sep 2014
Tags
Dead Saint of Clits and Tits, Lady of Rent Boys Cocks and Ass, nude photos, oddly mine, poem, Poetry, selfie, sonnet
][
When at my lip’s breath and keys you photo
deaths and entryways. My zodiac’s blood.
Bleed my dim oxen. I find nakedness,
][
oddly mine, divine. After a hundred
undone eyes I was curious what you
could see. But my body isn’t a prayer
][
song for the dead. Make much of me, undo
combustion, the hooks of my tongue, stop-blur
jerks of my limb. Swallowed hard burn captured
][
in your flash. In-between silence and noise
sleeps what can’t be explained; even 8-bits
had no word for it, save what you conjured
][
in me. I am your Lady of Rent Boys,
Cocks and Ass; Holy Bull of Clits and Tits.
][
memories of my ghost sista 