Author Archives: babylon crashing

geiger’s counter

17 Wednesday Sep 2014

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J. Robert Oppenheimer quoted a fragment of the Bhagavad Gita declaring, ‘I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.’ His colleague put it in another way when he leaned close and whispered, ‘Now we are all sons of bitches’. – TSCC

What Would Freud Say? – Bob Hicok

                                 ][
A bomb test site: flowing down. Silt river
dragging my bent body. Be beads, feathers,
voodoo figurines. Come, come, come. Sandbar
                                 ][
radiation. Come melt. Tempestuous
love, come melt with me; monstrous pleasures
in what science can do. Art is this. Art is
                                 ][
that. So what loneliness. I sleep topless.
Nothing stirs my sleep. What is art. What is
thus. I show you my scars, primal bronze bells
                                 ][
that dance – blue note – beatific boggy-boo.
Geiger’s counter still counts and Nevada
is home in the way Lucifer made Hell’s
                                 ][
Dome home. Give me poetry that’s taboo;
verses full of pussy farts and smegma.
                                 ][

carve out forget

17 Wednesday Sep 2014

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                                 ][
Jah, what would you say to a shy girl’s prayers,
eeked out each hymn, each blood-clot hemorrhaging
niece. In silk-stained clouds; a world of nightmares,
                                 ][
milkweed pods and sexed regimens. Fucking
results in nothing. There is no magic
when the witch is bored. One. Your clothing grows
                                 ][
small. Two. Tilt your head back. Now three. You’ll lick
what I put in there. These bottled freak shows
beggar the dead, it is our job to kiss
                                 ][
them back to life. Cave in. Carve out. Forget
that you have a husband, children, lifeless
marriage. Shy girl. Let’s be what the dead miss;
                                 ][
a spot of blood, wipeout. Us getting wet
comes like this: orgasms without malice.
                                 ][

the seal woman sings the blues to peter cagan and the wind

17 Wednesday Sep 2014

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                                 ][
Afloat and nowhere. Never reign; open
all your plucky urchins. Here’s my scarred split
tongue. The echo men beating Blind Lemon
                                 ][
Pie. Her elbow’s bone. Her wit of a clit.
As in, suck in. As in, gag. Someone sings
of all the dreams that she brings from the wide
                                 ][
open sea; of all the dreams that she brings.
Come. Get me. I’m singing down at low tide.
Get me milky-sweet and barely swimming.
                                 ][
As in, mud. I’ll suck you down. Rattled face.
Broken bone. Rasping selkie tea. Frayed stitch
that won’t see salvation. Heh-heh, saving.
                                 ][
Lover Pie. Lover seal skin. You’re pale face.
I’m both: Sea-Bitch and the Son-of-a-Bitch.
                                 ][

tomboys rest here

16 Tuesday Sep 2014

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                                 ][
Sweet drug of absence; lover, shake me down,
slit me open. Drench in my dark stomach.
Chew my traffic’s maelstrom. The odd storm. Noun
                                 ][
that ain’t no noun. Verbless verb. The havoc
of all us tomboys. Rest here. My passion
for patch of fur, grass and listen paper
                                 ][
masks burn easy. My sister’s prayer broken
but heard. Why else would I be here, lover?
To snort. To snuff. To crotch my minaret.
                                 ][
I have swallowed more than you can dream up
and green goddess dressing. Here the jukebox
laments. Here I don’t gag. One more vignette
                                 ][
about dirty minds. Kiss my face. Now cup
my lips. You shall taste all those cunts and cocks.
                                 ][

scarred rain balls

16 Tuesday Sep 2014

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                                 ][
Each wave soft enough to knead, red and sweet
stunning currents, swampland drifting in drips
inside of me, splishing over goat-feet,
                                 ][
goat-teats, goat-apocalypse, my goat-lips,
my dark constitution. Curly Just Bled,
Ram Lamb, Roy Batty, Brigid Bard, all slept
                                 ][
in my dollhouse. When the rain fell I fled.
Off with them twirled in ropes. Most toys, unwept,
hang. Most gods unable to swim must drown.
                                 ][
Here’s my belly, bread, oil. My pink talon
will spear you a piece while a scarred rain balls
across the swamp. There is no higher ground.
                                 ][
Pan is my main man, but even gods shun
the doomed; a drowning goat-girl and her dolls.
                                 ][

spare the appetite

16 Tuesday Sep 2014

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Behind the house, I’m told, there’s a river
across a village square, scratching the stone.
They will speak of what was sent, a spider

in the red-gray landscape, drift wood, jawbone,
chorus of barefoot men. I cannot hear
spasm in the grass. Flowering in mud.

The leaves fleshy cut open. Night shift fear
all the creatures underground. Swallow blood
spare the appetite. I’m full of knuckle

faced saints, dazzling radios, bed sheets,
fingered switchblades, bollocks. Lift your dress high.
Before I could speak. Before clitorial

words dropped from my tongue onto milky teats.
Before death trust me. All this is a lie.

NECROMANTICA: a sonnet sequence

11 Thursday Sep 2014

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Some of us wear out, some rust. Devilkin,
dead love, what happened to you? I’ve passed through

gateways, played with a girl in a seal-skin,
slept with a wood sprite called Puck; I’ll tell you

why they call him Robin Goodfellow. But
you seem to have some unresolved business.

Like me. The first time that I was called slut
I burned the world down, in my head. Eros

does not protect those he touches; and, ghost,
we all need protection. If you kiss me

will you shatter in a shower of coals?
Or will you, like me, want more? It’s almost

dawn, do not leave. I’m alive and hungry.
Let us both resolve what’s damning our souls.

][

Freedom is not for the living, obsessed
with their soul’s salvation. The dead are, too,

but with their lost sex lives. You can be blessed
all you like, yet how bizarre the breakthrough

when the recently deceased realize
it was about being rude and smutty

with the gods through orgasm. All those lies
about how it’ll make you go blind, only

the hell-bound would say that. Orgasm
comes to you without need for a payment

or a promise. But why am I telling
you? You, who claims to know about freedom,

must know what it’s like to be pregnant
with mad need, praying to be touched, praying.

][

Grace flits by, a moment of bliss, then dumb
logic closes in. I drink and drink and …

I am a child of clay. Come, mold me. Numb
me. Tell me of salvation and dreamland.

Necromantica, indeed. Sparrows
fight near my window, then die, undaunted.

Each night a dead girl sucks on my ribs, flows
through me, the closest she’ll get to warm blood.

There are rational gods and there are mad ones.
I want neither. Just bliss. My stigmata

diaboli hurts. A kiss; now the air
withers around me. I have fucked legions,

sweated grace. I’ll save you from your dogma.
Come with me, cum with me, and rise like prayer.

untended

11 Thursday Sep 2014

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Somewhere within your untended hedgerow,
somewhere tufted and leafy, sleeps curled up

a small hibiscus demon, all aglow
with need, like a drunk on rot-gut julep.

Aren’t we like demons; our souls are stingy
with love but underneath we weep for not

being touched, kissed, possessed. Celibacy
is a myth, darling. I know what you thought

that you could live – or at least love – alone.
I shall part your hedge like Moses, go down

into your bower, find that plum-blossom
brute, kiss it awake, watch it gasp and groan,

watch it purr; soothe your pain, smooth your frown.
Love shall make us a threesome.