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memories of my ghost sista

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memories of my ghost sista

Author Archives: babylon crashing

grace’s skin

10 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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First Lover, First Mother, grace's skin, Lilith, outcast, poem, Poetry, sonnet

“In this first testing ground of the atomic bomb I have seen the most terrible and frightening desolation in four years of war. It makes a blitzed Pacific island seem like an Eden. The damage is far greater than photographs can show.”
–Wilfred Burchett

6th PRAYER:

Coming home in Lilith’s arms must I mount
the sand storm and shamble on toward ancient

Djenne-Djenno; together our names count
very little. What you call pussy, cunt,

bitch, I call mother, niece, aunt. I won’t be
the one who burns your vile house down. You’ll do

that; you’ll raise your own hand, for my story
is of a goddess who said no and who

met a priest wearing authority, cast
out First Wife, First Lover. If you must know

me then enter me like proverbs, grace’s
skin. All those words of yours, like a bomb blast,

simply damns you. Call me a Skank. Tease. Ho.
I am proud to be the child of Bitches.

one great truth

10 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Djenne-Djenno, Lilith, Mother of a Mixed Multitude, poem, Poetry, sonnet, there is no one great truth

“The vastness of the desert frightened her. Everything looked too far away, even the cloudless sky. There was nowhere you could hide in such emptiness.” — James Carlos Blake

2nd PRAYER:

To talk of Her is to talk of Eden,
a new religion barely two thousand

years old. The girl chased footprints while the sun
made tracks in the caravan path glisten

leading to one more heat mirage and what
do they make of that in Djenne-Djenno

voices on the wind where no one sleeps but
the girl herself and what did the pharaoh

know of the wide divine that you yourself
did not save that there is no one great truth

that all paths lead to a dried up water
hole. When I count bleached bones I count myself.

You pray to an old man, I pray to youth,
to a girl, I pray to the First Lover.

breaking down babylon’s door

10 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Babylon, Djenne-Djenno, goddess, Jeddah, Lilith, poem, Poetry, sonnet

“Once, my mother told a whole host of angels that she’d rather die than go back to a man she didn’t love.” ― Brenna Yovanoff

5th PRAYER:

I is I, Lilith is Lilith. Mama
who came out of Babylon will save us.

Call it Djenne-Djenno. Call it Jeddah.
City of Souls. Mankind is still lawless,

despite Allah, Christ and Yahweh. Your laws
are what you ignore. Why not, then, condemn

such men? Eye for eye? Aiii, I won’t, because
war, rape and killing, that’s your gifts, they stem

from gods acting like men. If I follow
let me follow your mothers and your young.

I will march to your city’s gates, pound on
your doors, demand entrance. I do not know

what will happen next. Perhaps I’ll speak in tongue,
perhaps I will rise like the sun at dawn.

][

note:

Jeddah and Djenne-Djenno are ancient cities, respectfully. Djenne-Djenno is considered to be among the oldest in sub-Saharan Africa, while Jeddah is located in western Saudi Arabia along the Red Sea coast. The ruins of Babylon are located in modern-day Iraq.

mother monster sire lady

10 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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lady, Lilith, monster, mother, poem, Poetry, sire, sonnet

“Madness plants mirrors in the desert. I find their meaning frightening.” ― Floriano Martins

4th PRAYER:

What could catch Lilith? A djinn’s brass bottle?
A song? A prayer? No one could catch Isis,

and she was twice as old. A human skull
is not constructed to house a goddess;

She is vast, like a sand storm, like a djinn.
Mother monster, sire, lady. I am Thirst.

I am Hunger. There isn’t enough sin
here to feed a soul. Sin, like a sun-burst,

is far beyond human control. Make me
arch. Make me dreadful. I’m nothing but loss.

But I believe. Hunger. Thirst. These answers
will not save my soul. I am vain and She

who I’ve caught in a bottle, like a cross,
like a book, will always hate her captors.

summoning

10 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Babylon, Bedouin, free verse, Jeddah, Lilith, poem, Poetry, sand storm, summoning

“I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs and gleams …” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince.

1st PRAYER:

Wake and watch dawn pour over the desert;
as it does everyday in the city

of Jeddah, in Babylon. She searched for
Lilith among the corpses the raiders

leave for the vultures for she has waited
lifetimes, another dawn, one more sunset,

for this. Out on the Sahara’s low lip
something entered her wrists, thin fingers stirred,

touching, just once, nails kissing each other.
All I tell you is a secret, a need

beyond word, beyond sound, silence, until
the silence releases something like prayer,

like song. She sat in the sand, drew circles
with her curved horn-blade. It is hard not to fall

in love with blades, with rage, with a war like blades.
It was a summoning from the silence,

from Lilith, the First Wife, the First Lover.
She threw down the curved-horn, turned to the south.

A Bedouin widow sat on a dune,
watching the girl watching the vast sand storm

approach, washing over everything; pulsing
with what the ancients called destruction of life.

by moon and crossroad

10 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Bedouin, Lilith, myth of the desert, poem, Poetry, sonnet

3rd PRAYER:

Mother of a mixed multitude, seeking
Lilith but not her flesh nor the image

of her flesh not the bone nor the clicking
of tongue not the brain wearing its damage

as mask not the mind with its false color
and not this and not that I have followed

the dim tracks of the Bedouin mother
following the girl by moon and crossroad

following the sand storm. I love rough seas.
I love their power. I’m not smart enough

to get out of their way. I want the myth
of the desert to fall in love with me.

Consume me. I call upon the mischief,
the sand, all that they call Mother Lilith.

underground

10 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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gunplay, gutter, moon moth, poem, Poetry, sonnet, vixen, watching the rain

Living on a hill, rain water would run
down, she’d follow its path to the gutter,

moon moths playing in her hair, a vixen
at her heels, to watch it vanish under

the street. Underground water works this way.
In the desert it has no other choice.

As a child she was taught fencing, gunplay,
and wit, verbal repartee. When the voice

from the chip implanted in her skull spoke
she would obey. The fox was always nice,

the moths didn’t scare her. She liked watching
the rain fall in the street, letting it soak

into her, making the rain smell like spice
and the underground vast and bellowing.

Image

anyanwu

10 Wednesday Sep 2014

Tags

Africa, Anyanwu, art, Eye of the Sun, Igbo, mythology

Anyanwu

Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Illustration and art

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sulfur and breath

07 Sunday Sep 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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bull-fighting, cojones, ghost of a bull, picadore, sulfur and breath, tercio de muerte

Rising up from my bath snorted the ghost
of a bull, all ruined from some bastard

picadore’s lance. From where I sat, almost
all of his soft, looping intestines swirled

in the water, and the sulfur and breath
from his nostrils hissed. He had gored the man

who had slain him during the “third of death,”
“tercio de muerte,”
fight. What began

as a haunting ended with me sewing
the bull’s head upon the matador’s vast

corpse. But being a vain ghost, I also
sewed his cojones, leaving them hanging

below his knees. The rest of the day passed
with us snogging mad in the back meadow.

][

note:

I’m using terms here taken from the lexicon of the Spanish blood sport called bull-fighting. A picador is one of the horsemen that jabs the bull with a lance. Tercio de muerte is the third part of a bull-fight where the matador finally plunges his sword into the weakened bull. Cojones are, of course, testicles.

not waving

06 Saturday Sep 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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consume me, faith in drowning, I say dumb things, poet, Poetry, sonnet, spirit as sea

I try to say good things; bad things tumble
out. And so my brain works that way. Crazy.

Ask me about home, I point to my skull.
Ask me about god, I point to the sea.

Home is chaos, uncontrolled waves. My brain
like the coast closes in fog. Dark creeps in.

Will you please forgive me for all the pain
that I leave you? Somewhere, a dorsal fin

breaks the water’s surface. That is love. Drown
or do not drown; love circles us, waiting.

It will consume and I will gladly give
up all of this for love, for you. Go down

to the beach, look out and see me waving.
The fin circles. Consume me, please, forgive.

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