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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Author Archives: babylon crashing

sex without fear

18 Tuesday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic obscura, poem, Poetry, sex without fear, sonnet

 

Mother and son listened to the muffled
voices from the room next door. The babel

of vice in a love hotel. The ribald
grunt of bed-springs breaking. The carnal

sob that comes from a job well done. He played
with her hard nipple, toyed with her swollen

lips. She held his head until he obeyed,
her long curved fingers making a fountain

for him to drown in. Her mouth at his ear,
sliding down his naked skin, cupping him,

her mouth taking in his engorged boy-cock
down to its root. What is sex without fear?

Later, they sighed, sticky with their jism
and bliss. This is what we call “pillow talk.”

queimando, ardendo, incendiando

17 Monday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Tags

ardendo, art, incendiando, poem, Portuguese translation, queimando, spliff

tumblr_m7mewlvhvg1rspimto1_250

Pretty and pink, I want to sleep.
Waiting for a touch, I forget you until daybreak.
I am the full moon, if I smoke a joint and excite my libido.
Burning, burning, burning, and then … ashes.

][][

Linda e rosada, quero dormir.
À espera de um toque, quero esquecer até o dia clarear.
Eu sou o lua cheia, se eu fumar um charro, e libido a excitam.
Queimando, ardendo, incendiando, e … cinza.

minha língua

16 Sunday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Tags

art, cunnilingus, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation

March 16, 2014 (2)

Drinking angels.
Saliva. My tongue.
My language. My words.

Lick my wings with your verb.
Until you feel the orgasm flower within my shoulders.

Slowly lick my clit, said the angel.
The pulse of your tongue touches it.
You devil, the angel said.
You leave me nearly dead horny.

][][

Bebem os anjos.
A saliva. Minha língua.
Minha lingua. Meus palavras.

Lambe-me as asas com a teu verbo.
Até que você sente a flor orgasmo dentro da meus ombros.

Devagar lambesse o meu clitóris, disse o anjo.
O dos teus pulsos isso língua toca.
Você diabo, disse o anjo.
Você me deixa de tesão quase morto.

do gosto da vida libidinosa

14 Friday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Tags

do gosto da vida libidinosa, erotic, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, taste of libidinous life

 

My skin and the wind
sings your verses
to the moon. Your body
on mine. Your willingness
to taste. Desire
to do crazy things before,
during and after. Your
tongue to know me.
My mouth to suck you.
Under the influence
of the moon
Under the taste of
libidinous life.

][][

Minha pele e o vento
canta teus versos
para a Lua. Teu corpo
no meu. Teu vontade
de sentir o gosto. Desejo
de fazer loucuras antes,
durante e depois. Da tua
língua a me conhecer.
Minha boca a te sugar.
Sob a influência
da Lua.
Sob a do gosto da
vida libidinosa.

the nightmare girl: chapter 1

08 Saturday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Illustration and art, Prose

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Tags

Ararat Burns, Armenian Genocide, art, Mariam Abandian, prose

March 08, 2014 (1)

A few days after her birth in 1879 in the Cilician town of Tarsus, in what is now considered to be part of southern Turkey, Mariam’s father walked to the local government building to record the event. Her parents wanted everything in order before they moved to the Ottoman city of Kars with their infant daughter. They had decided to leave their small town for there were no opportunities in Tarsus at that time and many of their formally friendly neighbors were grumbling that Armenians were to blame.

Mariam’s father was known to the government official in charge of name keeping and the issuing of birth certificates.

“Ah, it is you, Yeghishe, what can I do for you?” the official asked.

“Help me celebrate my very good news,” her father said. “I wish to report and record the birth of my daughter. She is to be called Mariamna.” Mariamna being the Russian version of the Armenian name, Miriam.

“Mariamna?” asked the official in disbelief. “No, no. Mariamna is no good.”

Her father had not anticipated any objection to the name he and his wife had chosen. It was, though, an old maxim of the Armenians of Tarsus never to question Muslim officials without understanding what was expected of them first. Her father stayed silent and waited.

The official said, “You are going to relocate to Kars, he, Yeghishe?” There were no secrets in their town. Naturally, the Armenians knew everything about each other. It was curious, too, that their Muslims neighbors always seemed to know about the business of the Armenians as well.

“You see? there is no sense in burdening your daughter with a Russian name. What Turk would do that? No, no. Use Meryem instead. That’s a proper Turkish name and she won’t be so despised when she grows. Yes, yes, Meryem. Your daughter will be better off,” the town’s official said, presenting the startled father with a document bearing witness that one Shahani, wife of Yeghishe Zildjian, had given birth to a daughter, Meryem Zildjian, on October 30, 1879.

The story of Mariam’s forced name conversion soon became part of their family lore, and before her first birthday the three of them left Tarsus for Kars. By then, Mariam had evolved into Mare, a nickname that her parents and friends all called her, ignoring the Meryem decreed by the funny little man in a red fez.

Mariam was a good name, it suited her nature well, for it was ancient and meant “the rebellious one” and in a world that was about to be torn apart in war and fire only the rebellious shall survive.

Image

ghost shark of my soul

06 Thursday Mar 2014

Tags

art, chaos in the waves, ghost shark, Great White Shark, Pacific, rambles

March 06, 2014 (1)

March 06, 2014 (2)

March 06, 2014 (3)

March 06, 2014 (4)

Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Illustration and art

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BUT THE MACHINERY OF HALLUCINATION …

06 Thursday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

machinery of hallucination, poem, Poetry, pretty piece of flesh i, sonnet

“and ’tis known a pretty piece of flesh am I.”
— Shakespeare

… is just simple brass trapezoids, organs
attached to organs, atoms to atoms.

The thermometer’s quicksilver lengthens.
Wheels whirr. Steam steams. These retrograde systems,

archaic even, concentric streamlined
gadgets, working elements that Dante

called hell, all of this, everything I find
inside myself, this heart beating away

in the dark, will one day melt into air.
Stop. Cease. Listen. Hear it? The cynic’s star

laughs, makes signs of the hobo and the bum.
What a piece of work caught between despair

and joy. I count the beats, play the guitar
and wait. I’m air. I’m song. I am rhythm.

Image

gleti of the dahomey

23 Sunday Feb 2014

Tags

art, Dahomey, Gleti, moon goddess, West Africa

Feb 23, 2014 (4)

West African moon goddess …

Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Illustration and art

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epigrams xi.99

23 Sunday Feb 2014

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

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Tags

art, artist unknown, Epigrams XI.99, erotic, hentai, Martial, poem, Poetry, Roman poetry

Feb 23, 2014 (1)

Feb 23, 2014 (2)

 

De cathedra quotiens surgis — jam saepe notavi — pedicant miserae, Lesbia, te tunicae … sic constringuntur gemina Symplegade culi et nimias intrant Cyaneasque natis.

“I’ve noticed when you get up from the couch you’ve been assfucked, Lesbia, by your wretched skirts. Your skirts are caught between your massive cheeks as big as two Gibraltars — it’ll be a tight fit.”

— Martial, «Epigrams XI.99»

root bound

23 Sunday Feb 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic, just think, midnight skag, poem, Poetry, root bound, sonnet

Midnight sweetly suck soft peaks hard ridges
a cute twitching ear. Clandestine, candle-

less acts each panting partner’s pubic fuzz
old-growth jungle in darkness the cruel

sticky fun things that we who in stillness,
nocturnal fragrance, tongues in the sun, gag

down our dear flora moon’s rootbound tresses.
Holding captive junk, black ink, midnight skag,

eyelids close — our hats tipped forward, low slung
guns, or pecs or whatever you call it.

Just think: I will never sleep with you, you’ll
never know such love, or taste such a tongue.

And yet you go on — thinking all this shit
is good. And it is. It is just awful.

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