Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art
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the quick and the dead
03 Sunday Feb 2013
Author Archives: babylon crashing
upon a hint of ginger
02 Saturday Feb 2013
Tags
bastard lover, ginger root, memory, New Mexico, Old Spice, Pinos Altos, scent, sonnet, winter
A scent comes back to me. The last safe love
I knew smelled of pinon nuts, a winter
in New Mexico. Brine from an olive
still scares me. A bastard of a lover
ruined cloves and made the hint of Old Spice
into fear. A boy I loved in fishnet
stockings knew how to make plums smell like vice.
I have forgotten names. I don’t forget
the musk you once used to mask your true scent.
There’s no hiding from that. But memories
of scents are either sad joys or hell-bent
dread and nothing else … nothing that can please.
How odd that the one who loved me the most
turned this mild whiff into a vengeful ghost.
aftershocks
02 Saturday Feb 2013
Tags
aftershock, earthquake, little death, orgasm, petite morte, sonnet
Beneath the surface nothing waits. Measure
these things in “magnitude.” Rubbing, grinding
something, like Tectonic plates, shift; tremor
in your left thigh spreads outward, consuming
you all. You love this sort of destruction.
There can be no life without some small death.
Later, gasping, entwined in the ruin
of the bedsheets, you try to catch your breath
on wet ground. All these puddles that have gushed
under pressure show that nothing will wait.
All it takes is a fingertip, one brushed
nipple, for aftershocks. Magnitude eight.
Sure, this is sadistic. But you trust me,
so I’ll see that you survive, just barely.
kai and the snow queen
02 Saturday Feb 2013
Tags
That day Kai got into a curious
white sleigh, driven by a woman in furs.
“Man-child, make me warm,” she said. Her hairless
body was blue ice. “Come taste your mother’s
milk” and smothered Kai between her pale thighs.
She let him taste her only twice: the first
to numb him from the cold; then to baptize
the boy’s face in an aurora-like burst
of mist. “Come. I will have you mine, I want
the heat of your cock now.” Is it wicked
to seek out what we lack? A ghost will haunt
for love. The Snow Queen for Kai’s burning blood.
Would she melt when he geysered inside her?
The thought made her smile, urge the sleigh faster.
vain and macabre
31 Thursday Jan 2013
Tags
You asked, dear boy, now that I’m in the grave
if I had ever tried to shave the hair
off my cunny? Once or twice. But to shave
a ghost’s pubes, it cannot be done. I swear,
we can try, it’ll be fun, but there is no
razor made by man that can get the job
done. How other ghosts bear it, I don’t know.
Death makes us all rather vain and macabre.
I died in my nightgown, which will become
transparent when wet. Pity the girl cursed
to wear only panties until kingdom
come, with pubes peeking. I’d die of shame first.
Do you care? Let me sit on your face, nose
in my curls. Now make me gasp out all my oohs.
birth of the girl made of clay
31 Thursday Jan 2013
Posted in video
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drops of gray
30 Wednesday Jan 2013
Tags
forbidden, freak-out, ghost girl, kink show horror, sonnet, tears
Is that where the fear lies? When the dead girl
turns all the way around and we behold …
one more sad, misshaped face — one more swirl
of dark, untidy hair — blue skin stone cold —
X of a broken neck — empty drowned eyes.
You know that party trick; it’s all you hear
about. I wouldn’t call it total “lies,”
but there has to be more. A ghost unclear
on the concept just gets laughed at. Darling,
come live with me. We’ll figure something out.
There’s more to death than clammy skin, creaking
floors and causing the irksome to freak-out.
Smile, my honey dear, while, I kiss away
your tears … drops of blood, of dust, drops of gray.
that’s what keeps me up at night
30 Wednesday Jan 2013
Ask me what is scary. You who adore
shrieks at midnight, chainsaws and blood. A wave
of red dye number nine. As much fake gore
as your ticket stubs allow. See this grave,
ladies and gentlemen? Do not once doubt
that the dead will sleep. That gypsies don’t curse.
That Jack’s giant has stopped stomping about,
shouting, “fe – fi – fo – fum!” There is perverse
joy in being afraid, I’m told, of things
that can’t hurt you. As if to say, “scare me
again with the ridiculous doings
of cheap nightmares.” Because that’s not scary.
Work at a safe house; hear about terrors
that look like men, what we call real monsters.
boyish sea hag
30 Wednesday Jan 2013
Tags
Bermuda, blood kelp, El Salvador, Hebrides, natty dreads, ocean, reading waves, sea hag, sea magic, skerries, sonnet, Yahweh
I read these waters. The hoarse Hebrides;
the sun-blind surges of El Salvador;
Bermuda’s coral reefs; Dublin’s rock skerries.
I’m the middle between the void and shore.
Far out from in the waves comes the reply.
Mist of sundown rises, stretches away
across the horizon and distant sky.
Reading waves is like talking to Yahweh,
grumpy old man. I draw in the sea, shreds
of speech that wash away. I take sea-weed
off rocks, blood kelp, make them my natty dreads.
A spar is my staff. I am a half-breed;
boyish sea hag; living a life devoid
of words, either on shore or in the void.
love in the time of a 100 year winter
30 Wednesday Jan 2013
Tags
100 year winter, Bank Holiday, Cair Paravel, chemotherapy, giant, groovy cheetah sex, Jadis, Jinn, Narnia, sonnet, White Witch
We were on Bank Holiday at a Lone
Islands resort. Her job was stressful,
sure, she told me, having sat on the throne
all those crazy years at Cair Paravel.
Dating the Chatelaine of Narnia
has its perks. The bling was always brilliant.
I tell you, nothing beats groovy cheetah
sex with a girl who’s half Jinn, half Giant.
Plus, she reads! I’ll take a White Witch with brains
over vapid wood nymphs, tsk. While ago
she had gone through chemo. But her migraines
returned. It hurts to watch her walk so slow.
She knows. I’m there. Give me your rage, sorrow,
fear. I’m here, Jadis, til’ the end, you know.
memories of my ghost sista 