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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Author Archives: babylon crashing

sick

10 Friday Sep 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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after a long illness, age of swing, bland pornography, not with these lungs, poem, Poetry, sonnet, speak in tongues

I’ve been chasing the septic, the abscessed,

the wild and purulent. Disease is a grand

stand-in for lustfulness these days. A quest

for what others give away free. Not bland

pornography –– Promises of what might

happen. Let them exhale. Even the most

chaste and vestal can still hack & cough. Light

me up, dead man, with fever. Some still boast

of their prowess; as if the age of swing

might go back as before. Not with these lungs.

Not with this immune system. When I pull

on your hair and say, “you’re sick,” I’m being

literal. When I start to speak in tongues

that just taint I’m spewing, by the soulful.

just

31 Tuesday Aug 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Aeschylus, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, Odd Nature of Death, of all the gods, Sappho, sonnet

The day done gray. “Of the gods,” Aeschylus

said, “Death alone does not crave gifts.” The rest

love their altars and praise; become jealous

and ill-tempered if crossed. For Death the blessed

and the sinner are the same and worms feed

on them all. “Death shall be Death forever,”

Sappho said; unlike us, love, with our need

to see ourselves in what we praise. Lover,

love me now before I become just dust

of ten thousand years. My gift is coaxing

of my tongue – stroking foam – sucking obscene

– tasting what you crave. Let the righteous rust

since Death won’t care if we do everything,

nothing or just hardcore bling in-between.

][][

Notes:

Aeschylus was an ancient Greek playwright, known as the, “Father of Tragedy.” Sappho, “The 10th Muse,” was master of the lyric poem. I like what Kenneth Rexroth said about her art, “There has been no other poet like this. Wherever enough words remain to form a coherent context, they give one another a unique luster, an effulgence found nowhere else. Presentational immediacy of the image, overwhelming urgency of personal involvement — in no other poet are these two prime factors of lyric poetry raised to so great a power.”

taint

24 Tuesday Aug 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Uncategorized

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Memory of broken bones, poem, Poetry, sonnet

How hot? The scabs under these bandages
came loose. Ointments melted. Stench sang sultry,

turning all this loving flesh to itches
and taint. Scratched them so much I pulled out three

stitches; they dangled from the scabs like roots.
Vegas heat made me long for other lips.

This heat is ooze and sulphur that pollutes
and crusts. No bath. No A/C. Just crushed hips

and cracked ribs; just on my back trying not
to move. Even typing this stinks. I dream

of ice, clean bed sheets. A month being prone
unnerves nerves; like sutures pulling on taut

flesh gone green, gassy. So hot my bloodstream
turned sick, lugging taint through each splintered bone.

    verve

    20 Friday Aug 2021

    Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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    after a long illness, sonnet

    How the fuck does someone fuck in something/ as bent and broken shaft, as dried as pools

    no ink flows from, as a poem? Fucking,/ even the Platonic Ideal, has rules

    that we must follow. Instead follow this/ as I rise, aroused. It’s been one hundred

    twenty-three days (nombre magique!) amiss,/ blissless, frantic, sick. Some cocksucka said

    there’s no world soul, no anima spirit,/ no blessed words. By clits, cocks and balls, these scrawls

    rise with me. This is the ideal: shortest/ distance between us——words. We, who submit

    to lust’s divine plan. Recall what befalls/ cocksuckas who scorn the verve of Logos.

    ][][

    Notes:

    Logos is a Greek philosophical term that says a divine word (reason) governs the universe. Likewise, World Souland Anima (Spirit) Mundi are other concepts of Logos. Plato’s Platonic Ideal states that the idea of an act or object is, “more real,” than the object itself. In this case the concept of fucking is more real than the act itself. Finally, I love numbers that arrange themselves in patterns (12:34, etc.) Nombre magique is French for, “Magic number.” It’s good to be back 🙂

    onibaba [i,i]

    17 Wednesday Mar 2021

    Posted by babylon crashing in drama

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    conversations with imaginary sisters, drama, Genpei War, Hangaku Gozen, hitodama, Jiutian Xuannu, jiuzhou, onibaba, play, scene ii, seishin kitsune

    SCENE I.

    A semi-dark room scantily furnished. A sliding door opens and the distant chaos of a battle can be heard as two ghosts enter. The first, the soul of the legendary Hangaku Gozen, is dressed in her full samurai armor. The second, Lady Seishin, wears a kimono that might have been stylish 100 years ago and a kabuki fox mask that she never takes off. At the back of the stage is a small fire pit and a small window. Seishin stirs the embers and then stands by the window, peering anxiously out.

    SEISHIN.

    It is a wild night outside.

    HANGAKU.

    Help me off with this helmet. Is the rain still coming down?

    SEISHIN.

    In torrents. I cannot see the other side of the road.

    HANGAKU.

    That’s good.

    SEISHIN.

    If not being able to see someone ten feet away is good, then hai. Luck is with us. Should I put the oil wick in the window?

    HANGAKU.

    [Sitting down next to fire with her helmet in her hands.] Why? No. Only when we hear her order a retreat. That’s what she said.

    SEISHIN.

    But on a night like this she may have pulled the troop all the way back to Kyoto and we’ll never know.

    HANGAKU.

    Do not be so querulous, you cranky fox.

    SEISHIN.

    This isn’t me being cranky. Something is about to happen. Listen to the wind sobbing around the house … a lost soul that we’re refusing to let enter.

    HANGAKU.

    Why would we do that? The wind loves us.

    SEISHIN.

    The wind puts up with us. Ever since— What was that?

    HANGAKU.

    [Listens.] It is our message, I think. [Listens harder.] Something is coming. Douse the fire.

    [The room is reduced once more to semi-darkness.]

    SEISHIN.

    Shouldn’t we—?

    [This time the sound is heard by both women. Someone or something in groaning in the dark. They stand as the door slides open and Jiutian Xuannu enters.]

    XUANNU.

    Cousins, why are we wasting time here? I was going to call retreat but those stupid Takahashi samurai are milling about right over there and look so smite-able.

    HANGAKU.

    But who is going to do the smiting? You?

    XUANNU.

    You look sad, cousin. We’re shadows, azure-

    eyed, made from lust and stardust and despise

    blood and afterbirth. Fools fear our power

    to peel off our pelts. Fools fear change, disguise,

    the way floods deform and do not deform

    dry earth. But, cousin, what use are nightmares

    if you can wake up? Why try to transform

    when we can slaughter? We don’t need more snares

    fools keep slipping free from. Call Onibaba.

    She’s a friend. She has farseeing vision

    and short cruel knives. Fools call her, “Hag with Tusks

    and Fangs Chitter-Chatting in her Vulva.”

    Fools fear her carnage; her love of carrion;

    how she sucks both down to their very husks.

    HANGAKU.

    Fetch her.

    [Jiutian Xuannu exits.]

    HANGAKU [cont.]

    But first, let’s test her skills. Seishin, you pretend to be me.

    SEISHIN.

    I’m not a ghost. I think she’ll notice.

    [Jiutian Xuannu, Onibaba and Kijo all enter.]

    SEISHIN.

    Ah, Lady Onibaba. Chrysanthemum in the Legion of Flowers. Mire in the Order of Tenacity. Chalice of Malice. Fury of the Divine Crest. It is I, your Lady Hangaku!

    ONIBABA.

    Xuannu, I find it odd that the, “Terror of Genpei,” would be both Jiuzhou and alive.

    XUANNU.

    [Aside.] That was the worst Hangaku impersonation I’ve ever seen.

    HANGAKU.

    Lady Onibaba, please forgive me for being cautious. Who is this?

    ONIBABA.

    [Indicating Kijo.] My daughter, Lady Kijo.

    HANGAKU.

    [Incredulous.] You had sex?

    ONIBABA.

    Hai.

    HANGAKU.

    [Skeptical.] With a mortal?

    ONIBABA.

    Hai.

    HANGAKU.

    [Scandalized.] O my, you nanty narking chuckabog.

    ONIBABA.

    I don’t think you brought me all this way to make snide comments about my lovers.

    [A loud moaning begins from outside and the wind rattles against the hut’s walls.]

    ONIBABA [cont.]

    The dusk wails and you pray for Onibaba

    to smite souls. It’s fitting that twilight

    moans for us, glimpsing our hitodama,

    our blue-green flames, as we pass in the night,

    searching for the spot where we died; where our

    blood touched the earth and our hubris melted

    when we found out all our sweet truths were sour,

    our faiths false. Who claims to know what’s sacred?

    How I don’t know. But they’ll kill for it.

    You want me to go out and lay the Eight

    Ring Curse on those men? Men who love carnage

    and their samurai bushido bullshit?

    I’ll do it. Saints say hate cannot kill hate.

    I say all we are is gristle and rage.

    SEISHIN.

    [Aside.] These mountain demons can be very tempting with their tongues.

    ONIBABA.

    Don’t frown, Lady Hangaku. That was you once, too: a butcher. Now you’re just dead and vague.

    [The door opens and a little battlefield spirit acting as a messenger enters.]

    SENJO BOZU.

    [Bowing.] My sovereign. Ladies of the court. I come from the walls of Osaka. Takahashi’s soldiers have stormed our outer defenses. We are now fighting in the streets.

    XUANNU.

    What sort of necromancers do they have that can breach our spells?

    HANGAKU.

    I heard that Emagami The Blight was selling herself again, but her skills are pitiful.

    XUANNU.

    [To Onibaba.] My lady, do you think that we should give up on Osaka, or not?

    ONIBABA.

    Of course not. Only cowards and monks run away.

    HANGAKU.

    Yattaaaa! I agree with what she says: we’ll fight it out.

    ONIBABA.

    Glory is like the ripples on the water. You have given me the task of whipping the Takahashi then I will beat those waters until they froth.

    HANGAKU.

    Lady Onibaba, drive the living daylights out of Osaka. They says the root of suffering is attachment. I say we beat that koan home on the skulls of Takahashi and his men.

    [All exit.]

    ][][

    Notes:

    Onibaba is, as her name states, is a red-skinned, white-haired Japanese ogre. She carries a kanabo (Iron war stick) slung over her shoulder.

    Hangaku Gozen  was an actual warrior and fought in the Genpei War (1180-1185 AD).

    Jiutian Xuannu (Dark Lady of the Nine Heavens) is a Chinese goddess of war, lust and longevity. With long Mandarin robes and her Dadao (“Big sword”) she justifies showing up in this play by saying that she is on holiday.

    Seishin kitsune is one of the names used for a fox spirit.

    Senjo bozu. A spirit from the battlefield.

    Jiuzhou is an ancient name for China.

    Hitodama are a pair of blue flames (similar to will o’ the wisps) that accompany a ghost when it manifests.

    fool

    16 Tuesday Mar 2021

    Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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    Tags

    hag with tusks, love of carrion, onibaba, part of something larger, poem, Poetry, sonnet, vagina dentata

    You look sad, Auntie. We’re shadows, azure-

    eyed, made from lust and stardust and despise

     

    blood and afterbirth. Fools fear our power

    to peel off our pelts. Fools fear change, disguise,

     

    the way floods deform and do not deform

    dry earth. But, Auntie, what use are nightmares

     

    if you can wake up? Why try to transform

    when we can slaughter? We don’t need more snares

     

    Fools keep slipping free from. Call Onibaba.

    She’s a friend. She has farseeing vision

     

    and short cruel knives. Fools call her, “Hag with Tusks

    and Fangs Chitter-Chatting in her Vulva.”

     

    Fools fear her carnage; her love of carrion;

    how she sucks both down to their very husks.

    ][][

    Notes:

    In Japanese folklore Onibaba is a female demon.

    bygone

    15 Monday Mar 2021

    Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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    Tags

    Aphrodite Kallipygos, erotic poetry, Great God Pan, poem, putting the anal in bacchanal, sonnet, Venus Callipyge

    Not Pan, the Goat herder, the Goat fucker,

    lover of Goat porn. Nothing sleeps within

     

    the trees here. Those gods died with their timber

    hacked from bygone groves. Still, a thing moves in

     

    the dark these days. Even you, as faithless

    as you are, feel it. Your limb’s lust each time

     

    voluptuous Plump Rump Callipyge Venus

    calls. The other old school booty. Sublime

     

    curves in this cleared land. Venus spreads her cheeks

    while I tease with cock and thumb. Rude, sacred

     

    prayers are still out there; just not Pan, the Goat

    fucker. Who’ll teach you new techniques

     

    if you’ve lost your faith? Fill my head, she said,

    with prayer. I’ll gag on your cock in my throat.

    ][][

    Notes:

    The Romantic poets (Shelley, Byron, etc.) spend a lot of time moaning that ancient Greece’s eden, Arcadia, is lost to us in this modern era of cynicism and technology. According to the Greek historian Plutarch, Pan (protector of shepherds, seducer of nymphs and inventor of the syrinx panpipes) is the only Greek god who actually dies (and with him, Arcadia). According to myth, a sailor on his way to Italy heard a divine voice hail him across the waves: “When you reach the harbor at Palodes, tell the world that the great god Pan is dead.” Why some myths become popular while others don’t (especially considering Lord “I’ll Fuck Anything That Moves” Byron) I have always been fond of the stories about the Callipygian Venus, who the Romans called: “Venus with the Beautiful Ass.” Hers is an Arcadia that will never be lost.

    chars

    07 Sunday Mar 2021

    Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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    ars poetica, birthday, chars, grizzle, infected flame, Marquis de Sade, poem, Poetry, sonnet, stitches that ooze

    Next time you’ll count the scars. There will be more.

    Grizzled, you’ll think. Frost burn. It takes time

     

    for me to undress. Stitches hold my gore

    in place for now. This pain isn’t sublime,

     

    the sort that shamans use. It’s not De Sade’s

    doomsday, either. First time I saw someone

     

    tear at their clothes as they transformed gnawed

    at me for weeks. I will be fifty-one

     

    in less than a week. If I come back all

    grizzle gray and limping will you confuse

     

    me for the Moon? I can read all the scars

    on her face. Can you read mine? This queer scrawl

     

    that spells my fate each time these stitches ooze

    fevered flames. Heat that grizzles. Heat that chars.

    tell-tale

    22 Monday Feb 2021

    Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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    conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, i'm spilling more thank ink y'all, mischief mad, myrrh like honey, poem, song of songs, sonnet, tell-tale, wet oven heat

    Mischief-mad, hidden among the cushions,

    you guide three fingers under your burqa,

     

    biting back a tell-tale groan. Your oven’s

    wet heat, stoked each night from ash to lava

     

    while your husband snores near by, still tortures

    you the way faith haunts your thoughts all day long.

     

    When the first wet spot bleeds through your knickers;

    when myrrh drips from, like honey in the Song

     

    of Songs, your fingers –– then even mischief

    isn’t enough. Mother-in-laws yammer

     

    and whine, but you smolder: wet oven heat,

    holy cum shrine. Your longing is as tough

     

    as your soul’s flesh. Faith is only torture

    in a world that wants you chaste and discreet.

    bakkheia

    28 Thursday Jan 2021

    Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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    Tags

    Bacchus, bow chicka bow wow, favorite son of Dionysus, floor pie, masculine beauty, poem, Poetry, putting the anal in bacchanal, sonnet, soothsay

    Some just loathe Ecstasy; like the Roman

    who turned our Gorgeous Boy of Lust and Rage

     

    into some frail sot. To fear masculine

    beauty is to fear the divine. That age

     

    that tried to switch Dion-(bow chicka bow

    wow)-ysus with besotted ol’ Bacchus

     

    ended bad. This isn’t heresy. My vow

    is still to He Who Swaggers With Quenchless

     

    Thirst. The one god not appeased by widespread

    worship, sacrifice or floor pie. Altars

     

    do not sooth him, nor prophets who soothsay.

    Only madness in dance, in art, in bed.

     

    No priests or holy laws. Only lovers;

    we few who obey when we disobey.

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