Author Archives: babylon crashing

fivefold

14 Friday Feb 2020

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We’re no burgundy brew crew; derisive
of how slow liquor takes to reach your clit.

We’ve clinched quicker means. Your conservative
spouse and his church clan claim, “effeminate

brats,” like me go straight to hell, boy. The glee
and joy we got each time we rolled your old

cuckold, sloppy drunk sick upstairs, while we
capered (plunged and hit deep, frothed your fivefold

lips, reared back to plunge again) like the brat
cats that we are: witch’s brats. Fuck buddies

with the Black Arts. Lovers of corpulent
terrors. Your husband can’t even, “begat.”

We’re progenitors of beguiling sleaze,
eldritch sex acts, love both odd and ancient.

][][

NOTE: Contrary to popular belief, a “witch’s brat,” is simply a male, of any age, who studies the dark arts under the tutelage of a licensed necromancer. Niccolo Paganini, the 17th century violin genius, was called, “The Devil’s Stepson,” and the “Witch’s Brat,” for his demonic and amazing musical virtuosity.

clean

07 Friday Feb 2020

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That queer scratchy noise; dead nails on floorboards
while my cat snarled, hissed, and backed away —

For a week we didn’t notice. The wards
were up. We were back; fucking like doomsday

was still nigh (please), grinning as I’d ravish
your mouth; feeling you gag on the chaos

of my flesh while begging me to finish
(please) on your face, rubbing my cock across

your outstretched tongue. Of course something crept in
during our shagged-out acts (please); something drawn

by me licking your bones clean. My cat’s wail.
The thing on the floor. For a week our twin

pleasures burned us clean, until doomsday, spawn
of our pride, what the kids called: “epic fail.”

godhead

03 Monday Feb 2020

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Cant (noun) 1) phraseology peculiar to a particular class or profession; 2) the private language of the underworld.

Slowly this language fills in the distance
between us. Once your clit was all the Braille

that I needed, a queer kind of bone. Once
I had no words for the suction cup gale

of your mouth: resting on your tongue love drips
down your chin. Feel how I swell full fathom

like hearts and tempests swell? Now place your lips
around my crown. Yes, suckle me down. Cum

translates into endless ways to love. Those
who drown in love live. Those who live can speak

the words only heard by shamans and bawds —
a queer kind of tongue. Will you spit what flows

in your mouth out or swallow? Let this freak
godhead fly: cunt’s cant of rent boys and gods.

voracity

14 Tuesday Jan 2020

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Dank, like sick. Huge, like “rouge jass.” The eldritch
horror sat on my chest and purred. Mouth, cunt,

budunkadunk; we all have ways in. Witch
without craft, shaman without gods; ancient

grudges have left me without familiar
or friend until, tossed in nightmare, I let

it in. Lich flesh. Lyke-Wake dirge. Corpse purr.
I’m all grease and juice and mutton bone. Wet

treat for ghastliness keen on all that smut.
Toothed lips. — Heinous anus. — Voracity

from hell. — Even if I’m only loved in
nightmare that’s enough, phatty bubble butt.

It’s still love hunched on my chest, teaching me
its queer language that has no word for sin.

cranked

13 Monday Jan 2020

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“Twenty minutes,” you gasp, dropping the phone.
“Beastly perversions,” as your dad calls this,

take time. This is just, “d’baw-chuh-ree,” thrown
in high gear. All that drenched, languid, “sk-hiss,”

rhythm we love gets cranked. Fury cums, it bursts,
leaving us sodden, like prayer. We all pray

in our way. I pray in you so these thirsts
and greeds might slow. No. Climax is doomsday

postponed. Once again that damned car pulls up
and I pull out. Once again we scamper

to get dressed. “¡Sodomite!” your dad christened
me. True, I swing both ways but I worship

with you. Love takes time. In prayer, however,
we cum like feral gods, fuck like legend.

fangled

12 Sunday Jan 2020

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“Neat,” I tweak. Rolling your nipple between
fingers and thumb. You bleat out weak-squeak noise

during recess. — In the girl’s bathroom. — In
the 3rd stall. Shorts pulled down; your thick tomboy’s

thighs clamped around what passes as my wrist,
spreading out inside you. For two whole weeks

you’d come for me, emerging with a mist
of dead boy’s cum and a newfangled freak’s

need for more finger fucking. — I’m your ghost
of a wallflower every time I, “eights,”

you. A thousand years of bliss stir in you.
None of your classmates have felt this, can boast

dead boys love them. Just you, when grief mutates
to need in the bathroom. Call this rescue.

bawl

10 Friday Jan 2020

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Don’t come to moan by my sick bed, lover.
I don’t want rust’s slow kiss of corrosion.

I want catastrophic systems failure. —
if you must bawl and groan let your tears run

into my pubes as you splutter my cock
urgently down your throat, like it’s the last

time we’ll get to do this, this beastly shock
of bliss, touch of nirvana spread out vast

in us. Cum quick or slow we know all this
must end. Take me now before my flesh cracks;

before I lose all my lustful intent —
no more melting as one from a rude kiss —

no more lull before hip-pounding climax—
no more glow of surrender once we’re spent.

drizzle

02 Thursday Jan 2020

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Less blindman’s bluff, more soixante-neuf, climax
ached as I sucked the crotch of your blood-splotched

panties, pomegranate drizzle. Soundtracks:
quaff, sip, sup. Soon half a century debauched

will be nothing; like storms sired in your gut,
your stirred cunt, when we parted your sarong.

I’ve lapped up secrets the color of smut:
anathema’s dawn, cthulhu’s spawn, the long-

lipped yawn of menstrual flow. The zodiac
has grown grotesque. Soothsaying holds no bliss.

Soon. Soon I’ll be fifty … in March (hint-hint),
on a Tuesday, your clit-smack the soundtrack

of my day, your lips leaving a blood-kiss
tasting just like copper and peppermint.

scritch

01 Wednesday Jan 2020

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Coïtus interruptus. Spanish oak moss
and cicadas. Chronic heat. Unease deep

in singed Sierra hills. True. That chaos
sex I brought wasn’t fun. Gnawing deep creep

of dusk, faces at the window, the, “scritch,”
of nails unseen on your skin. At long last

you kicked me out. I could sleep with, “the witch,”
you said. Your mom, pure, “bruja,” loved all vast

pleasures elder gods brought. I was neither.
A child of dry heat. Mesquite. Chaotic

sex soon lured you back to lurk, still sullen,
as the witch got lip-lapped. “Voy a venir!”

you could hear your mom shout. Your fingers slick.
Even the creeping dread stopped to listen.

Note:
Bruja means witch and “Voy a venir!” translates into “I’m cumming!” in Spanish.

jaeniesh

30 Monday Dec 2019

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Possess, as I possessed that demon, bits
of flesh needing love. In letters I sound

like an arse, I know, writing about clits,
cocks and cunts, and (what did McKay say?) drowned

Harlem girls on drowned Harlem streets. More, please.
Jaeniesh called me infernal. I still grin.

What does a demon know about Hades
but that it’s home? I met her and moved in.

She screamed storms and then flooded with my cock
in her arse. “My mind bursts each time I cum.”

You did not want that but she did. “Please, more,”
Jaeniesh hissed. Other called this smut and schlock,

but they’ve never been possessed with Harlem
of souls, with bliss, with libertine rancor.

Note:
Claude McKay (1889-1948) was one of the key figures in the Harlem Renaissance of the 1930s. He wrote, “Adventure-seasoned and storm-buffeted,/ I shun all signs of anchorage, because/ The zest of life exceeds the bound of laws.”