Author Archives: babylon crashing

apocryphal thing

04 Monday Sep 2017

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Fruit flies drift around my glass-pipe. Cheeba
spirits — perhaps? A friend sends me ink flow

pix, thick thighs, spandex and short-shorts, extra
around the belly. I love my friend, though

we’re a world apart. Ghosts are everywhere,
like love. Dr. Teeth told us to, “Begin,

Believe, Begat.” But to start an affair
is an apocryphal thing with a friend.

Everything will change. I brush away specks.
On the laptop, Ganjasaurus Rex, plays.

I feel that heavy cold spot when I’m not
doing right but that need for friends, love, sex

leaves me low. To be appeased with just praise;
to have someone who might quell my distraught.

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quote unquote

30 Wednesday Aug 2017

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Don’t worry, spiders,

I keep house

casually.

][][

Goes out,

comes back —

the loves of a cat.

][][

I’m going out,

flies, so relax,

make love.

][][


The Hungry Ghosts

Flowers scattering—

the water we thirst for

far off, in the mist

][][

No talent

and so no sin

a winter’s day

][][

This stupid world —

skinny mosquitoes, skinny fleas,

skinny children

][][

Last time, I think,

I’ll brush the flies

from my father’s face.

— Kobayashi “little cup of tea” Issa (from Robert
Hass’ The Essential Haiku, 1994)

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Jena Strong’s “Throwdown”

30 Wednesday Aug 2017

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give me the drag queens, dolled up and delicious
the two moms bickering over the dishes
the orphans, adopted, the chosen, the trannies
the witches, the protestors, tattooed laughing grannies
the boys wearing tutus and all the shirtless
daughters of the revolution playing basketball
on the broken courts of lost fathers
the failures, the forgotten, the throwdown, the freak show
the hurts and the heartbreaks, the hassles and headaches
the beggar, the baron, the shelter, the clambake
trade in the cynical, the stubborn, the splintering showdown
because it’s time to unite now, yes it’s time to ignite now
it’s time to pick up the phone to say, It’s me and I love you

— 

Jena Strong

year of the conch shell

30 Wednesday Aug 2017

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The Year of the Cock makes gender-neutral
a tad hard, be it soft flesh or strap-on —

but we strive. If, during our long anal
fucking, I cup your balls, pull your tampon

string, or rub that scarred place that you can’t feel,
then we’re still creatures of fire in a world

that loathes burning. If, after each gasp, squeal
and, “¡Ai! mi Diosa!” If, while we’re curled,

nuzzled, while the sweat and cum cools, then yes,
this year might remain awful — we can lose

so much — yet, we’re here right now, divinely.
There’s no Year of the Conch Shell, though we bless

the same deep crinkled lips. These are taboos
that we must break—these acts that make us free.

unzips

28 Monday Aug 2017

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Sit. Dig your nails in. Feel scars that bisect,
split my ribs just so; a welted, mangled

path that leads to my forever-erect
teats, tits (whatever) since both have barbelled

steel hooped in them. Spit on your fingertips.
Find the grit-like pit of my wound. The heart-

bit that you might dig up. Find what unzips
scars. Some of us jones. Some of us bogart.

Some are the last hits. I am the last prayer.
Squeeze and knit this pressure point; the clit-end

of my last nerve end, My kit. My creature,
twilit; be slit, chit. I’m clamped, all oyster —

my thighs are clamped-up shut and you’re the friend
who is neither the damned nor a savior.

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patricia smith’s “siblings”

25 Friday Aug 2017

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Hurricanes, 2005

Arlene learned to dance backwards in heels that were too high.
Bret prayed for a shaggy mustache made of mud and hair.
Cindy just couldn’t keep her windy legs together.
Dennis never learned to swim.
Emily whispered her gusts into a thousand skins.
Franklin, farsighted and anxious, bumbled villages.
Gert spat her matronly name against a city’s flat face.
Harvey hurled a wailing child high.
Irene, the baby girl, threw pounding tantrums.
José liked the whip sound of slapping.
Lee just craved the whip.
Maria’s thunder skirts flew high when she danced.
Nate was mannered and practical. He stormed precisely.
Ophelia nibbled weirdly on the tips of depressions.
Philippe slept too late, flailing on a wronged ocean.
Rita was a vicious flirt. She woke Philippe with rumors.
Stan was born business, a gobbler of steel.
Tammy crooned country, getting the words all wrong.
Vince died before anyone could remember his name.
Wilma opened her maw wide, flashing rot.

None of them talked about Katrina.
She was their odd sister,
the blood dazzler.

red blunts

25 Friday Aug 2017

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Zonkered on bam bhosda, dust and cacao,
we lay in my backseat, cantaloupe ripe,

fragrant with cum and resin. What comes now
is what comes from gin, acid, a glass-pipe

marking out time during your late lunch hour.
August is the most lecherous of months.

Your, “dedo mi coño” — as I devour
you, pressed to my lips, my knuckles red blunts

stained deep inside — is more a foul-mouthed sigh.
In an hour we can accomplish so much

save the pauses in-between drags, swallows
and groans. With a wet-wipe you clean your thigh;

crawl to the front-seat to add blush, retouch
your lipstick, avoid your cocaine-ruined nose.

ghoul sick

21 Monday Aug 2017

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Drenched in your sweat, sticky from sticky acts,
I run my palm down your back, rub cum-funk

across your face. Anything that distracts
you from your pain is a blessing. Our drunk

spine-twist, two-fist afternoon trysts always
distract. You taste like bong-water after

gagging on me. We lay back in a haze
that goes on for miles. You light another

dirty roach though you have to be at school
soon. You might make it … if the PCP

doesn’t kick in first. There is no shower
and the sink water is brown. You are ghoul

sick yet here we are. I stare at your knee
and it splits open up: all clit-flower.