jikʼeedgo

18 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Navajo, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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butterfly cacti, cunnilingus, Diné bizaad, erotic poetry, holy smut, jikʼeedgo, poem, sonnet, toothed and notched

Some sacred texts of smut are smooth as ash,
afterglow’s fire — lightning’s ozone — desert’s

rain. Some are scraggy. Your mom calls it trash.
The nuns call them sin. Holy acts of perverts:

-psycho- -porno- -jikʼeedgo- toothed and notched.
Certain words crack doors wide. Your butterfly

cacti knows this. So does moon blood. Debauched
flesh flow. Sticky chin. Certain words defy

grace and good taste. Words be nasty with want.
These are our myths. Our filth and bawdiness.

The chaste fear this. They are sick in their soul
without either consort and confidant.

We’re rough, we’re smooth, we burn like a furnace —
this makes us blessed, makes us love, makes us whole.

NOTE:
Jikʼeedgo translates into the act of fucking in the Navajo language (Diné bizaad).

crooked

16 Saturday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Baal, crooked, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, poem, rebel angel, sonnet, vicar's wife

When dark fell the dog recoiled in disgust
at the -scritch-scratch- outside of your window.

My voice, all curved ice thorn, called in a gust
of wind for you. The young village widow

and the vicar’s wife both said that I’m one
of the angels cast down in flames. I’ve hung

with Baal’s crew before. They’re dull. No passion.
Night-clad among dark trees give me your tongue.

Under dark skies I’ll bury jackal bones
in you, raise your petticoats, your hackles,

suck your clit dry. Starved thing, invite me in.
I know what lurks in your bones and hormones,

in the dark of your soul and the muscles
of your cunt. I know your crooked, lewd grin.

laid bare

11 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, cuntablunt, erotic poem, laid bare, peel down, Poetry, red rock rage, sonnet

Cyclones and bones blown all pell-mell. Sky-bound,
umber dust lifts your heavy skirts — debauched

with rage, rushed with umbrage, with the crude sound
of storm of sex of my tongue in your notched

plash first gush and then whirl. The earth’s domain,
red gold, laid bare. Mixed with ache aren’t we all

peeled down. On the side of a side road. Rain
on the car’s hood. In the backseat I sprawl

inside you, slouching in your cunt-soaked heat.
Curved thighs crisscross my neck. Conjured hormones

from ghost meat and bones blown high from their graves.
The wind brings us red rock, ozone, heartbeat,

rage. Your clit trembles. It’s what the storm moans,
the gods hunger for, what the cyclone craves.

old school

09 Saturday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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BDSM, blue goat, bondage is freedom, erotic pain, erotic poem, loony toons, Marquis de Sade, microdot, Poetry, sonnet

Lift your skirts and face the wall. Such good pain,
De Sade’s pain, takes a cane to make your pawg

wobble. With three strokes I’ll break you, again.
There’s an art to the trounce, the wax, the flog.

It’s how I flayed «Z» into your tush. Blush
with what smolders under your petticoat.

First the gush of endorphins, then the rush.
We drop loony toons, microdot, blue goat

so that old-school worlds open. Once I kissed
you. That was wrong. It’s hard being discrete

when it comes to craft but splattering cum
like paint is absurd. A flick of my wrist

brings forth new terror. New wisdom. New heat
freeing you from flesh. Bondage is freedom.

burn

05 Tuesday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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after a good spanking, BDSM, erotic poetry, poem, raw burn, sonnet, transgress, without transgression there can be no wisdom

I still swear to you by scourge and blowtorch
that at the next stroke you’ll bleat ugly sounds.

Ugly deeds call for the grim “K” of scorch,
quetch, crave. Flick of a supple cane astounds,

raising welts and devils. Call this art brut,
raw burn, a perfect howling pitch locked

inside you. I’ll free it. Others live mute —
waiting for that, “one day.” I know they’ve mocked

your dire itch, your distress. But they don’t cum
when I call you. Bend down. Lift up your dress.

Trust me: I might be cruel working stiff but
I get the job done. Like prayer. Like venom.

Like the song that tells us how to transgress
with the pain that drives both saint and poet.

lure

04 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blunt ghost, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, lust's lure, milk's morphine, poem, sonnet

Poppy milk: in ill sleep you stood there: curved,
blithesome, cocky. To see you naked, once

more, I almost woke. You were so reserved
alive, it took laying down lip, essence

of moon rock, just to get you off. My brief
grief stayed, lasted — even as I tended

your grave. No one shall tend to mine. The Thief
of Seoul shares my bed now; but sugar-mud

isn’t the same, even among gods. For ache,
omen close to bliss, I keep hunting. “Hunt?

You mean cunt, you mean cock,” you said. I mean:
fear some dreams. I mean: from lust’s lure heartache.

Your night fever tightens around me. Blunt
ghost, you’re all nightmare, my milk’s morphine.

gut-bone

03 Sunday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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2-heart, break me, coquette of maimed flesh, erotic poem, gut-bone, It's bitchin', it's rad, Poetry, pulpstone, sonnet

Debauched, my pelvic bone recalls some things.
How she got off on my vestige tail stump.

Craving his 2-heart heart. Breaking bed-springs
in his 2-heart ass. Razing your plump rump

down to the ground, all savage child. “Break me,”
you said on our first date. I did. Twice. Sweat

on your breasts. Dried cum on your phat belly.
You crowed and cawed as I entered. Coquette

of the meat counter. Coquette of maimed flesh,
buff and dastardly. Passions are fickle, —

they change. My gut-bone knows this. My gut-bone
is down for — “Debauched?” you said. “That ain’t fresh.

It’s rad. It’s bitchin’.” Recall how your skull
bloomed as I turned your phat ass to pulpstone.

night piece

01 Friday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blowjob, Edith Wharton, erotic poetry, fellatio, Laura Love, Lesbia's gaze, night piece, poem, sonnet

Your eye and Lesbia’s gaze. Where my spirit
and flesh fused, jizz oozed down your face, your clothes,

scraped knees. All this night piece boy grease this strut
of one who sucks godheads. The tomcat knows.

Cats love ruin. Spray-paint’s “fuck grief/ give head”
scrawled with carrion’s love of beef behind

you in glitter pink. “Skull fuck me,” you said,
mouth full of soul. Rasp of tongue on lust, blind

and big like charnel. Scumsuck. Shum ticky.
Ravished gaze. Bloodshot: cum in your lashes

gives you pink eye. I measure this not in
virtue but itches. Choose my salt-honey.

Choose smut. Choose my love. It’s slow. It oozes
into your twilit clit, my godhead’s skin.

NOTE:
“Lesbia’s gaze” comes from a poem by Edith Wharton. “Shum ticky” is a song-title by the fabulous Laura Love.

shit’s tits

31 Thursday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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as if love could ever be cursed, double-headed dildo, erotic hell, erotic poetry, poem, shit's tits, sonnet, tough muff, Virgil

Down on Valencia Street, in the back
room of Good Vibrations, the sales person

showed us a snap-on, double-dong in black.
“I sell a cum-load of these a month.” “One,

please,” you said. I’ve crawled on bloody knuckles
through Love’s little land a way — far enough

to know that you’re my spirit guide, Virgil’s
map of hell. “Harder,” you said. “My muff’s tough,

shit’s tits.” Love, never let me grow so old
that I think I’m righteous, one who bewails

sin, who fears sex. With faith and lube the first
black half-foot slides into you. I’ve been trolled

by sick zealots before; their heaven pales
to hell, as if love could ever be cursed.

marrow

30 Wednesday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cloister, cock-skunk, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, false saint, Lilith's clit, poem, so it's come to this, sonnet

If I do, what then? True, I’m a false saint
of sluice, of vacant stares, of these pain-drenched

bones that will heal your ills. Touch my pink taint
with your blue-ebony hue. Touch what quenched

you when I bent you double, flipped up your skirt
and ran my tongue down your cunt. Devotion

is for the upright. Why pray when you squirt
and flow just as hard on the floor? My fun,

my bad, my grace. Don’t trust me; my deceit
goes all cock-skunk in a cloister. Go pray,

be chaste. It’s just your soul at stake, princess,
pith and marrow. I’m damned like Lilith’s clit,

like your clit if you come to me and say,
“Save me,” if I nod: “So, it’s come to this.”