refute

24 Sunday Oct 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, sonnet

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bode'wadmi, erotic poetry, ghostly sex, halloween, joe orton, poem, sonnet, spilled ink, translation

“Through the wall stole a weird form who unbent

herself and stood tall.” I’ve had nbodewbi

ghosts, drunk and horny, slither like portents

to my bed before. Sex, grim and ghastly,

is all that the dead offer. Whatever

you think about lust now, that memory

will haunt you. Ghostly sex is still better

than no sex, they say. Perhaps most don’t see

it like that. Hot to leave their flesh and blood

behind they’ll grasp at any fairy tale

that says eternity is chaste. I know

how our souls refute that. These castrated

ghosts can only moan; when you’re cold and pale

come find me. You know I won’t say no.

][][

Notes:

The first line is a reworking of the beginning of George Houghton’s poem, The Witch of York, “Up o’er the hill and broken wall/ There stole a weird form, bent but tall.” In Bode’wadmi (the Potawatomi language), nbodewbi is a verb meaning drunk and horny. I think Joe Orton summed it up nicely when he said, “Enjoy sex. When you’re dead, you’ll regret not having fun with your genital organs.”

nachtmusik

18 Monday Oct 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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air for g string, calico crotch, cityscape, darkcloud, erotic poetry, nachtmusik, poem, sonnet

Heat haze at dusk. Ho hum clouds melt and meet

in gray and green flames until they become shrouds

for leaves of ribald trees. Across the street,

three floors up, Pauline’s cello turns darkclouds

to dew –– the most vulgar of all juices.

Each night she repeats her scales, saws out tunes,

twists old lays new. When I speak of crotches

I speak of my own; my cum, like the moon’s,

splatters in the dark while the music’s glee

sets fire to all it touches. I grind my teeth

and cum under the night’s skirts with Bach’s “Air

for G string;” while ‘neath the cellist’s airy

g-string Bach’s night heat yawns wide. Underneath

this string’s calico crotch: thick dew-slicked hair.

shuffle shlick

26 Sunday Sep 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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absinthe, erotic poetry, jazz, masturbation is the door we all need to pass through, poem, shuffle shlick, sonnet, twilit

There were no strange colors in the streetlight.

No wet streets. No musk. No absinthe twilit

in jazz. No moon above roofs like a blight

in the sky. Just you, dead thing; while misfit

living things went flitting around inside

their hells. They make hell home under their skin

for their frail godheads; call themselves, “Brides

of,” and claim that shuffle-shlick is a sin.

Now it’s too late, dead thing, to place my hands

around their cunts and squeeze until their lips

form a heart. How the living waste living

astounds … even in this city’s wastelands.

Shuffle-shlick while the cum on your hand drips

since there’s nothing but you, dead thing, cumming.

gambol

20 Monday Sep 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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countess of soissons, erotic poetry, French translation, I'm the love that kills, Je suis l'amour qui tue, poem, Poetry, Some Thoughts on the Science of Onanism, sonnet

North winds: the old weathercock on the barn

spins, your window rattles. Rain soon. I read

to you until you grow drowsy. The warm

night lulls you to sleep. Tales of lust and greed

are your favorite. Even from here I smell

your wet spot spreading while your breath deepens.

Dreams of night queens and nymphs while the slow swell

between your thighs spreads, tracing your fountain’s

source. “Je suis l’amour qui tue,” the French say.

I’m the love that kills; chastity’s venom.

Let your mom sleep next door; the rain muffles

your old bed springs as your gambol and play

in your fountain while I, lewd ghost, watch dumb

small death bubble up from your genitals.

][][

Notes:

The quote, “Je suis l’amour qui tue,” comes from a fragment I found based on the life of Olympia Mancini, the Countess of Soissons; in theory used as evidence against her in the 1679 witchcraft scandal that implicated many members of Louis XIV’s court, the infamous the Affaire des Poisons. As far as I can tell there is no evidence that this was anything more than part of a salacious broadsheet sold to the public to titillate:

“Ma petite abomination, j’appartenais au démon de la chair; je suis l’amour qui tue.” Chaque nuit a ce criun démon de fille sort d’une cache, s’élance sur la comtesse et se met en train de lécher ardemment son clitoris dont la pointe sortait rouge et enflammée. Infernale lubricité! Par moment, la voix de la comtesse, qui râlait la volupté, dominait cette harmonie étrange, ce concert d’orgie, cette saturnale de sang.

just

31 Tuesday Aug 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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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 10^th 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.”

bygone

15 Monday Mar 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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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.

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.

lolls

27 Wednesday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, deep throat, erotic poem, fuck fiend, Poetry, randy varmint, sonnet, witch's brew

Slick from a randy varmint, your nipples

swell in your strappy tee as I watch you

take the pills that we found on the motel’s

bathroom floor. You taste just like witch’s brew,

rancor, a chloroform soaked handkerchief.

Ill pills freeze time then turn our lust heinous.

You are the color of storm and I grief.

On your back, your head lolls off the mattress

as I grind in. Your throat bulges, jaws twinge

as my balls smother your nose. You gag-retch,

spitting cum, bile and ache down your forehead.

Fuck fiend, you called me, words that made you cringe,

once … like love, or every time that I stretch

you wide; an act that you both long for and dread.

xenolibido

22 Friday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, drifting through space, erotic poem, fermi's paradox, panspermia, Poetry, queer DNA, sonnet, witchling, xenolibido, xenomorph erotica

Panspermia: Life hidden in drifting

space dust; scatterings of queer DNA

awash in the high heavens. Begetting

the ones zealots fear on Earth. Castaway,

satyr, witchling; this would explain but not

excuse my lecherous bursts. The drama

of throat fucking in public. Your distraught

“¡Oi!” as you wear my cum like mascara.

There is no ill will in our tribe. We hunt

all who love their carnal but odd essence.

Xenolibido. “Whores of Babylon,”

the saved sneer. No, try Betelgeuse. Try cunt.

Try cock. Try us all. But they won’t. Not once;

their junk genes come from dullest of god-spawn.

][][

Notes:

Besides being a great name for a drag queen, panspermia is a theory that life on Earth originated from alien DNA drifting on galactic winds, searching for a suitable environment to call home. The plot of the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers explains that the pod people came to Earth in the form of gelatinous creatures able to survive in the vacuum of outer space. I tend to fall on the side of astrobiology and ask for some actual proof before announcing that something is possible, but I do like playing with the idea in poetry. People who are very very keen on the idea of extraterrestrials tend to point to Fermi’s Paradox (which more or less states, “Empirical evidence is for Sucka MCs/ P-Funk’s Mothership Connection puts/ the xy chromosome in sexy”) and speculative fiction as to why they got a D- in high school science but an B+ in creative writing (naming no names, of course).

mischief

17 Sunday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Cailleach Bhéirre, crone's own, erotic poetry, host of the air, poem, saucy brat, scary fairy, sidhe, sonnet, W.B. Yeats

As I press down with my cock pressed into

the small of your back flames catch, your veils burn,

goosebumps shiver across your ass. You, who

Yeats called Hag, Cailleach Bhéirre, the Sidhe’s Slattern,

never despaired as he claimed you did. Crones

get laid like the rest of us. As I cup

your ass, tongue in your erogenous zones.

As you arch your back, your cunt’s tooth’d scallop

lips spread wide. As you rise the way souls grown

tongue-wise rise and turn and kiss me with that

haunted hunger I’ve never felt elsewhere

but as you cum. Taut g-spot. A Crone’s own.

We’re Yates’ Scary Fairy and Saucy Brat.

Rise like mischief, like Sidhe, Host of the Air.

][][

Notes:

The Host of the Air and Sidhe (pronounced, Shee) are two of the names given to the Gaelic fairy-folk in stories and legends. The Irish poet, W. B. Yeats, pronounced Cailleach Bhéirre as, “Clooth-na-Bare,” the name of an old school fae who wanted to die because she had grown old and no one would love her. Slattern is a Victorian word meaning prostitute or a sexually promiscuous woman.