• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Erotic

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.

yaadilah

07 Thursday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anal sex, cumcocktion, Diné bizaad, erotic poetry, i'm spilling more thank ink y'all, poem, shiprock, sonnet, sublime raw, WTF, yaadilah

I signed you out of the Shiprock half-way

house to drive you to your rehab meeting.

 

You’d “come loose” again, so we skipped foreplay

and climbed into the backseat. “Anchoring,”

 

you called it; my cock buried in your ass.

Mud hook. Cumcocktion. Pain, sublimely raw,

 

pinning me between your twisting hourglass

hips, leaving you sprawled on top. “Yaadilah,”

 

you groan. Hints fill the air: creosote, sage,

far-flung thunder. Yaadilah. What The Fuck.

 

Anchoring you down is hard work. Not cold

turkey hard, of course, but still hard. Rough rage

 

fucking. Cum-smeared C-scar on your stomach.

Coming loose, the kids say. Gone, y’all, stone-cold.

][][

Note:

In Dine bizaad (Navajo), “Yaadilah,” is the equivalent of, “What The Fuck,” in English. The town of Shiprock (Naatʼáanii Nééz) is home to Diné College as well as the Northern Navajo Fair.

tight

04 Monday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, deir ez zor, dha'i-fah, erotic poetry, high gobi, moabite, poem, sex demons, sonnet, tight, vulval nightmares

“Thrust deep in me,” you said, while the hostel’s

bed groaned. You groaned Greek, then tight Moabite,

your Bronze Age birth tongue. Tight as your muscles

around my cock. You answered my invite,

called me, Dha’i-fah. “One who’s dispossessed

to be possessed by ancient sex demons.”

Such as you. Such is your skill. To be blessed

in a world still perturbed by lewd passions

is still a gift. I’ve searched the Thar, Gobi,

Deir ez-Zor but found you in a simple

hostel in Fez. You said: “Not in my cunt,”

and pulled me free. “Cum here,” guiding me

into your ass. “You don’t know what vulval

nightmares I unleash each time I’m pregnant.”

][][

Notes:

The Moabite language was spoken in Moab, an ancient kingdom located in what is now Jordan. Fez is a city in northern Morocco. Thar, Gobi and Deir ez-Zor are deserts located in India, Mongolia and Syria respectively. Dha’i-fah is a term used in Morocco concerning certain demonic spirits inability to possess a person whenever they feel like it; rather the victim must be willing and eager for such a possession to take place. Unable to read Hebrew, Persian or Arabic what little information I can find seems to indicate that Dha’i-fah is mainly used as an accusation against women who enjoy pleasure for its own sake.

shadowlands

31 Thursday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, dark is the lure, erotic poetry, i'm spilling more thank ink y'all, itches itched, mine, poem, rude boy, shadowlands, sonnet

You will drip with pain. Seduction will itch

in you; an itch that leads to shadowlands.

 

The dark is the lure. I know what will bewitch

you and why your inner sinner demands

 

control. I don’t know, though, why you’d submit.

Married. Pious. At peace, you say. Those old

 

dreams, back when you were a slave to your clit,

must be gone. They’re not for me. You’ve controlled

 

what still runs riot in me; which is why

I don’t share each gasp, each cum-soaked finger,

 

each of my wet dreams about you. Divine

lust is dark, like faith. Once I would defy

 

the world to make you drip. You’re no longer

itch. You no longer call me, “rude boy, mine.”

revolveress

22 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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barking irons, erotic poetry, hex'd sex, more than just spilled ink, pearl handle, poem, revolveress, sonnet

Because rural roads have no lights. Because

rainstorms meant no one would follow. You parked

 

the car, turned toward me; as if menopause

ever cooled passion. I’d yet to be marked

 

with toff, hormones, my hex’d sex. Sleepovers

with your son’s chums left me all pearl-handled,

 

revolveress. Barking irons. Splatters

on your grip, your neck, your grin. Rains drizzled

 

on the bonnet while within you wiped from

your palm maelstrom. I said O and eased out

 

into ancient dark no one could follow.

You said, “Hmm?” Mishap: once I called you mom.

 

You laughed. Your gravestone calls you a devout

mother. Good. There’s no rain these days, just snow.

][][

Notes

Victorian slang has so many quaint concepts that never get the love that they deserve in this modern age. For example, a revolveress is a woman who, “uses a pistol with a great degree of surety.” (from, Passing English of the Victorian era, a dictionary of heterodox slang, 1885)

resolve

19 Saturday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic poetry, grief, loss, Love shall make us a threesome, pain, poem, resolve, sonnet, you can't see ghosts

It’s not like we’re puppet and puppeteer;

I’m balls deep in yet you grimly retain

 

control. The sheath of your ass. The severe

gape left behind in your behind like pain

 

each time I nearly pull out. Each time you

grip the sheets so that your daughter, drawn by

 

your cries, crouches in the grove of bamboo

to watch the living play. We could still ply

 

her with love, let her sleep between us, but

you can’t see ghosts. Your world is her gravestone

 

and grim resolve; rough sex won’t return her,

or burn this pain out of you, meat puppet.

 

There’s no strings for that. When you cum you moan

out something like, “daughter, daughter, daughter.”

flares

16 Wednesday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cadaverous hair, erotic poetry, fascination with sodomy, fear of the erotic, freakout, lascivious things, lust sublime, poem, sonnet

She was dead and encased her exquisite

curves in the sort of sequin disco-flares

 

called posh before I was born. Her velvet

tube top bled. Her long cadaverous hair

 

couldn’t hide the hole where the girder

had punched clear through. “Let’s do lascivious

 

things,” she’d said, rising. It’s hard. We linger,

hoping for love. The living see darkness

 

in sex and quail. The dead are beyond doubt

now that it’s too late. Randy ghost of ghastly

 

flares, you have spawned unease. If lusting for

dead things is freakish then let me freakout,

 

old-school style, with kisses, with sodomy.

Fuck’s crux. Putting the core back in hardcore.

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