18 Monday Jan 2016
Tags
adventurers in strange new worlds, erotic art, lovers from the golden age, science fiction, threesome
“adventurers in strange new worlds”
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art
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08 Friday Jan 2016
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on patchwork
Tags
Babylon Crashing, erotic, patchwork, quote unquote, reblog, sonnet
You’ve made a fetish doll from me. From spit
and stains, from my hair and nails. When you said:
— “I want the moon on my tongue, now give it
up to me” — You knew that, when pricked, I bled
pale light; that when, hung, suspended, drugged to
my toes, you could taste how to fly on my
skin. You say it’s about conjure, that you
can drain me, just like that. But I defy
that limp rag. You can suck patchwork veins
all day long and you still won’t get it. Moon
light is a distortion of what we want
inside. All the stolen pubes and cum stains
in the world won’t save you, it’s why you’ll soon
come back to me: hungry, hollowed eyed, gaunt.
31 Thursday Dec 2015
… from mine to yours
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art
≈ Comments Off on happy new year
31 Thursday Dec 2015
Tags
chapped, cunnilingus with a kick, erotic poetry, home-made Brazilian wax job, hot wax, poem, sonnet, your shaved stubble
Just to see what it felt like, I took wax
from the stove and dribbled it, sluggishly,
through my thick pubes. Some say that they climax
quicker with pain. But the world is squirmy
with quick fucks. Tomorrow I’ll shave this mess
before work. Three years, gone — like that. Some say
that all they want is a slit-buzzed caress
from a talented tongue. The term, “foreplay,”
insults, who needs more than long lapping? Wrapped
up, as tight as we are — it’s a damn myth
that we somehow found peace. All my devout
prayer to your shaved stubble has left me chapped,
bleeding. This is not for me — and so, with
a jerk of the hair, I pull it all out.
31 Thursday Dec 2015
Tags
1950s erotica, black and white, erotic art, matrons in chains, Matrons on the Prowl, Mrs Robinson, note: no chains
… Mrs. Robinson casts a long shadow over the lives of little boys.
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art
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31 Thursday Dec 2015
… the dog at the heart of all 1950s erotica.
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art
≈ Comments Off on the curious adventures of mister mcfluffy
14 Monday Dec 2015
Tags
cunnilingus, dashtani, erotic poetry, heavy flow, menses, poem, Poetry, sheds, sonnet
Tonguing, leaving streaks between your cloven
lips, the spots where blushes and bruises bloom,
even during your heavy flow. Back then,
you said, you’d hide away in the bathroom.
Blood in your panties, soaked into your jeans,
and how everyone smirked. In the old tongue
even the word for menstruating means
hidden away, dashtani. “I was young,”
you said, “and Soviet-era tampons?
I’d just stay home.” Now you press on my face,
here in the bathtub, as your uterus
sheds. I have streaks on my chin, red and bronze,
my tongue working you to a state of grace,
delving deep between your clit and anus.
][][
In Armenian, the word for menstruating, dashtan, (դաշտան), is the same root word for separation, dashtani (դաշտանի).
14 Monday Dec 2015
Tags
I touch the wet spot
where once you beat inside me
where bruises now bloom
03 Thursday Dec 2015
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on that slapping nuisance
I can’t sleep. I’ve listened to you all night.
Over and over, softly through the floor.
This must be your art, your craft. Sodomite.
Pervert. Poet. And while I could say more
there are a thousand reasons why I should
stop here — I’ve wasted so much whiskey on
myself, I’ve bled, I’ve gnawed on green wormwood.
And you — with your, “Afternoon of a Fawn,”
and your beastly hands and cruel antlers —
You sing low. That noise, that slapping nuisance,
fills the night with voyeuristic heartache.
All art is illicit, it seeks pleasures —
In your pause, in your last note, that silence,
coming from below, keeps the world awake.
28 Saturday Nov 2015
Posted in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on night tide
The drowned girl said, “be rougher, I don’t mind.”
In the old tongue — a tongue that I couldn’t
speak well. The lake water had made me blind
so I clung to her wide hips as her cunt
covered my mouth, my chin. In the night tide
the small waves inched over us. I could feel
her bent forward, pressing down, as she tried
to gag me -drown- while her wild mane went eel-
like, all hither and yon. I’ve walked Sevan’s coast,
the drowned outnumbers the living. Thirty
years-old; wild hair rose up, like — dark like, kelp —
a voice that called from the lake. Carmine’s ghost
calling, “Yeranut’yun.” — Bliss. The way she
pulled back and said, “you naughty little welp.”
][][
note:
In Armenian, the word for bliss is, “yer’an’ut’yun,” (երանություն).
