• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Erotic

i met two who knew my name

25 Monday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

art, biblical erotica, I met two who knew my name, poem, Poetry, sonnet

two

three

four

one

On the road I met two who knew my name
which is never a good sign. When angels

and ghosts know who you are, that sort of fame
only ends poorly. I don’t trust mortals

who claim to know what happens after death.
By life’s own definition no one can.

Mystics travel far. Yogis count each breath.
Skeptics laugh. We’re all sure what will happen

next, poor sods, and we’re all missing the point.
Perhaps I will leave with those two today,

perhaps not. I’m still in deep, my debt
unpaid and I want to tear up this joint,

run wild and be ignorantly blase.
There’s some knowledge that I don’t want just yet.

with the word pervert

08 Friday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

damning erotic life, nasty, pervert, Poetry, sonnet

“nasty boys/ don’t mean a thing …”
— Janet Jackson (1986)

I love how “pervert” is still genderless,
and how anyone can play. Other’s porn

seldom is open-minded. Who’d say “yes”
to things that they’re not hard wired for? You scorn

so much and still claim to be broad-minded.
Curious. I’ve smoked Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

finger-fucked Sexton in her sad bed, slid
my tongue over Lorca’s cock. Rumi’s ass

hung like the moon. Shams’ too. Still, you can’t guess
who I am with the word “pervert.” Riddle

me this: why are you so frigid-rigid
with all your desires? You who profess

to be nasty? You say that you’re lustful …
but you won’t touch me, bite me, drink my blood.

what you call a pimp and a priest

28 Monday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Colonizers, Donkey Show, erotic poetry, Garden of Earthly Delights, Pasiphae, pimp and priest, Queen Tatana, sonnet, Tijuana, We the Other

Earthiness … “Rutting like beasts in the field” …
It’s hard when the squeamish Colonizers

(all those who never once blurred a line, squealed,
cried or howled) wail against the Others.

There are bars in Boy’s Town, Tijuana,
with their Donkey Shows; “See the Minotaur’s

Mother, Pasiphaë! See Queen Tatana
Seduce the Divine Ass!”
Down on all fours

in Bosche’s “Garden of Earthly Delights” …
We force others to perform all the time

and it’s never enough. If there is sin
it’s these selfish, unending appetites.

The pimp who praises himself in cheap rhyme.
The priest who sees hell in my naked skin.

lapping thistledown

27 Sunday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry

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Tags

age difference, art, erotic poetry, incest, mother and child

car car

piano

bed

purple

kitchen

star

wet as a swamp/ drowning between her thighs/ lapping thistledown

heat shimmers/ in the shade of her bedroom/ the widow goes down

two virgin boys/ all that defines me/ endless hunger, she said

he-she-he/ their teacher showed them how/ to enter together

my heroes are always/ undersexed with/ with the most vivid of imaginations …

my scandalous love affair with things that go bump in the night

23 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, haiku, Illustration and art, Poetry

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Tags

art, damning erotic life, erotic poetry, grass stains on your knees, haiku, hard ghost, missing moon, things that go bump in the night, your husband's grave

blue

green

yellow

your husband’s tombstone
between all the weeds I steal
our very first kiss

][

before dawn: nightfall
and my dead lover’s cock shall
rise, mount the hard ghost

][

grass stains on your knees,
your back, the palms of your hands,
inside you … the dead

][

spring’s last missing moon
this damning erotic life
the one that we choose

thrive

12 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Anahit on my tongue, break up song, Devil under my fingers, poem, Poetry, sonnet

lovers of the wand

And I imagine that this is how we
need to be: nude, warm, huddled together,

willing to survive anything with me …
Me? We! Except there is no we, lover.

No us. Nothing folded like paper in
onto itself. Nothing to protect us.

Just old skin and bone minus voltage, sin
and salt water. I’m a child of Venus,

Bacchus and Dryads. But you? Who knows now.
Who cares what you call yourself. I did once.

Songs that the hurt always sing. You’ll survive
and go off with someone else. Will your vow

sound just as hollow? Like hell, your brilliance
is to make a corpse look like it can thrive.

sin and sleaze

12 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

poem, Poetry, sin, sleaze, sonnet

 

Why does lust burn yet my new underwear
makes you wet? Why is it that when I lick

you here you moan, yet when I lick you there
you say, “No, not that! It’s dirty. That’s sick!”

It’s all sick. That’s the whole point. I asked you,
once, what you think of when you masturbate.

Pretty things, I found out. Nothing taboo,
but that can be fun, too. I was once jailbait,

just like everyone else. My fantasies
involve good and evil; it’s the one thing,

save a straight line, that’s not found in nature.
What I call divine you call sin and sleaze.

Where I pray you won’t go. You say, “Making
love,” not “Fucking.” I say, “I’ll take either.”

waiting for you at the gate

10 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Tags

free verse, gate metaphor, my sweet rotten, poem, Poetry

My nectar will
make you swoon
my sweet rotten

scent will make
you sweat all
noon, your lunch
pale break,
coming

home bewildered
dog, shame-headed,
fury-foot, child,
hoping for more.

lick me here, swamp thing

05 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, haiku, Poetry

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Tags

Cthulhu, cunnilingus, glowing green, haiku, poem, Poetry, Swamp Thing

 

waiting for thunder
lightning along your green tongue
kiss me here, swamp thing

][

plagued by spring fever
wind parting long curling grass
licking red marsh earth

][

it won’t ever end
it won’t get any better—
this need to be loved

][

under all these stars
addicted to dark matter
Cthulhu, I cum

cropped marshlands

03 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cropped marshlands, forest gods, Great God Pan, homoerotic, metaphor, poem, Poetry, sonnet

forest_god

From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust

clear and erect into coming twilight.
How did Freud ever pass through such forests?

They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.

Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates

flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.

Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along

my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.

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