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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Erotic

mercy’s bane

03 Friday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

laughter is a powerful weapon, mercy's bane, poem, Poetry, sonnet, strange possession

Like that, I’ll take your pain upon myself,
so that you no longer hurt—an exchange,

release, this little act that you, yourself,
can’t do. That isn’t love, but it’ll do. Strange

possession—hot breath on my neck, strong hands
in my hair, cuffs biting my skin, my neck

pulled taught. You call this control? Pain demands
strength that you don’t possess. All your needs: flick

the whip, bend to your will, be mercy’s bane.
Mercy’s bane? Show me a Dom who laughing

at did not fluster—they’re far too fragile
without power. I love the games of vain

people, they’re so easy to break; proving
that they have yet to learn the word cruel.

Image

never believe that something are better left unsaid

02 Thursday Jan 2014

Tags

art, incest, Paul and his aunt

Jan 02, 2014 (2)

“child of my heart and my sister’s loins”

Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art

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most adults are dull degenerates

02 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic

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Tags

aurora borealis, cast-off choirboy, cum in mayhem, devil's brat, most adults are dull degenerates, poem, Poetry, schoolboy shorts, sonnet

 

It’s that time of year, the long winter squalls
set in. From my front porch I cannot see

Russia, but the Arctic Light, like you, crawls
towards me. I love that you’re so motley,

forlorn, devil’s brat in cast-off choirboy
skin. Let me take you behind the temple

and draw down the sky, your little schoolboy
shorts, all the joy my right hand can bring. Dull

degenerates, most adults are, reading
the worst in every word I write. Let them

purposely misunderstand this, malice
fills their hearts. But for you, little sex thing,

little toy, I’ll make you cum in mayhem,
like heaven’s aurora borealis.

][][

nothing stands between us here/ and I won’t be denied
—Sarah McLachlan, possession

all of vice is my hero

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

age difference, anal sex, art, homophobia, poem, poetrys, sonnet, taboo, you are my hero

Like a roller coaster, like a kiddie’s
park, ride me. I’m hard outside but a fag

deep down — as if I caused your furious
hate by just being me — your: punching bag

— you: thug 4 life. Like Pennywise, I will
let you think that you won. It’s your gospel,

bully’s wet dream, hater hating. What thrill
comes from violence? I’m the gay teenage skull

that you kicked and kicked. Did I say fags? Queers?
T-boys? Dykes? I tell you: there is a price

to this, all rides must end, all that straight hate
that you have toward us perverts who appear

as love’s martyrs. If I’m obsessed with vice
that’s your doing. Love calls. I won’t wait.

the goat dreams of puella aeterna

30 Monday Dec 2013

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

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Tags

age difference, art, erotica, poem, poetrys, puella aeterna, sonnet

Dec 30, 2913 (1)

She passed you on the down stair. Erection.
Each time bullies made you cry she consoled

you, brought you close, held your boyish bottom
closer. The one adult who would not scold

you, loved you in gym shorts cut high, showing
thigh and the hint of cock and balls. Widows

hungry for flesh are either a blessing
or a curse. The way she stripped off your clothes

and took you to the bath. The way she gave
herself to you; you who were far too young

to know why, just how. You must have pleased her,
until you grew up and started to shave.

Even now you recall her hips, her tongue,
her voice crying, “like that! harder! harder!”

][][

notes:

The Peter Pan Syndrome refers to a man’s unwillingness to grow up and take on adult responsibilities. There is an entire trope of man-boy characters in literature and popular culture; in Psychology Jung called it, Puer aeternus, Latin for the eternal boy. I’m curious what the female version of the Peter Pan Syndrome might be. Not Wendy, since she spent her whole time acting as a surrogate mother, but a female archetype that optimizes Pan’s cockiness and corresponding immature behavior. The nearest that I can find is from Jung as well, puella aeterna, the eternal girl, but there aren’t any corresponding female characters that I can find in literature as example. There is such a trope in Japanese popular culture that I thought, at first, might work: the alcoholic, single, lustful office lady who is shown living in a filthy apartment, drinking herself blind every night. However, it is a poor comparison since, unlike Pan who has agency not to take on adult responsibilities if he wants, the Office Lady is the way she is due to the misogynistic atmosphere of the Japanese business industry; regardless of education or background her role in most manga and anime is to fetch coffee, fend off sexual harassment and forever cling to the bottom rung of the office ladder. Perhaps one day I’ll find who I am looking for; until then I will keep on reading.

do I do

24 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Tags

not with you, poem, Poetry, poets make lousy lays, your fantasies are obvious

you ask me what do I think about when
I touch myself but you can’t be bothered

with the other three hundred and sixty
four days of the year you ask me what do
I play on the stereo to muffle

my screams but laugh when I tell you about
singing along with the car radio

in traffic jams you ask me what do I
do when my hands tire do I roll onto
my belly to keep going but roll your

eyes when you see me writing with my kid-
like cursive you ask me what do I do

right after orgasm because you want
to get laid and think poetry somehow
will do that, as if just saying “fuck! fuck!

fuck!” enough will make it happen you ask
me but none of your poems are about

me, anyone could respond, which is why
when I say that I collapse onto my
back, mouth agape, panting. damp disheveled

hair clinging across my forehead it has
nothing to do with orgasms but with

me dying horribly on a muddy
battlefield and like my orgasms my
most cherished fantasy won’t include you

nerdy and curvy

23 Monday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

curvy, erotica, nearly blind, nerdy, other people's Velmas, pervy, Scooby-Doo, Velma Dinkley

Was it the “jinkies”? Maybe the glasses?
The knee-high socks? The skirt that never once

flipped up despite all the haunted houses
that she explored? There was an innocence

each time she ended up on hands and knees,
searching for her glasses and the campy,

rubber monster would appear. She would squeeze
its hand: “Shaggy! you’re so cold and clammy!”

Velma Dinkley, out of all the sublime
cartoon girls, was the one I could relate

to. Short, plump, maybe bi with dreadful eyes,
she was nerdy and curvy at a time

when no one was; with her orange jailbait
turtleneck, Mary Janes and chubby thighs.

everybody knows that the

23 Monday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

barbaric yawps, bible-thumpers, everybody knows, irony, perverts, poem, Poetry, sonnet

bigger the pervert the more tyrannous
are their gods keeping tempting blasphemes

at bay there’s not a single monstrous
bible-thumper whose erotic day-dreams

if they were known could set the skies on fire
with shock and horror that’s just how boring

they are I’ve no problem with desire
our two tongues delicately slithering

gagging down your syrupy sex eager
barbaric yawps until at last you squirt

over me pity the so-called faithful
who have no faith in themselves or pleasure

who must take these divine gifts and pervert
them no wonder their god is so wrathful

Video

down at the fish disco

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in .gif, Humor

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artist unknown, down at the fish disco, gif, Humor

Dec 18, 2013 (6)

edge of my skin [2]

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

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

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Tags

art, barrow wraith, edge of my skin, grave-fresh thighs, Japanese Shinto priestess, miko, orgasm, poem, Poetry, sonnet, why faith destroys

Dec 17, 2013 (4)

Dec 17, 2013 (3)

Dec 17, 2013 (2)

I still remember your touch, after all
of this time every time I close my eyes

I go back again to that night; the small
softness of your fingers, all those dumb lies

I said to keep you as you grazed my skin
with your lips as our tongues touched. How could I

have kept you safe from my zealots? Cretin
you should have called me, not lover. Defy

us, we who burn witches and call it truth.
We who preach hate and call it love. Wake, wake,

love, in this aftermath, although entwined
around you, our Eden ends. Faith, like youth,

knows all. How can I claim that my heart breaks
when I let — when I’m a child, vain and blind?

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