01 Sunday Dec 2013
thoughts are of muscle and
bone thrash under ankles
and wrists ache as the ropes
cut into muffled moans permeate
the dark truck stop bathroom
straddling at the neck slowly
rip the tape off force
it into the back
of the throat re-enter
with a renewed determination
hard pleasure dead man
switch cutting through
my belly watch
everything spill
01 Sunday Dec 2013
a river of stars flooded
out of me even what’s
beautiful can be pain can
be violent joy where
the first arrow ended
marked the path you must
take to cross to me
the scene has been
set the bow tense
quiver in anticipation
][][
note:
Forever young and looking good tied naked to a tree, a saint popular with solders and athletes, Sebastian was a curly-haired Roman youth shot with arrows on the orders of emperor Diocletian, martyred by the establishment. In 1976, the British director Derek Jarman made a film, Sebastiane, which caused controversy in its treatment of Sebastian as a homosexual icon; though, as many critics have noted, this has been a subtext of his martyr story even before the Renaissance. In his novella Death in Venice, Thomas Mann writes about the Sebastian-Beauty as the “supreme emblem of Apollonian beauty, that is, the artistry of differentiated forms; beauty as measured by discipline, proportion, and luminous distinctions.” From these roots as well as the work of Susan Sontag and other pre-Stonewall theorists arose the aesthetic known as Camp; an acceptance of masculine effeminacy and a “heroism born of weakness.”
30 Saturday Nov 2013
Tags
my poor shaved boy cat …
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under photograph
≈ Comments Off on pretty pretty kitty
29 Friday Nov 2013
Tags
humans love misery, I love you, no demands, no promises, open mic poetry readings, poem, Poetry, praise the horrible, the twitchy, why we are alone
Praise this frustration. Praise a life without
an ounce of erotic hope. Praise the minus,
the loss, the single bed. Praise all the doubts
that make us sleep alone. Praise the daftness
that says the next world has to be better.
Anything than this, please. Praise the ones
who believe it; that our life-long quirks, our
foul habits, will somehow get us lovers.
At the end of each open mic. I’d ask
the audience, “how many of you are
in good, stable relationships?” and you’d
get a smattering hands. “Yeah, well, we
hate you. This last poem isn’t for you.”
But when I asked who had just gotten dumped,
broken up, slept alone, separated,
divorced, torn asunder by howling wolves,
lost in splitsville, terminated, fucker,
almost always half of the crowd would cheer.
“Yeah, cheers, this is for you, it’s a haiku:
‘Tonight we’re lucky/ you’re coming back to
my place/ we’re all getting laid.’” And like that
the show would be over, the crowd would up
and leave and you could see, even seconds
after the offer, that everybody
was justifying in their heads why it
must be a jape, a joke, performance art
anything other than what it really
was — offering you something new tonight.
Just one night, out you’re entire life,
where all you had to do was show interest,
some spark, that dull Prometheus damage,
and you’d lift the hex, the curse, whatever
it was that kept you from being happy,
from making that fairy tale you keep up
in your skull-bone come true; if misery
is the only shared language that we know
then praise the odd, the twitchy, the outcasts,
fools who ruin their own love, misfits all.
Praise everything that keeps us from this joy.
][][
“Did you know that the first Matrix was designed to be a perfect human world? Where none suffered, where everyone would be happy. It was a disaster. No one would accept the program. Entire crops were lost. Some believed we lacked the programming language to describe your perfect world. But I believe that, as a species, human beings define their reality through suffering and misery.” — Agent Smith, The Matrix (1999)
21 Thursday Nov 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on cold tongue on warm flesh
Tags
art, Buzzcocks, cold tongue on warm flesh, death changes nothing, erotic pain, ghost lover, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Of course I believe in hell—What’s worse
than this? Wanting one you know you shouldn’t?
No, that’s what we all do. It’s that old curse;
finding out just what a vile and blatant
bastard you’re stuck with. That’s lamentable.
That’s a joke. That’s the one thing we all say,
“this must end.” I was inconsolable
when you left. I was wretched on the day
you came back home. It’s hard not to despise
someone who takes my love for granted. Death
changed nothing; you’re still a pig when you touch
me. Cold tongue on warm flesh, between your thighs,
your cock filling me. I can feel your breath
coming in quick gasps. I hate you so much.
][][
you disturb my natural emotions/ you make me feel I’m dirt/ and I’m hurt
and if I start a commotion/ I’ll only end up losing you/ and that’s worse
—buzzcocks, “ever fall in love with someone you shouldn’t’ve?
21 Thursday Nov 2013
Tags
alien, art, finding love is hard, hentai, poem, Poetry, Ryoko, sin, sonnet, Tenchi Muyo, xenomorph erotica
Just how many of us can make monsters
scream with delight? I’ve met shadows in deep
blue shades, hungry for love between blurs
of vinyl record scratches. If you can sleep
you can dream. Dream of love in the ruins
of “what shouldn’t be.” Of “sin.” Of strong drink.
Let’s get drunk. I tell you, the aliens
of my life are exactly what you think,
creatures that want to be tied up firmly
have your upturned hand raised towards a krypton
green ass. Have fingers creep slowly due south
between horned knees. She is blushing, I see;
there is a plea in her eye and smile on
what I can only assume is her mouth.
18 Monday Nov 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on clematis and poppy king seed
shaman of clematis and poppy king
seeds reads the four genuine directions
found deep inside the pistil opening
with blue heat would you follow these omens
to the land of the dead just to bury
your nose in its flaring cobalt? giving
birth to demons we are the ancestry
of our future smut the dead leave judging
to the self-conceited shamans know who
will talk who’ll fuck who’ll give us the answers
the dead summon us come come a well-hung
sapphire ring re-sizes itself for you
could you wrap it around your two fingers?
could you wrap it around your bluest tongue?
18 Monday Nov 2013
Tags
blood acid drain-o, cunnilingus, junkies, Nancy Spungen, poem, Poetry, punks, SId and Nancy, sonnet
It was the summer that my friends wanted
to be poor Nancy Spungen with track marks
and ripped fishnets we were tripping balls blood
acid drain-o paranoid as if narcs
would bust us as if I could fill my lungs
with your breath your bloodshot eyes a command
urging me begging for tastes bites lips tongues
pressure please I’m bleeding without my hand
on your breast naked under your leather
jacket “never trust a junkie” Nancy
said in the alley skirt pulled to hips blunt
tongue in deep where are you now my lover?
we were kids wanna-be London junkies
without needle marks it was all different
09 Saturday Nov 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, sonnet, Translation
≈ Comments Off on o encanto das bruxas
Tags
art, female warrior, o encanto das bruxas, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, the charms of witches
Fale-me sobre o magia, as fadas, o encanto das bruxas.
Fale-me sobre algo mais sutil de mil anos das teu esporra cobrindo a pele das minhas bunda.
Que linguagem você vai usar?
O mundo etérea não funciona em Inglês, linguagem da ciência e da psicologia.
Me sinto mal, mas como posso explicar? O que é machismo?
Sexo sem amor? Esporra? Há mais vida para além teu esporrada.
Se você entendeu, então eu diria que, “Lambe-la feito cachorro.”
Se você entendeu, então eu diria que, “Vou trepar sem beijar.”
Mas você não entende.
Reza para que não vou voltar.
][][
Tell me about magic, fairies, witches’ charm.
Tell me about something more subtle than a thousand years of your cum covering the skin of my ass.
What language will you use?
The ethereal world does not work in English, the language of science and psychology.
I feel bad, but how can I explain? What is machismo?
Sex without love? Cum? There is more to life than your cum-shot.
If you got it, then I would say, “Lick it like a dog.”
If you got it, then I would say, “I’ll fuck without kissing.”
But you do not understand.
Pray that I will not return.
][][
note:
Once again I must apologize for my poor translations skills. If there are any errors the fault is entirely mine. Still, how else can we improve except make mistakes. Thank you.
09 Saturday Nov 2013
Tags
Dominus Inferus Viscera, erotic horror, green scalpel, playing doctor, poem, Poetry, skin game, sonnet
scalpel in hand you start with my left toes
your lips brushing gently over my skin
as you trace that shadowy path that flows
from tip to tibia I tense you grin
as a small shiver disturbs the surface
of my thigh ripples in a pond above
my knee you pause breathe in sharp nervousness
makes your hands sweat perhaps you call this love
I moan softly as your breath rolls off me
you pull at my hips follow the round pout
of my ass I arch my back fingers part
my musk and my taste bubble fear honey
fear each fear scalpelled still as you pull out
between my ribs I can feel you touch heart
memories of my ghost sista 