husk thorn

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bushfire, clit, cunnilingus, female ejaculation, gushing, husk thorn, poem, sonnet

Secret garden, wild grassland and brambles;
I’ve strayed between the highlands of your wilds,
seeking your sweet fruit in bittersweet curls.
Virgin woods? whatever, nothing defiles
you more than a dry spell when husk thorns reign.
The sun burns through your bush, dries your puddles,
and your poor untasted fruit prays for rain.
I’ve been among poppies, tasted thistles,
slept with foxtail. Like the horny goat, weeds
are no problem. Your curls part at my kiss.
Your red chaparral flushes green. Big flood
coming. You are, too. My tongue tweaks and kneads
your clit. First you dew my face, then you mist,
gush and geyser, drenching like sticky blood.

pearl tongue

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bloodroot, clit, pearl tongue, Poetry, sonnet, your tongue tongued

Call it what you will, this soul called pleasure.
Button, nub, bald girl in a boat, pearl tongue,
jelly bean, pea pod, sweet spot, pink sugar
plum, moose knuckle, the box with the low-slung
jewel. The clit: here be hoodoo. Among
some this is where all magic gets cracking.
Fairy fire from your kiss as your tongue clung
to her girl flesh, as your tongue tongued. Tonguing.
Grinding. Clits like red cherries and fresh fruit.
Clits like queer books. A clit like a music
box, a song. A clit like sorrow’s bloodroot
for the unknown gods. A clit like lipstick
smear. Bush fire. Call it her goddess. Call it
your bliss. Call it soul-joy. Call it your clit.

bless me with all

03 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bless me with all, cunnilingus, hairy kelp forest, love, poem, seawall, sonnet, the sea, undersea kingdom

Tell me about your sea. Bless me with all

that makes the tide flow sweet out of your hips.

I know what the seawall knows, what the wall

wants but can’t have. If a single stone slips

out of place the sea will gush in, drowning

this dry mouth of land. And, unlike the wall,

I am not afraid to drown, swallowing

all you can offer. I’ll swallow it all,

gag it down, wanting one more little death.

Let me hear the whale song humming deeply

inside your chest, sleep in the kelp forest

between your thighs. Divers must hold their breath

going down, but I’ll let your undersea

kingdom flood me. I’ll let my seawall burst.

the tiburon tarot: the fool

03 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, tarot

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art, on the road to find out, shark, spirit guide, taking the first step, Tarot, the fool, the sea, tiburón

THE FOOL:

I have been working on an ocean-based Tarot deck for a while (at first I was calling it “La Mer,” an older French term for the ocean, until a friend pointed out calling your deck “Lamer” might not work out so well). The first card in the deck is The Fool, which represents taking the first step in the path you are following. The Rider-Waite deck shows a young man, his head in the air, walking toward the brink of a cliff, while a small dog barks to get his attention to what is about to happen.

In this version, a woman takes her first step into the sea with her spirit guide, in this case a spirit shark, glides silently by her side. The kelp part as they pass through, since once you know the language of the sea it will do anything for you. Because she is new to all this she must keep her head out of the water in order to breath; until she can master her fear of the unknown and begin swimming she will not be able to go very far, which is true with all of us when encountering something as vast and supernatural as the ocean for the first time.

witch-mark

18 Thursday Jul 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, demon lover, I love smog, licking the blues away, poem, Poetry, sonnet, succubus

Bluntless succubus. A joyless rolled spliff
between two blue lips. The devil’s nipple,
misfit clit, nuzzles my chin with a whiff
of a witch-mark; which marks where I’ve been, dulls
pillow talk, slows all us down. Going down
on you bigmouth I get my full mouth throttled
to the ground. Shagged but not fagged; a putdown
that can only make sense in past-tense. Fraggled,
as in rock and squirt and splashdown. Your skirt
around your hips, your lips blue and agog
as you gag me. Did I mention that there’s
something in my throat? The pervert’s effort
is worth it. The sky is dull without smog.
Lust is nothing more than nightmares and prayers.

areia

10 Wednesday Jul 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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areia, floods and magic, hole in the sky, in praise of sand, Portuguese translation, sand

No deserto, sempre que o desejo é, te alucina.
Rijos, ávidos, letradas, solteiras, taradas, pudicas, peludas, careca.
Mas teus desejos são comuns.
Você prefere as filhas, das tias, das mães, das irmãs, as sobrinhas.
Você rasgar um buraco no céu.
Mas isso não é comigo.
Eu amo tudo que ama areia.
Areia que traz inundações e magia.
Areia que está em casa.
Areia que é mal-amada.
Areia que dizem “te amo” e mais nada.
.
In the desert, where the desire is, you hallucinate.
Wiry, eager, educated, single, horny, prudish, hairy, bald.
But your wishes are common.
You prefer daughters, aunts, mothers, sisters, nieces.
You tear a hole in the sky.
But that’s not me.
I love everything that loves sand.
Sand that brings floods and magic.
Sand that is home.
Sand that is unloved.
Sand that says “I love you” and nothing else.

nothing else matters

10 Wednesday Jul 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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erotic, nothing else matters, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation

Minha boca quente sempre a te sugar.
Nada mais importa.
Não minha beijo em teu pescoço.
Delirando. Não seu corpo,
eu tenho que sentir, eu tenho que fazer loucuras.
Uma mordida? Não uma mordida.
Não meus lábios em teu pescoço.
Nada mais importa, mas, minha boca
quente a te sugar. Sempre.
.
My hot mouth to suck you always.
Nothing else matters.
Not my kiss on your neck.
Delirious. Not your body
that I have to feel, I have to do crazy things to.
A bite? Not a bite.
Not my lips on your neck.
Nothing else matters, but my hot mouth
to suck you. Always.

minete and a room full of holes

05 Friday Jul 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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cunnilingus, minete, oral sex, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation

Doce a palavra. Minete.
Doce o sal na minha língua.
Desperta, meu sangue.
Negue que me amas três vezes antes do amanhecer.
Perdoai-me porque te desejo tanto.
Doce teu mágica.
Transforme teu esporra em vinho.
Como beato, ajoelho-me entre tuas coxas, irmã.
Minete. Desejo ser bebido.
.
Sweet word. Minete.
Sweet salt on my tongue.
Awake, my blood.
Deny that you love me three times before dawn.
Forgive me because I desire so much.
Your sweet magic.
Turn your cum into wine.
How blessed I kneel between your thighs, sister.
Minete. I wish to be drunk.

Note from author:

There aren’t a whole lot of foreign words in the world for cunnilingus (the English didn’t have one for so long that they had to steal the idea from the French). Minete is one of those words. It’s Portuguese and my dictionary defines it thus:

S.f. (calão) Prática de sexo oral que consiste na estimulação do órgão genital feminino, em especial o clitoris, com a língua ou os lábios. O mesmo que cunnilingus. (Do francês «minet») exemplo de: Afastou-lhe as coxas e começou a fazer-lhe lentamente um minete.

sounds so rude

02 Tuesday Jul 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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in praise of older women, milf, milf erotica, poem, Poetry, sonnet, sounds so rude

.
After your third moon’s dry menstruation,
after your third divorce and third tonic
without the gin. After the gin. Pardon
this dull child in love with you, your chronic,
lickity-clit poetry. The lyric
of the older woman and her green bud.
I can’t fly, but I can lick like a buck
at a salt-lick. Fill you, with acid-blood
alcohol and joy. Pardon your dull child
who makes you cry and cum. The gods, leading
me to you, knew your needs. We are all crude.
Shameless. All these teachers and students. Wild
fucks and praise for learning new words; making
what you call “motherly love” sound so rude.
.

before the storm: poem for lilith

24 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Armenian, bibical erotica, Feminism, Illustration and art, Lilith, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Armenia, Armenian translation, art, Lilith, Portuguese translation, storm

Ահա թե ինչ եմ հրաժարվել: խոստումը ծերության, պոեզիայի, սիրո.
Ես չեմ ուզում մի բաժակ գինի.
Բան չկա, իր բյուրեղային խորքերը.
Իմ ափիոն խողովակը վնասվել է:
LSD չի բավարարում.
Քույր. Քույր. Քույր.
Սովորեցրեք ինձ ձեր ալքիմիա.
Ես ուզում եմ իմանալ, թե ինչպես պետք է կատարել մի մոռացկոտություն դեղ, օգտագործելով ձեր կույս-կաթ.
Երեկ ես կենդանի.
Վաղը ես կլինեմ մահացած.
.
Aqui está o que eu vou desistir: a promessa da velhice, da poesia, do amor.
Eu não tenho nenhuma necessidade de copos de vinho.
Não há nada dentro de suas profundezas cristalinas.
Meu cachimbo de haxixe está quebrado.
LSD não vai satisfazer.
Irmã. Irmã. Irmã.
Ensina-me a alquimia.
Mostre-me como fazer um elixir do esquecimento do teus moça-leite.
Ontem eu estava vivo.
Amanhã vou estar morto.
.
Here’s what I’ll give up: the promise of old age, of poetry, of love.
I have no need for a glass of wine.
There is nothing within its crystal depths.
My hashish pipe is broken.
LSD will not do.
Sister. Sister. Sister.
Teach me alchemy.
Show me how to make an elixir of forgetfulness out of your girl-milk.
Yesterday I was alive.
Tomorrow I’ll be dead.