• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Erotic

war loves you

23 Saturday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

copper wire, craters in the moonlight, gas mask, mohawk, sonnet, war loves you

war loves you

To love war is to resurrect it out
of stone, to fondle it from head to toe,
until war’s body and blood, a burnout
cypher, a hex, a woe, begins to glow.
To love war is to turn its ash-blown night
into a deep crater, somewhere a hawk
can roost down in. Craters in the moonlight;
inside war wears kick boots and a mohawk.
To love war is to give up your bizarre
heart for copper wire, chrome tubes. Can you, who
loves, say what love is? No, it just is. War
doesn’t know either, but it loves you, too.
Like all love it presses its blade, pointed,
sharp, to your heart until you’re drained of blood.

puppets burn

23 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

blue, bolline, chalice, dreamer what do you need?, homoerotic, huge cock, pentagram, smudge stick

 

Season’s fire enters and I burn. Always
flame; this does not get easier. Aunty,
where is a spring of hope when I’m ablaze?
Where is hope when the one I love leaves me?
All our old men talk of love like they talk
of all things; narrowly. Hell’s nothingness
is far better than a broken heart. Cock
and cunt. Ass and mouth. I am a chalice
boy; born in a pentagram. Take this smudge
stick, Aunt, take this bone bolline. We shall cut
it out. This fire. This heart. This pain. Carnage
in bed. Now cut the strings to this puppet.
Puppets burn. The one I loved left, I bloomed
into fervor, wanting to be consumed.

thurisaz

22 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Brother Cavil, fighting for the peace that comes from war, I'm a machine, quote from BSG, rune for chaos, sonnet, thurisaz, war

I’m a machine, and I could know much more.

Careless smiles and guileless graces are mine.

I’m split in two; like a wind-up centaur
or a clockwork sphinx, digital moonshine
or an island lost between day and night.

We half things. We projects someone else soon
started then got bored. Naked in firelight

my bat wings fit me. Why wings? Why the rune
for war — war and chaos — thurisaz — carved
in my skin? Naked I look human-made.

A thing for war. Beautiful, save a scar

where they turned me on. You blood; you have starved

me for years. Half thing hungry and afraid;

built to fight for the peace that comes from war.

* * *

Notes:

The first line, “I’m a machine, and I could know much more,” comes from the re-imagined television show Battlestar Galactica, where one of the Brother Cavils moans that of all the ways to experience the universe he ended up in a human’s body.

Thurisaz is a Norse rune literally translated into, “Thor-is-as.” Various authors have claimed this is a reference to the rebel giants, the god of war himself, as well as simply meaning thorn.

um tarot suja: the fool

22 Friday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

cat spirit, fox spirit, spirit guide, Tarot, the fool, um tarot suja, universe

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [final draft]

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [final draft]

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [rough draft #1]

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [rough draft #1]

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [rough draft #2]

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [rough draft #2]

I had been working on a tarot deck a couple of years ago, Um Tarot Suja, a sex magic deck (or at least that was the idea going into the project). I wanted to stay relatively faithful to the Rider-Waite deck. So, as they say in The Sound of Music, we’ll start at the beginning.

It helps me, at least, to think of the tarot as a narration of a spiritual journey, each card progressing down the path, as it were. The first card, The Fool, has a care-free youth starting out with his/her head in the sky, not paying attention to the abyss at they are about to plunge into. At their feet is a small animal (usually a yapping dog) which tries to get the Fool’s attention. We’ve all been there, starting out on a project full of excitement and idealism, having no idea what is in store for us.

My first two attempts (the bottom two cards) had the Fool stepping out into the (literal) darkness of the unknown. There isn’t a cliff, just the nothingness of the unknown, stepping into a blackness that has no form or shape. In the two cards both women have their hands stretched out to their spirit guides, a cat and a fox (what can I say? I like cats and foxes) and while technically either card to constitute as a Fool, neither really satisfied.

The final draft has the Fool transported to a unpleasant, godforsaken alien landscape (Utah) and the abyss, the start of our journey, is a stairway to (wait for it) the heavens. The Fool must take her first step up the stairs and into the unknown, accompanied by her guide, but once she does she can go anywhere in the universe she wishes, both literally and metaphorically.

[crypter] [crypter] [crypter]

22 Friday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

a machine is a machine is a machine, evil, female cyborg, gynoid, Morning Star by starlight, robot, Shakespeare, sonnet

gynoid

“Crypter, crypter, crypter.” “Clear.” It is right

here. The whorl in my ear. The whirl in my
dread. A smear of Morning Star by starlight.

A touch of evil, perhaps. Which is why
it is hard to believe in it. Evil.

I’ve taught it to sit, roll over, play dead.
I read it Shakespeare. It has no menstrual
cycles, though it leaks. What flows is blood red
and grease. Gears. Oil. It’s queer innards. But “it”?

Designed to look female. I’ve been inside.

Touched its cogs. Tightened screws. It just says, “shit,

man, a machine is a machine …” Its cried.

I know that. Tears are also tears. I know

there is more here than chrome and an afro.

harlem’s passions

21 Thursday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

69, Harlem's passions, Marie Laveau, Mojo Hannah, Soixante Neuf, sonnet, southern witches, St. John's Eve, voodoo

Hang it [up]. Fifteen and catechistic.
Sixteen and masochistic. Seventeen
with your fatalism. Eighteen odd sick
years. I’m down on Harlem, who sighs between
my thighs. Soixante neuf, as the French like it.
We like it too. Harlem runs her fingers
through my hair. Somewhere out there the spirit
of the southern witches is singing hers
to life, “twice burned britches.” Aren’t we all, ma’am?
sing for Marie Laveau on St. John’s Eve.
Sing for Harlem’s passions and the red lamb
that rides the night of the ram. Sing and leave.
We’re done. Harlem is all over my face.
Lick me clean, lover, down to the last trace.

* * *

Notes:

Marie Laveau (1794 – 1881) was a New Orleans priestess of Voodoo, renowned in her time throughout all of Louisiana.

St. John’s Eve is on June 23-24.

nox diva

20 Wednesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Aphrodisias, bisexual, blow job, fellatio, Greece, MMF, mythology, Nox Diva, praise song, sonnet, swimming pool, threesome

I am the mildest of creatures, spell-bound,
gossamer, a thorn jutting. The nox diva

inside the mushrooms growing on the mound
where I buried you. First there is nausea,
sweats, my gut turning. Then you open up

inside my skull-bone; a whiskey cactus,
melting. A mushroom is like a polyp;

I’ve found both on you. I turn, like Horace,
into your well-mannered court slave. Ghost slave.

Slave of a ghost. Each time you slide into
my mouth you leave part of yourself behind.

One day I’ll consume you all. Then your grave
will stand empty. I can’t let go of you,

no-no, even if I was so inclined.

* * *

Notes:

Nox diva is my attempt at translating the phrase “night goddess” into Latin.

Horace was one of Rome’s greatest poets, one whom the English poet John Dryden dismissed as “a well-mannered court slave.”

Image

spirit daughter of oya

18 Monday Feb 2013

Tags

daughter, goddess, Nigeria, Oya, West Africa

daughter of oya 1

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

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what i saw

18 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

age difference, aunt, blood, clit ring, hand job, hothouse gore, incest, missing toe, nephew, sonnet, tattoo

 

Was there blood. I didn’t know what I saw.
My breath gurgled down deep inside my chest.

I saw — what. First time you unclasped your bra
for me, your nephew, I saw your right breast,

upturned, beads of sweat dripping down. First time
you pulled your jeans around your knees I saw

your tight parted curls that tasted of thyme,
amber and lust under my tongue. Cat’s paw

tattoo, clit ring, missing toe. I saw all
of this. But now blood. Everywhere on me.

My blood. “What happened?” I whispered. But you
silenced me with your lips. My breath: a small

rusty gasp. “I am here to set you free,
naughty boy,”
she said. “My foolish nephew.”

gran tabú

17 Sunday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet, video

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Tags

Alanis Morissette, bastard, footjob, goleem girl, Liliti, seu filho da puta Adam, sonnet, video, Yeshua, You Oughta Know

I knew you way back when you had owl feet
and dry breasts. Then you married that bastard

Adam and it all went to hell. Discreet
sex while you were married was fun. I heard

what they said about you. It’s like when they
go on about Yeshua; they’re clueless,
aren’t they? fucking clueless. You’re made from clay?
my ass. Only mud pies come from that mess.
Mud pies and goleems. Liliti, you flew
to the Red Sea to get away. You knew
they would never leave a howling taboo

alone. Gran tabú: like when you told me

about Adam, the pig, getting ready

to cum all over his “little wifey.”

* * *

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