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Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under .gif, Humor, Illustration and art
13 Wednesday Feb 2013
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Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under .gif, Humor, Illustration and art
13 Wednesday Feb 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry
≈ Comments Off on you oughta know by now—
Tags
amor mío, bisexual, Federico Garcia Lorca, homoerotica, homophobia, sonnet, The Mamas and The Papas, Words of Love
* * *
“If your girl likes rhythm and blues, look out
’cause cake’s in the house…”
— Sir Mix-a-lot, Cake Boy
“If you love her” and “then you must send her
somewhere” and “where she’s never been before.”
Do not mock “words of love, soft and tender.”
All my “worn out phrases” come straight from war.
Lovers still die. I’m “a buttercup boy
from the funny school.” By definition
I’ve been to places a 60s tomboy
hasn’t, as all children can claim. Semen
running down our chins. Still, I’ll make you glow,
mamas and papas, take you down tonight.
To where they shot Lorca. Because you mocked
everything “soft and tender.” Federico,
mi amor, I’ll burn them down with delight.
It will leave their souls horror-struck and shocked.
* * *
Note:
* The Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, was assassinated in 1936 by General Franco’s fascists for being a liberal and a queer.
* The 1960s group The Mamas and the Papas sang the song Words of Love, which I quote from in the poem. Regardless of what I say elsewhere, bless you, Mama Cass (though Papa John can bite me, jerk)
* I’ve been living with Sir Mix-a-lot’s fake ode (he of the Baby Got Back fame) to the effeminate in men, Cake Boy, for many a year now. It is equally fascinating and frustrating, much like society’s take on the fey. It might not be the very first attempt in mainstream media to talk about gay and transgendered African Americans (see: Honey Honey Miss Thang for a longer discussion) but it was one of the first I came across in hip hop. I am not African American, but I certainly identified with the cake boy motif he describes. I call this a fake ode because at the end of the song Mix-a-lot advocates physical violence against any effeminate man who might be coming on strong to a homeboy’s girlfriend. Homophobia and gay-bashing will always be crimes to send you to the 7th circle of hell in my book.
13 Wednesday Feb 2013
I.
Just one more kiss upon your lips causes
the blood to stir. Little light tonging flicks
like so — like so — and your hardness rises
to meet me until, with licks upon licks,
your juice starts to run. Two of my fingers
slip and slide around the edge of your ass.
I warn you: your bum will be a martyr’s
graveyard before I’m done. I will trespass
in deep — to the knuckle — in your anus.
II.
Milton warned us about this. Dictating
to his daughter the sins of male-on-male
flesh. I’m sure she spent many a restless
nightmare sandwiched between Morning
Star and Urel: male-on-male-on-female.
13 Wednesday Feb 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on cthulhu’s playthings
“I bite into you but then I get bored
before the second bite,” Preacher, sighing,
explained. The thing wore a mask and a sword
with a taste for blood. Archangels fucking
demons is perverse but not rare. Preacher
came from such a mating. Our blood, distilled
from the heart, makes a mean food. In horror
films it’s drugs and sex that will get you killed.
In our world it’s ignorance of such things.
Preacher raised its eldritch head from my bones.
I could almost kiss it, except blood loss
made the world blur. We, Cthulhu’s playthings,
do not please. Its tongue, piercing my breastbones,
recoiled, grunting, “what a vile tasting sauce” …
12 Tuesday Feb 2013
Tags
homoerotic, hot springs, Jangsan, Korea, Kwang-ho, mountain, San-shin, sonnet
He took a stone’s face. He took a rock’s face.
Now when I’m out walking in the mountains
I do not know what he looks like. The grace
I called love has left me. There were thousands
of souls here. His face was not one who passed
me. I first spied San-shin at a hot springs
up near Jangsan. Knobby old man with vast
balls. He laughed at my ignorance of things.
Mountain gods like sex rough. For a whole week
I went around with lockjaw. But he tired
of me, or maybe I wasn’t up to
his hard transcendental standards. His peak
is bare. The cold god I once desired
thought that I was only good for a screw.
* * *
Note: In the Korean peninsula, San Shin is a mountain spirit venerated in both Buddhist temples and by local shamans. To say he is the embodiment of a mountain top fails to capture his true meaning, for all peaks in Korea are considered sacred spots for the gods, which might account for the large number of hot springs and spas that claim to be the personal favorite of San Shin.
12 Tuesday Feb 2013
Tags
Chinese, Cixi, Empress Dowager, ghost lover, sonnet, white boy
“It would be useful,” the ghost then told me,
“to learn Chinese.” “Why?” “Because a kept boy
needs to be able to whisper bawdy
words while making love. English will annoy
mistress to no end.” Being the consort
to the Empress Dowager’s over-sexed
ghost was not easy. It wasn’t the court
robes or growing out my queue; nothing vexed
her as much as her pet “foreign devil”
being sloppy in obscene pillow talk.
“Wǒ xiǎng jì! I wanna cum!” Regal
cheeks spread wide, taking in all of my cock.
“Wǒ xiǎng jì!” Cixi ordered her dumb
boy toy, “– I wanna cum! — I wanna cum!”
* * *
Note: Empress Dowager Cixi, of the Manchu Yehenara clan, was a powerful and charismatic woman who controlled the Manchu Qing Dynasty in China for 47 years, from 1861 to her death in 1908.
According to Google translator, 我想暨 (wǒ xiǎng jì), translates as “I wanna cum.” I’ve yet to cross check it so if anyone with better Chinese skills than me knows please let me know.
11 Monday Feb 2013
One day when you’re good I’ll show you my Y
shaped scar cutting my chest, my clavicles,
sternum and heart all in half; that which lies
in me is now on display. My devils
make no attempt to be subtle. The art
of the cross stitch hurts but keeps my ugly
bosom together. My guts, pulled apart,
sleep on the dissection table. To be
as anatomically correct as this
is a pain. really. Man’s ideal monster
can’t be built, but we try. My Pygmalion
lover saw to that. Inside me the hiss
and whir of dark science makes me neither
god nor a monster; not even human.
08 Friday Feb 2013
Tags
Amsterdam pure, army of lovers, girl tough, kitty in cuffs, la petite mort, orgasm at work, sonnet, strap-on sister, sword-swallower
There is starlight and strobe in my bloodstream.
With my thumb I blend them in. The Red Queen’s
kiss is good to ward off a hex. To dream
about a pound of Amsterdam pure means
you think about the Netherlands a lot,
that and weed. I dream about my fingers
on your ass, in your hair, licking your spot.
When I dream of war my strap-on-sisters
make great generals. My kitties in cuffs
become brutal sword-swallowers. Queenly
soldiers stretched across my bed; these girl toughs
never suffer from post-coital ennui.
Why blue? Orgasms should make us all strong,
wanting more, unless you’re doing it wrong.
08 Friday Feb 2013
Between brasa whispers and nuzzlings
your rough hands hold my hips close and coax me
against the wall, against you. This youngling’s
cock tip — nudges — your up-turned cheeks. Easy.
In thrall. You were once Elaine Brown’s lover,
working on the Black Panther’s Free Breakfast
for the Children program. I call you “sir;”
you say I’m your “boy bitch.” Often aghast
I squirm under such words. Language ruins
it all. The night is full of blood and chrome
and ghosts. Sweaty and writhing, my pale horn
touches your cervix. I have a virgin’s
greed for you. You, who are my honeycomb
fire, at war before I was even born.
Notes:
Brasa is Spanish for “live coal.”
Elaine Brown is a prison activist and former head of the Oakland chapter of the Black Panther Party; ran for the Green Party presidential nomination in 2008.
07 Thursday Feb 2013
Tags
amputee, Cambodia, Cambodian Mine Action Centre, cunnilingus, landmine, peace, silk stockings, sonnet
It was hard in the beginning, of course.
Getting her up, the feedings, the wipings.
“Let me die,” she’d beg me, full of remorse.
I don’t blame her. I bought her silk stockings
for her four stumps. She hated them, at first.
Three years after “it” happened she started
to smile. She stopped saying that she was cursed
on her sixteenth birthday. I french braided
her hair and we went everywhere. We’re fine
down in the stream near the village. She rests
in my embrace. Peace is being buoyant.
She still won’t talk about “it;” the landmine.
At night my tongue finds her, teasing her breasts,
her lips, her clit, with love, raw and urgent.
* * *
Note: after three decades of war Cambodia has well over 40,000 landmine amputees, 75% of which are children. In 2012, the Cambodian Mine Action Centre (CMAC) estimated that there might be as many as four to six million mines and other pieces of unexploded ordnance still unaccounted for in rural Cambodia.