witch-mouse

22 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bath house, Bedouin, incest, mother-son, sonnet, Witch-Mouse

I called her Witch-Mouse, for the dawn-glimmer
hung on her heels and the keen-eared, sassy
bat knew her by name. “Call me your mother,”
she said, parting her robes. “Call me Ommy.”
Her dark legs straddled me, guiding myself
inside; so deep that our pubes touched. Witch-Mouse
raised her hips and thrust down. She was part-elf
and part-prophetess. In the tiled bathhouse
all that she told me then came true. Outside
her small Bedouin daughter kneaded bread
dough by the wood-fired stove. But Witch-Mouse cried
and grabbed my ass and bit me until red
mixed with our cum. “Ibni,” she moaned, “my son.
I love you even more for what we’ve done.”

][][

Note: In Egyptian Arabic “Ibni” or “Ebni” means “my son” and “Ommy” translates as “my mother.”

dream, dream, dream

22 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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changeling, cumin, Dreamland, incest, Midsummer Night's Dream, mother-son, Oberon, Puck, Shakespeare, sonnet, Titania

Note:

In Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream (ii,i) Puck explains that Oberon, king of fairyland, and Queen Titania are keeping rival courts as the aftermath of a quarrel about Titania taking a human boy as a lover:

The king doth keep his revels here to-night:
Take heed the queen come not within his sight;
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,
Because that she as her attendant hath
A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king;
She never had so sweet a changeling;
And jealous Oberon would have the child
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild;
But she perforce withholds the loved boy,
Crowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy …

And, as we all know, all is fair in otherworldly love and war.

* * *

Night is over. Dawn will end our affair.

Once more the sun creeps over Oberon’s
Hill. My sweet changeling with cumin hair,
sleep, sleep, sleep. Dream …
…. of ruttish nymphs and fawns.

Dream of your aroused mother who snuggles
you tight between her breasts. Your mother’s milk
is still sticky on your lips. My nipples
ache …

…. Dream, dream, dream. Under buttercup silk
and the sighing grass dream of another
night of pleasure. Little prince. Little joy.

I prayed to the gods for a new lover
and they sent me a lovely human boy.

Dream of fairy lechery as you lie
with me. Dream …

… of my lips milking you dry.

to enslave a love dog

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Balm of Gilead, ginger root, Hecate's bane, hemlock, mandrake, saffron, sex charm, sex magic, sonnet, Sycorax, witcheries, yarrow

“There are love dogs
no one knows the names
of” — Jalal al-Din Rumi

Can you read saffron? Can you make sex charms?
Do you know the name of night rain? Glamor
clamors at my backdoor. A shadow swarms
against the glass. Go and find me ginger
root and hemlock, mandrake and Hecate’s bane,
yarrow and Balm of Gilead. I’ll teach
you what Sycorax taught me; how night rain
needs to be seduced; how shameless the beach
is at low tide, the only spot for sex
magic; how to bind cheating dogs to you
through your own cum. I will teach you that hex,
taboo for my kith and kin, that voodoo
curse to enslave love dogs. The big payback.
A hex from which there is no going back.

the myth of free will

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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death, destiny, sonnet, soul food, the myth of free will

Why we come back is as vague as why we
picked out our lovers: “A bodiless voice

told me to?” “Our Elysian chemistry?”
“I was unaware I had any choice

in the matter?” Only the ego talks
about free will. All I know is that I …

faded and then returned. With my nighthawk’s
vision, my vulturous faith, my magpie

song. I’m in the trees; but why I returned …
I don’t know. There are certain damn shadows

far too alive for death. I passed, unburned,
through the living with all their doomed egos.

There is no release, love, just lustful need
and dim echoes of how the soul can feed.

see dead boy come

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, babysitter, blow job, cum in your bum, dead boy cum, death, ghost boy, sex demon, sonnet

Passing through the door, I drift nearby you,
spoon your sleeping body. I love your queer
hunger. You said your mother was Zulu,
taught you how to wield a boar-hunting spear.
“But there’s more than one way to catch a boar,”
you said, sucking my cock deep down your throat.
You were my babysitter, took much more
than my virginity that night. “Devote
your soul to pleasure, call upon shadows
to be your lovers,” you instructed me
as I, on my tip toes, released rainbows
deep in your cunt and across your belly.
Playing with death, you said, “cum in my bum.”
You said, “dead boy cum, I love dead boy cum.”

the first exile

20 Sunday Jan 2013

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

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bisexual, cruising, cunnilingus, drunk on spunk, Edward the Dyke, Judy Grahn, Liliti, mythology, sonnet, strap-on sister, the first exile

“I’m not a good lay/ I’m a straight razor,”
Judy Grahn, “Edward the Dyke”

There was no grief. The summer radio
played “you can have my husband/ but don’t mess
with my woman” all day long. Your afro
gleamed as we cruised in your Austin Princess
downtown. Playtime approached. After playtime
came dawn. Dusk and dawn. But you, drunk on spunk,
the first exile, loved love during wartime,
with your kerosene myth, junk in your trunk
and duck’s arse cut. Girls called you Liliti;
I called you my “mama-jan;” my surreal
strap-on sister. My roots and the orgy
where I was conceived. One hand on the wheel
while your other played with my head between
your thighs, licking your clit stiff and obscene.

cocksure with what you are holding

20 Sunday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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chalice, cocksure, ghost girl, sonnet, stone knife, the headdress of my mistress, the wind's distress

I can sense your scent in the wind’s distress,
in tastes that ravish — the grape and anise
that grow on your grave. I wear the headdress
of my mistress. I carry her chalice
and her stone knife. In the mist of slumming
flowers and wet earth you have hung over
my bed, a silent silver thing, shining
through tree branches. I have pulled you closer,
sucked long at your foggy breast, played with your
wet and hazy clit. If sadness can haunt,
so can need, so can greed. You are cocksure
with what you are holding. With what you want.
joining What-was-not with What-might-have-been,
joining your dead lust with my living sin.

pink egg cracks

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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ghost girl, incest, my little sister, praise song, sinner, sister-brother love, sonnet

If I had the voice I’d sing the mystic’s
lullaby, salt hallow, to keep you safe.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
my voice a lisping hell, must love my waif
sister, family ghost, in a new way.
Your eyes are beautiful beggars, now beg
for fry bread and a butterscotch sundae.
I’ll feed you. Between your legs your pink egg
cracks. I’ll break it for you. Like a firefly
you sleep three feet off the floor. I’ll guard you.
When you cry I’ll kiss your shaggy bangs dry.
And in rutting season I’ll make you mew,
then goo on me. A song for a sinner.
A lullaby for my dead kid sister.

the tempest’s scar: lecherousness

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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incest, lecherousness, lewdness, Lord Byron, lustfulness, Manfred, sister-brother love, sonnet, taboo

I.
Just the merest flutter of temptation
would make a courtesan or a scholar
or a saint wanton, shameless. Lord Byron
knew this. In his Manfred the dead sister
is a symbol of impossible lust.

II.
The mist on the mountain and on the moon
hint at pathways few dare to take. Disgust
is just regret turned in on itself. Soon
the fog of lustfulness, the tempest’s scar,
the night’s charioteer, will come for you.

III.
If you love me, give in, though I am far
away, give in to what we both would do.
You, who are neither nun nor sorceress,
be my sister, my taboo, my lewdness.

as a child the one ghost

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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childhood, cum, fellatio, ghost, school, sonnet, virgin orgasm

Do not believe this tale until the school
bell rings. They said that I played with myself
in a corner of the yard. Boys were cruel
and girls flew away. Even the blind elf,
always drunk, smelling like a tanned horse hide,
was deaf to me. As a child the one ghost
who stayed was a motherly suicide
with a taste for innocence. Who would boast
that it was virgin cum which kept her in
limbo. But she lied. There is no limbo;
only us. I was her pretty plaything.
She would suckle on me, suck my foreskin
down her throat. And just before my deathblow
orgasm in the yard … the bell would ring.