lago d’averno

24 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Gates of Hell, Italy, Lago d'Averno, Lake Avernus, Naples, nightfall, skinny dipping, sonnet

It was dark. Drunk, we went skinny dipping
in the dim pool near the hotel. Naples
spread out far below us. Her arms, hugging
my neck, pulled me close to her. Her nipples
and my cock awoke in that bottomless
dark. How odd that something so horrific
should wear such a dull mask. Dante warned us.
So did Virgil. But I was drunk, lovesick,
wanted to make her cum, so I ignored
what I knew of Lake Avernus; the gate
to Hell, which bore our witness. I explored
her dark body. We fucked like it was fate.
Little man, you claim to be a rebel,
tell me, have you cum on the gates of Hell?

Note:

Lake Avernus (Lago d’Averno in Italian) is the entrance to the Underworld in Greek myth. It is a real lake with dark, murky water, surrounded by dense forest. Avernus is described in Virgil’s poem The Aeneid, as well as in Dante’s Divine Comedy, as the gateway that Orpheus took to find his dead wife in the land of shades.

deathblow

24 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blow job, Catalina de los Ríos y Lisperguer, Chile, colonial era, deathblow, ghost, La Quintrala, sadism, sonnet

There are some ghosts you should never love. Not

that they want your love or that you interest
them, not you; in life they loved their gunshot,
stabbings, those odd marks we find, sinister
proof of some alien design. In life

peasants would cross themselves when they saw her.

They called her La Quintrala: butcher-wife
of old Chile. Even death could not slow
her down. I slept with her once, big mistake.

She was still calling a blowjob, “deathblow,”
and it was. She said, “I’ll make your heart break,”

and she did. “I only fuck you because
you are damned, like me,” she said, and I was.

a river woman’s heart

23 Wednesday Jan 2013

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betrayal, la magia sexual, mythology, Naiad, river woman, sonnet

It is not that river women are all
things to all people; just that your menfolk
feel far too free with them. Even a small,
slow brook is described in terms to evoke
a kept mistress. Let me tell you: you know
nothing about a river woman’s heart.
Her sands, her deltas, even the willow
who loves her; only a cad and blackheart
would try and describe the secrets shown him.
Naiads of bubbling, rolling rivers
might let their mortal lovers try and swim
their depths, but don’t talk about their waters.
Do not betray her trust, her love supreme;
or brag when your lover is a wild stream.

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

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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

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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

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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.