• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Erotic

flush blush flame

12 Saturday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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child of many mothers, divine orgasm, hand job, homoerotic, Lazarus, She Who Cannot Be Named, sonnet, the dead, The Goddess

 

You’ve heard this before. Now and then. The soul
springs up alive. Polarized eyes then blink.
Useless limbs quiver. The heart, all charcoal
and ash, resumes. Flies move off and the stink
of your green rot fades and you flush and blush
and flame. Something below your slumbering
belly stirs. Poor Lazarus was all mush-
pulp when he rose. But we are no offspring
of sky gods. Our mothers taught us better.
Insatiable. Orgasms are doorways
to all that’s divine. What sort of sinner
would turn a blind eye on this holy praise?
Lets go together, passing through that door
once more, to see all our mothers once more.

in fog, in cold flesh

11 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cum, dawn, dusk, ghost girl, grave dust, sonnet

 

Ghost of an orphan flings wide my windows
at dusk. I can taste tart perfumed evening
on my lips,the way ghosts kiss, as she flows
and glides to my side. The craft of kissing
her is hard but Death will make a pervert
out of me yet. Sometimes she is misty.
Other times I slide my hand up her skirt
and find out just how wet a ghost can be.
She gets laid in fog, in cold flesh, jealous
of all the blood in my veins. The godhead
bursting inside her. Spewing my lewdness
through her and all over our frowzled bed.
At dawn I still taste her urchin grave dust,
a dead waif’s ectoplasm wet with lust.

neighing at night, sweat

10 Thursday Jan 2013

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

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Tags

art, jockey, sing, slow ride, switch

Jan 10, 2013

in the dim hours
every word
is a switch
to make
our flesh
sing.

neighing
at night,
sweat
measures
itself
on your
lower lip.

rubbish
heap

my nails
have no more
fingers
to hang
onto.

anemones

10 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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anemones, bisexuality, blood-orange, figs, orgasm

 

does it taste
like myrtle?
like mint?
like blood-
orange
anemones?
we can agree
that we taste
sweat.
but
jasmine? no.
i’ve tried
again
and again
to pin
point
the scent,
the ablution
of your wide
ocean
raw
as ripe
figs.

your last orgasm [2]

09 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

faith, orgasm, She Who Cannot Be Named, sonnet, soothsaying, The Goddess, your last orgasm

 

Heaven means little when there are bloated
hands, a skirt undone, blotches of blood caked
across the face. There is nothing splendid
about heaven if any dull, half-baked
prude can get there simply on faith. The pus
oozing from the earth, the pus in my veins,
some say sin, are the same. The Horned Huntress
calls for me. She Who Cannot Be Named reigns
here, a living heaven, a flash, something
divine. Your last orgasm; speak molten
omens dripping down your thigh, soothsaying
your cum for things to come. See what you’ve done.
All for a faith that needs no toil, no vow.
All for a heaven that’s right here, right now.

here now, return

09 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

adulteress, Frankenstein, heroine, Prospero, re-animation, sonnet, sublime, zombie

All this scandal men and their jokes fall flat,
waking the blue chaos inside. Make me
the saint of the exile and the wildcat,
the mad girl, the adulteress still hungry
for love. Never let us be so unloved
that we start to believe that joke, that crust
the dull and savage dress us in. Beloved
daughter, spirit of my flesh, ghost of rust
and dark re-animation, these are gifts
I’ll dress you in. The color of gasping
breath, the heartbeat’s first beat, a mewl that drifts
from your throat. Rise and rejoin the living.
I am no Prospero, no Frankenstein.
Still, my art is crude, erotic, sublime.

aumakua

08 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Aumakua, island, mythology, Sandwich Islands, sonnet, succubus

Aumakua: a succubus
from the Sandwich Islands,
South Pacific.

Her hair was long, at least by our dreamland
standards. She had wrapped the tail ends around
her toes, so that when she walked she left the sand
patterned, like the wind in the dunes. The sound
of her song could be heard up and down
the beach. In the graves of Chief Roi Mata
and his 20 wives the old man would frown
at all the smutty figures she would draw
in the sand with a stick. Missionaries
called her a devil as she drank the rain
gushing out from her own lap. Her menses,
it was said, could wake the dead, heal that pain.
In our dreamland she waits, a succubus
under a lotus tree, pleasure’s goddess.

zerachiel, mi amor

03 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Passings and Death Notes, Poetry

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Tags

anal, archangel, cock, divine, homoerotic, mi amor, Zerachiel

 

My love
lives
somewhere
between
the nether
and the far
upper worlds.
Like the boy
Jesus
we all love
huge cocks.
From a single
prayer
our lives
become
wanton
and death
jealous.

Image

the eye is the window to the soul, or so they say

31 Monday Dec 2012

Tags

eyeball, soul

window to the soul

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

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ayrivank orpheus

31 Monday Dec 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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ayrivank orpheus, French, translation

Stèles
bustes
berceaux
les témoins
à l’ombre touffue
du paradis
avoir tant attendu
d’impossibles marées
Sous le vent des arbres
t’enveloppe l’ombre complice
Tous les siècles
silences
gagner la dune

L’enchevêtrement
de pierre
opéra désordonné
signes
trinité de sable
qui t’accueille
ceinte des marches
se rapprocher
boucliers
masques
proclamation
de batailles
secrètes
falaise sombre
découpée d’azur
coupoles
en suspens
blocs arcs
diffraction
de croix
Roche orangée
où courent des ruisseaux
d’herbe

Soudain
plongé
au coeur de la grotte
humide oppressante
gouttelettes d’orage
qui scandent
yeux de Shiva
brasier
délimitant la nuit
S’égarer parmi
la faille
Nul retour
le chemin de cendres

Surgir nu
faune à la flûte
tu envahis l’écran
sans mot dire
bec
incandescent
regard rivé vers
les tréfonds de la terre

Scène urbaine
chaos industriel
improvisation
cathartique
les vertiges
oubliés
basculement
d’outre Erevan

Les angles se tordent
perspectives floues
arcade molle
piliers de convulsion
déplier
chaque prisme
La coupole fuit
se déplace
lunaire
iris de pierre
fixe
duduk
sismographe
dentelle mouvante
casque
de l’orant

Feuillages opiacés
tiare du chaman
les silhouettes
se plient
aux désirs secrets
multipliant
leurs clés
suivre la paroi
telle une peau
scarifications
grotte berbère
tatouages
ors terrestres
nappes
qui serpentent
coagulation de lumière
tu scandes
l’initiation
seul le torse

Revisiter la ville
les places d’oubli
torsion domestique
du plus profond
mage
doigts notes
symétriques
L’incantation
géométrie pétrifiée
kaléidoscope
paroles de la Pythie
vents
fixer le centre
qui se dérobe
Les perspectives
se répondent
fuient
Debout dans tes ténèbres

Ithaque
Sevan
ballet panique
épuiser toutes les formes
aller au delà
danser l’impossible
murailles du jaguar
les volumes conjugués
plaine improbable
bornes floues
Capitales
rompues
rive foisonnante

Message de Circé
L’appel des noyades

Lettres décomposées
losanges ruptures
dédale océanique
qui se multiplie et disparaît
faille bleue

Boutre
en quête
tes Mers Rouges
les horizons se mêlent
boussole nue
tu te laisses guider
par ce qui n’a pas
de nom
saccades d’écume
le lac agite son voile
bref létal
paupières qui se referment
grève muette
calcinée
Les flots roses
aurores
qui brûlent sans cesse
regagner les glaces

Les routes l’île
murs
qui affleurent
tourner le regard
La nuit tombée
reprendre le ballet
bâtir l’éphémère
au centre de la scène
agonie du sens commun
d’évidence

Animal
mystique
regard perdu
dans l’immensité
appel muet
danse d’exorcisme
Libre
de ta nuit

[http://armeniantrends.blogspot.com/2009/06/tsovinar.html]

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