leanbh, love

13 Sunday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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changeling, clit in the moonlight, cunnilingus, fey, kelp, leanbh, love, orgasmo divino, sonnet, taboo

“Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
with a faery, hand in hand,
for the world’s more full of weeping
than you can understand.”
–William Butler Yeats (1889)

Why? More than love, more than sex, I want you
as a changeling; leaving behind twine
and kelp — flotsam and jetsam — that I grew
from tide foam. Tonight your parent’s bloodline
ends. Yes. Tonight your heart shall no longer
be this lonely. Leave the hearth fire unlit.
Leave your father who ordered you never
to see me again. You’ve tasted my clit
in the moonlight. You have made this airy
creature cum and cum. Leanbh, love, tonight
all the world sleeps. Let’s leave this misery
for a world of little deaths and moonlight.
This lust, leanbh, is the gods’ true essence.
Leanbh, lust is our true inheritance.

NOTE: “leanbh” is the old Irish word for “babe” or “child,” a term of endearment.

something primal and forbidden

13 Sunday Jan 2013

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fresh meat, ghouleh, girl ghoul, hunger, lust, sonnet, taboo

One more illicit kiss, Yeva. Ghouleh
Yeva. Curving her lips when I ask her
if she loves me. “Someday,” she says, “someday.”
I love forbidden love. One girl’s monster
might be this cock boy’s passionate love-sighs.
Lust is cunning-simple, but we distrust
all that bring it. Somehow those who despise
lust are considered righteous. It is lust
that my Yeva feeds to me, what I eat.
Ghouleh’s (girl ghouls) tastes run to odd corpses
but once in a while Yeva wants fresh meat.
Once in a while I fill her. It pleases
her that I want her so bad I’d risk heartache,
rabies, longing, exile, all for her sake.

i’ll feed you all

12 Saturday Jan 2013

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food, Mojo Hannah, sonnet, the dead, zombie

“She’s a gumbo cooker and an alligator whipper
make a dead man jump and shout.”
Elkie Brooks, “Mojo Hannah”

I mixed the powdered leaves of thyme that grow
on the slopes of Levant, roasted wormwood,
greens and Dead Sea salt into a gumbo
to please you. You were hungry, understood
I was the source of your food. I called on
the dead and their honey-melon cravings.
I’ll feed you all. Eon after eon
you did not forget such pleasant drippings
between your lips. We all have rot, wearied,
endless needs. I pity you poor zombies
and all that you must endure just to feed
down on Canal Street among quiet trees.
Taste this, love, a kitchen witch, ringed, tattooed,
taught me this gumbo; the dead’s favorite food.

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

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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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art, jockey, sing, slow ride, switch

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

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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

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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

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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

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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.