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Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic
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18 Tuesday Dec 2012
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Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic
≈ Comments Off on ghostly love is all about ectoplasmic cum
15 Saturday Dec 2012
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on itchy, fevered, ill
notes: Yukio Mishima (1925 – 1970) was a Japanese author, poet, playwright and film director. He had been nominated three times for the Nobel Prize in Literature. His visions were avant-garde, displaying a blending of modern and traditional that broke cultural boundaries, with a focus on his own sexuality. He was obsessed with the romanticism of the samurai, as well as that of Bushido, their warrior’s moral code. He once explained in an interview that after WWII Japan was now living in an age where there could never be an “honorable death:” for Mishima that meant dying either on the field of battle or by ritualistically cutting out one’s own intestines with a knife. In 1970, after a failed coup d’état, he committed suicide by doing just that, seppuku.
“got the guts for it?”
Tonight’s ordeal by roses, red poppies,
praying mantises. You left and I came.
You left me and now I am hot with fleas,
regret, none of us can survive the shame
of the morning wind. My love: memory
of things precious keeps me itchy, fevered,
ill. A tower of stone. Rough and lonely.
Darling Mishima: you were a bastard
in life, but god-like in death. I have traced
knife points across my stomach, too, all set
to spill my guts to you. We have debased
any honorable death, and yet — and yet —
Like sex, your love left me sad and obscene,
tending to your grave, clothed in tender green.
[remix]
Tonight’s
ordeal
by roses,
red poppies,
praying
mantises.
You left
and I came.
You left and
now I am hot
with fleas,
regret, who can
survive
the shame
of the morning
wind? My love:
memory of things
precious keeps me
itchy, fevered,
ill.
A tower of stone.
Rough and lonely.
You were a bastard
in life, but god
-like in death.
I have traced
knife points across
my stomach, too,
all set
to spill
my guts
to you.
Have we
debased
any honorable
death? and yet —
and yet —
Like sex,
your love
left me
sad and
obscene,
tending to
your grave,
clothed in
tender green.
13 Thursday Dec 2012
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry
≈ Comments Off on desirous appetites
Tags
I.
The moon
smiled
on me
last night
as I lay
beneath
the stars hot
and flushed
in the grave
yard winking
as if
to tell me
of more delights
in the time
to come if
I could only
understand.
If I could
only hear
what
they want
to tell me.
II.
Deep down
under
the tombs
the conquering
worms writhe
and twist
with their
desirous
appetites,
hungry for what
remains
of flesh,
now deflated,
long shriveled,
spent. Cocks
and the dead
have much
in common.
Both strut
and fret
and when over
are heard
no more.
III.
Last night
I slept
in the grass
and felt it
tickle
the soft flesh
of my naked
thighs
and dreamed
you were
more than just
a ghost and
I was more
than just
in love
with your
lost,
dead
eyes.
03 Monday Dec 2012
Tags
I had a terrible
last night
dreamed:
“The beasts
were all
gathered,
flood-wild,
safe within
Ararat’s shadow
by Lord Byron’s
sons and
daughters, lo!
Syn
appeared,
a dark hairless
waif
striding
upon the cresting waters.”
I, too, am a child
of Manfred.
I just wish
you had had more
faith
in me.
I can’t help
that I am
a creature
of river clay,
crude
and molded,
but you – you
kept finding fault
in everything.
Urchins
in my dreams
gave me
more love
than you
ever did
in this breathing
scarce half
made up
world.
I loved you,
but you,
after
thought,
hurt me.
27 Tuesday Nov 2012
Give me one last kiss, I ask for no more.
I know that you see our love as bizarre,
grotesque. I wanted to taste battle gore,
to feed on war, my Witch-king of Angmar.
Alone, you have kissed my hungry lies, lips,
finger tips. I have conquered walled cities
for you. I, who was young and fair. What drips
here is only lust, the dark arts, furies,
my blood and disease. Love like scabies. Bliss.
Lover, my dark shadow in a red masque,
give me what I came for: one wild, sweet kiss
to last a thousand years. That I may bask
and die. Trampled. Recall our lover’s vow.
You, who have taught me my ways, kiss me now.
27 Tuesday Nov 2012
“The oldest
song ever
sung” …
and I,
a boy
from Babylon,
can only hope
that
the one
who finds
me knows
how to sew
roasted
tar
and paper,
gun
powder and frosted
raccoon skin.
It is winter,
the stuff
of midnight
fables.
27 Tuesday Nov 2012
Swallows twittered all morning; at high noon
blackbirds sang amid the corn. At dusk down
the frogs with piping filled the black lagoon
and the bats, in flight, spoke of the nightgown
and the sticky toy. Let me sing about
going down behind your misty blood veil
finding your red-faced rose moon, your cunt’s pout,
my two fingers in. I love girls’ duck-tail
haircuts and packed strap-ons. Cut birds’ laughter
across the harp strings of the rain, I hear pain.
I sing for the grass. I chime for flower.
This boy is all spring showers and dogsbane.
Let me be your rain, your wild wind, bluetongue.
This is love, the oldest song ever sung.
26 Monday Nov 2012
Tags
absinthe, bath house, ces couleurs pervers, Christ of the Phallus, Holy Ghost, homoerotic, sonnet
I have gone down on Christ of the Phallus.
I have sucked dry the Lord of Divine Hosts.
Let men brag about conquests. When Jesus
came he filled my mouth with the Holy Ghost’s
jizm. When he dribbled absinthe across
his god-like cock I prayed to the wild green
fire in its crystal shrine, Fairy-fuck sauce,
as I licked each massive ball squeaky clean.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. Hashish
and bath house gangbangs made for great threesomes,
sticky trinity. We were stoned, puckish,
immaculate. We were smutty pilgrims.
We found, between a prophet’s cock and ass,
all of faith sleeping in an absinthe glass.
26 Monday Nov 2012
Tags
Down in the sunless depths of clay she sank.
Shocked and flushed as a star for a bridal
dress. Now shrouded. A chain across her blank
breast. The dead have forgotten sex. Babel
Tower Tongue-Fuck Doggy-style means nothing.
The noise they make sounds like weeping waters.
Aghast, she was at the point of cumming
when Death took her, still tasting of reefers
and gin. Cunnilingus interruptus;
Limbo by any other name. How low
would you go? Who would school you in lewdness
if your soul depended on it? I know
all souls do. How low? Today you shall learn
all the ways I make sure that you don’t burn.
20 Tuesday Nov 2012
Tags
Yesterday
I salted
your mouth.
Today there is
a warm, briny
sea
between your legs
as you float,
soothed
by the kiss
of ripples
across
upturned nipples.
Your thatch
of hair a bed
of kelp.
Skinny dipping
near Santa Cruz,
the sea
shimmering
through you,
waves lapping
at your clit
just like I did.
And at each silk-
like stroke
you thrust
your ass up,
heave your hips
out of the water,
as if I were still
with you,
guiding
my tongue
to your witching
spot, as if
you were a sea witch
and all the ocean
your lover.