whack

31 Sunday Oct 2021

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blind satyr, bloody breath, byéjémshen, dansés jémshen, erotic poetry, poem, Potawatomi, sonnet, translation

No womb, no bloom, no plume of bloody breath

claiming divine chaos, divine vision ––

It’s the ones that want to kiss me to death,

lips to lips, our hips to hips, that won’t shun

this plump flesh, that I want. “Burn your marriage

bed,” the blind satyr said. “Dansés jémshen.”

Little daughter, kiss me. As if carnage

were that whack. Once again my swelling skin

rests in the palm of your hand, distending

the dark all around. No womb, no bloom, just

my cum coating your fingers. Lick them clean.

“Byéjémshen.” Come kiss me. I’m wanting

to want you. My whack smack. My angel dust.

My sick urges. My infernal machine.

desists

28 Thursday Oct 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, sonnet

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cunnilingus, desists, erotic poetry, Hecate, lick me don't fuck me, lingis non futuis meam, poem, Poetry, right hand magic, sonnet

Pornographer of Left-hand magic, you

said. Freak. Pervert. Hecaté understands;

we both speak vulgar Latin. The taboo

that you call lust still stands. Magic commands

so much. I burn thyme, hemlock, devil’s weed,

coating my cauldron’s concave sides with ash.

My blood that I kept on ice has jellied,

along with my dumb cum. The zigzag slash

cut in my palm desists to scar. I mix

the red slop with the cinders. “Lingis,”

Hecaté said, “non futuis meam.” Lick me,

don’t fuck me. This is prayer, too. All that licks.

All that laps. All that sucks. Watch how I kiss

her cunt, phosphorescent and velvety.

][[][

Notes:

Hecaté is the Roman goddess of crossroads, witchcraft and ghosts. In a world obsessed with duality we’re told that all which is, “dark must be sinister,” (Left-hand magic), while all that is, “light must be good” (Right-hand magic). Must be, must be, must be. I find such moral claims contemptible since there is no good or bad, black or white, just muddled, ashen gray.

refute

24 Sunday Oct 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, sonnet

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bode'wadmi, erotic poetry, ghostly sex, halloween, joe orton, poem, sonnet, spilled ink, translation

“Through the wall stole a weird form who unbent

herself and stood tall.” I’ve had nbodewbi

ghosts, drunk and horny, slither like portents

to my bed before. Sex, grim and ghastly,

is all that the dead offer. Whatever

you think about lust now, that memory

will haunt you. Ghostly sex is still better

than no sex, they say. Perhaps most don’t see

it like that. Hot to leave their flesh and blood

behind they’ll grasp at any fairy tale

that says eternity is chaste. I know

how our souls refute that. These castrated

ghosts can only moan; when you’re cold and pale

come find me. You know I won’t say no.

][][

Notes:

The first line is a reworking of the beginning of George Houghton’s poem, The Witch of York, “Up o’er the hill and broken wall/ There stole a weird form, bent but tall.” In Bode’wadmi (the Potawatomi language), nbodewbi is a verb meaning drunk and horny. I think Joe Orton summed it up nicely when he said, “Enjoy sex. When you’re dead, you’ll regret not having fun with your genital organs.”

nachtmusik

18 Monday Oct 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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air for g string, calico crotch, cityscape, darkcloud, erotic poetry, nachtmusik, poem, sonnet

Heat haze at dusk. Ho hum clouds melt and meet

in gray and green flames until they become shrouds

for leaves of ribald trees. Across the street,

three floors up, Pauline’s cello turns darkclouds

to dew –– the most vulgar of all juices.

Each night she repeats her scales, saws out tunes,

twists old lays new. When I speak of crotches

I speak of my own; my cum, like the moon’s,

splatters in the dark while the music’s glee

sets fire to all it touches. I grind my teeth

and cum under the night’s skirts with Bach’s “Air

for G string;” while ‘neath the cellist’s airy

g-string Bach’s night heat yawns wide. Underneath

this string’s calico crotch: thick dew-slicked hair.

shuffle shlick

26 Sunday Sep 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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absinthe, erotic poetry, jazz, masturbation is the door we all need to pass through, poem, shuffle shlick, sonnet, twilit

There were no strange colors in the streetlight.

No wet streets. No musk. No absinthe twilit

in jazz. No moon above roofs like a blight

in the sky. Just you, dead thing; while misfit

living things went flitting around inside

their hells. They make hell home under their skin

for their frail godheads; call themselves, “Brides

of,” and claim that shuffle-shlick is a sin.

Now it’s too late, dead thing, to place my hands

around their cunts and squeeze until their lips

form a heart. How the living waste living

astounds … even in this city’s wastelands.

Shuffle-shlick while the cum on your hand drips

since there’s nothing but you, dead thing, cumming.

gambol

20 Monday Sep 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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countess of soissons, erotic poetry, French translation, I'm the love that kills, Je suis l'amour qui tue, poem, Poetry, Some Thoughts on the Science of Onanism, sonnet

North winds: the old weathercock on the barn

spins, your window rattles. Rain soon. I read

to you until you grow drowsy. The warm

night lulls you to sleep. Tales of lust and greed

are your favorite. Even from here I smell

your wet spot spreading while your breath deepens.

Dreams of night queens and nymphs while the slow swell

between your thighs spreads, tracing your fountain’s

source. “Je suis l’amour qui tue,” the French say.

I’m the love that kills; chastity’s venom.

Let your mom sleep next door; the rain muffles

your old bed springs as your gambol and play

in your fountain while I, lewd ghost, watch dumb

small death bubble up from your genitals.

][][

Notes:

The quote, “Je suis l’amour qui tue,” comes from a fragment I found based on the life of Olympia Mancini, the Countess of Soissons; in theory used as evidence against her in the 1679 witchcraft scandal that implicated many members of Louis XIV’s court, the infamous the Affaire des Poisons. As far as I can tell there is no evidence that this was anything more than part of a salacious broadsheet sold to the public to titillate:

“Ma petite abomination, j’appartenais au démon de la chair; je suis l’amour qui tue.” Chaque nuit a ce criun démon de fille sort d’une cache, s’élance sur la comtesse et se met en train de lécher ardemment son clitoris dont la pointe sortait rouge et enflammée. Infernale lubricité! Par moment, la voix de la comtesse, qui râlait la volupté, dominait cette harmonie étrange, ce concert d’orgie, cette saturnale de sang.

just

31 Tuesday Aug 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Aeschylus, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, Odd Nature of Death, of all the gods, Sappho, sonnet

The day done gray. “Of the gods,” Aeschylus

said, “Death alone does not crave gifts.” The rest

love their altars and praise; become jealous

and ill-tempered if crossed. For Death the blessed

and the sinner are the same and worms feed

on them all. “Death shall be Death forever,”

Sappho said; unlike us, love, with our need

to see ourselves in what we praise. Lover,

love me now before I become just dust

of ten thousand years. My gift is coaxing

of my tongue – stroking foam – sucking obscene

– tasting what you crave. Let the righteous rust

since Death won’t care if we do everything,

nothing or just hardcore bling in-between.

][][

Notes:

Aeschylus was an ancient Greek playwright, known as the, “Father of Tragedy.” Sappho, “The 10^th Muse,” was master of the lyric poem. I like what Kenneth Rexroth said about her art, “There has been no other poet like this. Wherever enough words remain to form a coherent context, they give one another a unique luster, an effulgence found nowhere else. Presentational immediacy of the image, overwhelming urgency of personal involvement — in no other poet are these two prime factors of lyric poetry raised to so great a power.”

bygone

15 Monday Mar 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Aphrodite Kallipygos, erotic poetry, Great God Pan, poem, putting the anal in bacchanal, sonnet, Venus Callipyge

Not Pan, the Goat herder, the Goat fucker,

lover of Goat porn. Nothing sleeps within

the trees here. Those gods died with their timber

hacked from bygone groves. Still, a thing moves in

the dark these days. Even you, as faithless

as you are, feel it. Your limb’s lust each time

voluptuous Plump Rump Callipyge Venus

calls. The other old school booty. Sublime

curves in this cleared land. Venus spreads her cheeks

while I tease with cock and thumb. Rude, sacred

prayers are still out there; just not Pan, the Goat

fucker. Who’ll teach you new techniques

if you’ve lost your faith? Fill my head, she said,

with prayer. I’ll gag on your cock in my throat.

][][

Notes:

The Romantic poets (Shelley, Byron, etc.) spend a lot of time moaning that ancient Greece’s eden, Arcadia, is lost to us in this modern era of cynicism and technology. According to the Greek historian Plutarch, Pan (protector of shepherds, seducer of nymphs and inventor of the syrinx panpipes) is the only Greek god who actually dies (and with him, Arcadia). According to myth, a sailor on his way to Italy heard a divine voice hail him across the waves: “When you reach the harbor at Palodes, tell the world that the great god Pan is dead.” Why some myths become popular while others don’t (especially considering Lord “I’ll Fuck Anything That Moves” Byron) I have always been fond of the stories about the Callipygian Venus, who the Romans called: “Venus with the Beautiful Ass.” Hers is an Arcadia that will never be lost.

tell-tale

22 Monday Feb 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, i'm spilling more thank ink y'all, mischief mad, myrrh like honey, poem, song of songs, sonnet, tell-tale, wet oven heat

Mischief-mad, hidden among the cushions,

you guide three fingers under your burqa,

biting back a tell-tale groan. Your oven’s

wet heat, stoked each night from ash to lava

while your husband snores near by, still tortures

you the way faith haunts your thoughts all day long.

When the first wet spot bleeds through your knickers;

when myrrh drips from, like honey in the Song

of Songs, your fingers –– then even mischief

isn’t enough. Mother-in-laws yammer

and whine, but you smolder: wet oven heat,

holy cum shrine. Your longing is as tough

as your soul’s flesh. Faith is only torture

in a world that wants you chaste and discreet.

lolls

27 Wednesday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, deep throat, erotic poem, fuck fiend, Poetry, randy varmint, sonnet, witch's brew

Slick from a randy varmint, your nipples

swell in your strappy tee as I watch you

take the pills that we found on the motel’s

bathroom floor. You taste just like witch’s brew,

rancor, a chloroform soaked handkerchief.

Ill pills freeze time then turn our lust heinous.

You are the color of storm and I grief.

On your back, your head lolls off the mattress

as I grind in. Your throat bulges, jaws twinge

as my balls smother your nose. You gag-retch,

spitting cum, bile and ache down your forehead.

Fuck fiend, you called me, words that made you cringe,

once … like love, or every time that I stretch

you wide; an act that you both long for and dread.