• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Illustration and art

thirsty beasts

15 Friday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

cocu geste, crone, maiden, Mina, mother, queer love, sonnet, STD, vampire

thirsty beasts

They were at Mina’s door, with “cocu geste,”
deceived fury; they found the Count, smiling,
sitting on her bed, dazed, tousled, bare chest
pressed to her lips. She, carnivore, drinking,
took her fill. The world is full of unknown,
thirsty beasts; Victorian men were blind
to their own. Ask the maid, mother and crone.
Ask those who love and have been loved. Mankind
with its syphilis and brothels ruins it
for the rest of us. Mina soon declared
she was “unclean” and vowed never to “kiss”
another man. The virus we transmit
might damn us. Yet, as with all blood, love shared
between us, brings such ambrosian bliss.

war’s cure

14 Thursday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

Africa, Dada'ab Town, Kenya, mzimu, refugees, sonnet, the dead, war

Dada'ab 1

How to understand? In dreams I’m simply
holding a child together in my arms,
swathed and bloody. Wake up. In Swahili

mzimu means ghost. They come from burnt farms,
poisoned wells, fields where the bodies went down.

Who understands the dead?: ghosts, mzimu,
souls. Go work at Kenya’s Dada’ab Town,

largest refugee camp in the world. “You
need to work,”
we tell ourselves. Understand

words are a start but not an end. Orphans
and ghosts are still looking for us. War’s cure
is hard work; so find us a new grassland,
enough for all. Enough food for millions.
Enough water to let us dream once more.

largest refugee camp in the world

largest refugee camp in the world

Kenya-Dada'ab

deathblow

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

Amy Lowell, deathblow, drowning, gangrene, patterns, sonnet, war

"For the man who should loose me is dead, fighting with the Duke in Flanders, in a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?" -- Amy Lowell

“For the man who should loose me is dead, fighting with the Duke in Flanders, in a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?” — Amy Lowell

* * *

“i too am a rare
pattern. as i wander down
the garden paths …”

— Amy Loewell, Patterns

And you answered, “it shall be as you said.”

And I’m dead and you think of my deathblow

as you walk up and down with brushed forehead
on our garden path, giving way to snow,
in your stiff gown, gorgeously arrayed, boned
and stayed. But not as Amy Lowell wrote down.

You’re no lady and I no colonel, stoned
on cheap morphine, in a French trench. I drowned,

not in Flanders, but at sea. You’ll grow old
walking our path; but I will be nineteen
evermore. If it had been death at war
and not a mistake, would that have consoled
you? As if a bullet wound and gangrene

would make such a difference for evermore.

Image

at first i was …

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

Tags

chaos, gif, Humor, kermit the frog

at first i was ...

this sums up so much about life, cheers!

Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under .gif, Humor, Illustration and art

≈ 2 Comments

you oughta know by now—

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

amor mío, bisexual, Federico Garcia Lorca, homoerotica, homophobia, sonnet, The Mamas and The Papas, Words of Love

federico garcia lorca, mi amor

federico garcia lorca, mi amor

* * *

“If your girl likes rhythm and blues, look out
’cause cake’s in the house…”

— Sir Mix-a-lot, Cake Boy

“If you love her” and “then you must send her
somewhere”
and “where she’s never been before.”

Do not mock “words of love, soft and tender.”

All my “worn out phrases” come straight from war.
Lovers still die. I’m “a buttercup boy
from the funny school.”
By definition
I’ve been to places a 60s tomboy

hasn’t, as all children can claim. Semen
running down our chins. Still, I’ll make you glow,
mamas and papas, take you down tonight.

To where they shot Lorca. Because you mocked
everything “soft and tender.” Federico,
mi amor, I’ll burn them down with delight.
It will leave their souls horror-struck and shocked.

* * *

Note:

* The Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, was assassinated in 1936 by General Franco’s fascists for being a liberal and a queer.

* The 1960s group The Mamas and the Papas sang the song Words of Love, which I quote from in the poem. Regardless of what I say elsewhere, bless you, Mama Cass (though Papa John can bite me, jerk)

* I’ve been living with Sir Mix-a-lot’s fake ode (he of the Baby Got Back fame) to the effeminate in men, Cake Boy, for many a year now. It is equally fascinating and frustrating, much like society’s take on the fey. It might not be the very first attempt in mainstream media to talk about gay and transgendered African Americans (see: Honey Honey Miss Thang for a longer discussion) but it was one of the first I came across in hip hop. I am not African American, but I certainly identified with the cake boy motif he describes. I call this a fake ode because at the end of the song Mix-a-lot advocates physical violence against any effeminate man who might be coming on strong to a homeboy’s girlfriend. Homophobia and gay-bashing will always be crimes to send you to the 7th circle of hell in my book.

cthulhu’s playthings

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

blood-orange, Cthulhu, eldritch horrors, gore, rudest of playthings, sonnet

art by nekomimi (2010)

art by nekomimi (2010)

“I bite into you but then I get bored
before the second bite,”
Preacher, sighing,
explained. The thing wore a mask and a sword
with a taste for blood. Archangels fucking
demons is perverse but not rare. Preacher
came from such a mating. Our blood, distilled
from the heart, makes a mean food. In horror
films it’s drugs and sex that will get you killed.
In our world it’s ignorance of such things.
Preacher raised its eldritch head from my bones.
I could almost kiss it, except blood loss
made the world blur. We, Cthulhu’s playthings,
do not please. Its tongue, piercing my breastbones,
recoiled, grunting, “what a vile tasting sauce” …

7 is a bad number

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

BDSM, Caina, curse, Dante, Japan, rope trick, seven, sex demon, Sindbad, unlucky

7 japanese rope tricks

7 japanese rope tricks

* * *

Seven is a bad number. Forget sins
or the seas; Sindbad and all the evils

of the world couldn’t change that. It begins
with an usurper, seven archangels
and a week of toil. Dante had seven
circles of hell and Caina the demon.
Mohammad knew of a seventh heaven.

But the seventh son of a seventh son
is cursed. The Lamb’s seven horns brings godless
pain. The conquest of mere spirit over
flesh has unsexed us all. Sappho warned us.
Wilde warned us. Do not be deceived, lover.

Tyrants will say anything to seem strong.

It makes you wonder what else they got wrong?

sarraouna: the witch-queen of the azna

11 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, sonnet

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Battle of Lougou, colonial era, Dogoua, female geneal, French, Nkomo Woman, The Azna, West Africa, witch-queen

Sarraouna

Smashed the villages. Knocked their walls to bits.
Broke the kilns and meeting houses. Sometimes

you make me wonder. You, who now commits
“crime de guerre,” wouldn’t dream of such crimes
near your beloved Paris. If I’m devout
and dire it is only in proportion
to the horrors your soldiers carried out
during your Voulet-Chanoine mission.

You called me witch-queen. No, I’m a mother

who took up arms against the men who raped
her last daughter, then sold her last sister
to the pimps of France. There are monster-shaped
men who’ll fear the witch-queen of the Azna.

I will teach you my name: Sarraouna.

* * *

What is known about Sarraouna is that she was a queen of the Azna people, who ruled in a region of West Africa during the late 19th century. Like many controversies surrounding European colonialism there appears two conflicting versions of Sarraouna. In one she is a champion of her people, standing up against an invading army that used large-scale rape and massacres as a means of subduing an indigenous population. In the other she is a “witch-queen” who stirred up anti-French sentiment during a time when France was attempting to conquer Chad and unify all French territories in West Africa.

The Azna occupied the Dallol Mawri, a broad valley in the Hausa country of the present-day Dogondoutchi district of Niger in northwest Africa. Like so many heroes of history, myths have grown about Sarraouna’s childhood. She had a Spartan upbringing with adoptive parents. At the age of eighteen she already knew how to lead men into battle, and as a tribal sorceress, she held her warriors and her enemies alike in thrall. When the Fulani of Sokoto attempted to convert her and her people to Islam, she and her warriors fought bravely to drive them back …

In January 1899, French troops — primarily [African] mercenaries — commanded by captains Voulet and Chanoine left Segou in Mali, crossed the territories of the Zarma and of the Gourma, and entered the dense vegetation of the Dallol Mawri. On April 17, 1899, they laid siege with cannon fire to the village of Lugu, which Queen Sarraouna and her fierce warriors defended valiantly, determined not to allow the invaders drive her out: “We won’t move a single inch from here … even if we must die to the last person!” But the superior French arms proved too powerful … forced to retreat … she continued to harass her enemies, so intimidating the mercenaries that many of them abandoned the French. While the French captains, watching her rituals from afar, at first dismissed them as “drunkenness” and “incoherent ramblings of a superstitious woman,” the mercenaries came to believe her to be the Nkomo Woman, the femme fetale, the Dogoua, or demon-woman. (Jackson-Laufer, 354)

Work Cited

Jackson-Laufer, Guida. Women Rulers Throughout the Ages: An Illustrated Guide (Santa Barbara, ABC-CLIO: 1999)

from the 1986 by Med Hondo, "Sarraouna"

from the 1986 by Med Hondo, “Sarraouna”

come collector of stories

08 Friday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

oral history, sonnet, the dead, war

tell me your story

tell me your story

* * *

Far, far away in big cities poets
write and write about the horrors of war.

Let me tell you: in a valley of huts
lies a body. Monsoons and grass made tar
out of him, sticks and bones. After the crows

I come, collector of stories. Green vines
covered him, lilies in his mouth. Who knows
how long he lay there; alien skylines
tell us so little. I whispered his name.

He rose, all weed. I took him by the hand
to my tent. I won’t tell what he said. Shame
should be no one’s legacy. He cried sand,
moaned dirt. War, like love, is all in the head.

Perhaps you will get it, just like the dead.

ghost dreams

07 Thursday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

afterlife, dream, ghost, sonnet

ghost dream 1

ghost dream 1

ghost dream 2

ghost dream 2

ghost dream 3

ghost dream 3

ghost dream 4

ghost dream 4

A ghost is born naked, squinting and glum.

There is no mother to catch it, nothing
to cling to with a tooth, a toe or thumb.
There are no older siblings for learning
the ways of the night. If you can hear bats
sing you can hear ghosts sigh. Few ask, what’s wrong?
ask how the day went? What paramour chats
with a ghost — tea and laughter — all nightlong?

I don’t resent this coming to an end.
Now when I sleep I hide in a wall crack
and my face is modest. I don’t resent

rebirth; finding out that ghost dreams depend
on how forgotten we’ll become; flashback
to when we thought we knew what alone meant.

ghost dream 6

ghost dream 5

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