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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Poetry

how she came

09 Friday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Feminism, Lilith, Poetry

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Tags

how she came, Lilith, mythology, origin, poem, Poetry, primordial roots

Darkness. Darkness. And then words. Ma-ma-ma
and Ha-ha-ha. Hit a rock, it splinters,

you say. First there was the Sun and the Moon,
Yahweh and Shekhinah, Good and Evil.

But pairs do not interest, for in-between
the sun and moon lies the Milkyway and

from the flesh of Yahweh and Shekhinah
arose double-heads and hermaphrodites,

night jars and what’s called pleasure. I brushed rouge
into her cheeks, painted black kohl around

the rims of her eyes; tied up her hair. She
was something else. An ironwood stick. Shattered

stone. The first words ever spoken: ma-ma-
ma. Her flesh was sea-salty with darkness.

Rising on a tongue rooted deep within.
All poetry needs primordial roots.

lilith: an invocation and reply

08 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Lilith, Poetry

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Tags

cunnilingus, erotic, Goddess of the Dead, invocation, Lilith, poem, Poetry, reply

1: INVOCATION

In the sea-lapped waves you roamed. Across years
you roamed – war years, love years, blood years – any
place that knew of the moon’s pull and the clits
and cunts and the sweat-kissed thighs of lovers.
I have looked for you in Sumeria,
Babylon and Persia. I have hunted
through Canaanite lands; talked to the Hebrew
and Teutonic tribes. Everywhere your love
was a sin, your books burned, your name a curse.

][][

Lilith, lover-mother, exile, fire-haired,
she-demon of the wasteland. If no one
will declare devotion to you I must
do so now and if no one will write books
of splendor for you I must write one now.

][][

In Sumer you were called Lil, storm spirit.
Among the Semite tribes you were confused
with the word for dark night, layil, the source
of all erotic nightmares, nocturnal
orgasms. In Syria they called you
Lamashtu, the child killer, the Winged One,
the Strangleress. You were Adam’s equal,
wife of the devil Samael and the king
Ashmodai, the Queen of Sheba, female
of Leviathan. You were old Yahweh’s
consort while Shekhinah was in exile.

][][

All this you were, but today all these names
are meaningless: Impure Female, Night Jar,
Dame Donkey Legs, Vixen Spirit, The End
Of All Flesh, Harlot, Mi Bruha, Yangu
M’chawi, Al Basti, Midwife, Bitch, Witch.

][][

Everywhere I looked I found you. Across
years and in the sea-lapped waves. In these clits
and these cunts brimming and overflowing;
in this simple form of prayer; in gushing
devotion sticky on my chin, giving
all of us both the sweet and the bitter
and the proof of all this is on my lips.

.
2: REPLY

There is pain here but this marsh is wide, thick
with dune grass. Fill your hips with my moonlight.
I have followed your tracks, lit deep blue flames
to guide you here. Like the tide you must come
soon. We’ll burn the sun in the firmament
with the hurting fire we call desire.

ghost hunger [rewrite]

07 Wednesday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

bedlam, blood fountain, cunnilingus, ghost hunger, ghost lover, poem, Poetry, sick chaos, sonnet

In this spirit’s world, this less than human
mouth goes down on you. Each chill, ghost fingers
unzip your fly, pull your knickers to one
side, while this ectoplasm tongue slithers
inside. How far out are we? Knuckles deep.
You suck all the air out of your lungs. Vast
forces are at work when twilight can’t sleep.
Delirium and the dead; an outcast
at your gate. This is beyond mingled breath.
Beyond love in the dead years. Do not die
just yet, my lover. Take me as I come
inside you. Then, a small cry, a small death.
Come like sick chaos, like a devil’s cry,
a blood fountain, a ghost hunger, bedlam.

scar [rewrite]

05 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cunnilingus, lifetime of love, lithic muscles, Lucky Strike, pubic hair, rewrite, scar, sonnet, woman warrior

I can trace the scars on her shoulders, thick
as my finger, grotesque tattoos that wrap
around each arm. I can kiss her lithic
muscles making her tremble. She could snap
my spine like that. She has killed thirteen men
like that. When I play with her softest part,
that part I will not name, that talisman
you call a lifetime of love, my dear heart
blooms. It’s not words but other’s secrets
that that I won’t share. When I light her lucky
strike she bucks, gushes like a volcano’s
blow, clamping my face in place. Her ringlets
tease my nose. I love her, from her forty
sword hacked scars to each of her missing toes.

NOTE:

This is a rewrite of a poem I posted back in March.

drink you dry

05 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cunnilingus, drink you dry, gag on the rose, poem, Poetry, sonnet

And we are physical shape; to give voice,
to feel, to give pause, I brush out your hair
(no there was no hairbrush, only a choice
to comb my fingers through the empty air
where your hair might once have been). So tonight
I hope you will not be disappointed.
And since I’ve drunk from your gash of sunlight
I think I’ve become sad at your wasted
beauty. I have a purple bruise on one
ankle. True. I don’t know you as keenly
as I thought I did. I have grown remote
under my skin. No frenzy. Please listen.
Once I drank you dry but now I simply
gag on the rose left blooming in my throat.

wily weird sisters

05 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Celtic mythology, cunnilingus, fabulous bisexuals, love spell, poem, Poetry, sea magic, seal girl, selkie, sonnet, wily weird sister

Don’t trust stories where boys, down in the kelp,
steal seal-skins from nude girls – they all end grisly.
Only a wily weird sister can help
romance a seal-girl. Go out to the sea
in a cow-hide boat. She will stand, murmur
love spells to the waves. The seal will surface,
then climb on board. A watery cat-purr
is sign of a selkie stirred. Seamless
is her fleshy skin, still, she wriggles out
as you cuddle her head and your sister
grips her hips, her mouth on her slit-pout,
licking up a storm. A seal-girl lover
will want you both, will soak your lips and chin.
That’s how you drive a seal out of her skin.

NOTE:

Stories and legends of sea spirits that live as seals in the ocean but have the ability shed their skin to become human on land can be found throughout Iceland, the Shetlands, the Orkneys, Northern England, Scotland and Ireland. The film The Secret of Roan Inish (1994) was based on such a myth.

sugar on the tongue

05 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

candle wax, cunnilingus, poem, Poetry, slack hair, sonnet, sugar on the tongue

In the candle light you fix your slack hair.
The rose oil you rubbed on each of your breasts
has been sucked off or was it the cold air
that made your nipples erect? What suggests
passion? The way each swollen lip attests
to our kisses? Your back still holds finger
nail marks, as if your skin made slight protests
during the heat of passion. This tender
night is like sugar on the tongue, sugar
that burns the blood. Sugar to slowly lick
off. Sit in your bath, another’s moisture
gathers on your bare skin. Let my tongue flick
everywhere, licking your sugar, making
you melt, climax like candle wax burning.

husk thorn

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

bushfire, clit, cunnilingus, female ejaculation, gushing, husk thorn, poem, sonnet

Secret garden, wild grassland and brambles;
I’ve strayed between the highlands of your wilds,
seeking your sweet fruit in bittersweet curls.
Virgin woods? whatever, nothing defiles
you more than a dry spell when husk thorns reign.
The sun burns through your bush, dries your puddles,
and your poor untasted fruit prays for rain.
I’ve been among poppies, tasted thistles,
slept with foxtail. Like the horny goat, weeds
are no problem. Your curls part at my kiss.
Your red chaparral flushes green. Big flood
coming. You are, too. My tongue tweaks and kneads
your clit. First you dew my face, then you mist,
gush and geyser, drenching like sticky blood.

pearl tongue

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

bloodroot, clit, pearl tongue, Poetry, sonnet, your tongue tongued

Call it what you will, this soul called pleasure.
Button, nub, bald girl in a boat, pearl tongue,
jelly bean, pea pod, sweet spot, pink sugar
plum, moose knuckle, the box with the low-slung
jewel.
The clit: here be hoodoo. Among
some this is where all magic gets cracking.
Fairy fire from your kiss as your tongue clung
to her girl flesh, as your tongue tongued. Tonguing.
Grinding. Clits like red cherries and fresh fruit.
Clits like queer books. A clit like a music
box, a song. A clit like sorrow’s bloodroot
for the unknown gods. A clit like lipstick
smear. Bush fire. Call it her goddess. Call it
your bliss. Call it soul-joy. Call it your clit.

bless me with all

03 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on bless me with all

Tags

bless me with all, cunnilingus, hairy kelp forest, love, poem, seawall, sonnet, the sea, undersea kingdom

 

Tell me about your sea. Bless me with all

that makes the tide flow sweet out of your hips.

I know what the seawall knows, what the wall

wants but can’t have. If a single stone slips

out of place the sea will gush in, drowning

this dry mouth of land. And, unlike the wall,

I am not afraid to drown, swallowing

all you can offer. I’ll swallow it all,

gag it down, wanting one more little death.

Let me hear the whale song humming deeply

inside your chest, sleep in the kelp forest

between your thighs. Divers must hold their breath

going down, but I’ll let your undersea

kingdom flood me. I’ll let my seawall burst.

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