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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Poetry

deathblow

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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

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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.

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.

between morning star and urel

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

homoerotica, martyr's graveyard, Milton, MMF, morning star, sonnet, Urel, war in heaven

I.
Just one more kiss upon your lips causes
the blood to stir. Little light tonging flicks
like so — like so — and your hardness rises

to meet me until, with licks upon licks,
your juice starts to run. Two of my fingers
slip and slide around the edge of your ass.

I warn you: your bum will be a martyr’s
graveyard before I’m done. I will trespass
in deep — to the knuckle — in your anus.

II.
Milton warned us about this. Dictating
to his daughter the sins of male-on-male
flesh. I’m sure she spent many a restless
nightmare sandwiched between Morning
Star and Urel: male-on-male-on-female.

cthulhu’s playthings

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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

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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?

san-shin and kwang-ho at the spa in jangsan

12 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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homoerotic, hot springs, Jangsan, Korea, Kwang-ho, mountain, San-shin, sonnet

He took a stone’s face. He took a rock’s face.
Now when I’m out walking in the mountains
I do not know what he looks like. The grace
I called love has left me. There were thousands
of souls here. His face was not one who passed
me. I first spied San-shin at a hot springs
up near Jangsan. Knobby old man with vast
balls. He laughed at my ignorance of things.
Mountain gods like sex rough. For a whole week
I went around with lockjaw. But he tired
of me, or maybe I wasn’t up to
his hard transcendental standards. His peak
is bare. The cold god I once desired
thought that I was only good for a screw.

* * *

Note: In the Korean peninsula, San Shin is a mountain spirit venerated in both Buddhist temples and by local shamans. To say he is the embodiment of a mountain top fails to capture his true meaning, for all peaks in Korea are considered sacred spots for the gods, which might account for the large number of hot springs and spas that claim to be the personal favorite of San Shin.

lady cixi’s dumb boy toy

12 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Chinese, Cixi, Empress Dowager, ghost lover, sonnet, white boy

“It would be useful,” the ghost then told me,
“to learn Chinese.” “Why?” “Because a kept boy
needs to be able to whisper bawdy
words while making love. English will annoy
mistress to no end.”
Being the consort
to the Empress Dowager’s over-sexed
ghost was not easy. It wasn’t the court
robes or growing out my queue; nothing vexed
her as much as her pet “foreign devil”
being sloppy in obscene pillow talk.
“Wǒ xiǎng jì! I wanna cum!” Regal
cheeks spread wide, taking in all of my cock.
“Wǒ xiǎng jì!” Cixi ordered her dumb
boy toy, “– I wanna cum! — I wanna cum!”

* * *

Note: Empress Dowager Cixi, of the Manchu Yehenara clan, was a powerful and charismatic woman who controlled the Manchu Qing Dynasty in China for 47 years, from 1861 to her death in 1908.

According to Google translator, 我想暨 (wǒ xiǎng jì), translates as “I wanna cum.” I’ve yet to cross check it so if anyone with better Chinese skills than me knows please let me know.

 

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”

sleep on the dissection table

11 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

dissection table, my devils, not even human, Pygmalion, sleep, sonnet

One day when you’re good I’ll show you my Y
shaped scar cutting my chest, my clavicles,
sternum and heart all in half; that which lies
in me is now on display. My devils
make no attempt to be subtle. The art
of the cross stitch hurts but keeps my ugly
bosom together. My guts, pulled apart,
sleep on the dissection table. To be
as anatomically correct as this
is a pain. really. Man’s ideal monster
can’t be built, but we try. My Pygmalion
lover saw to that. Inside me the hiss
and whir of dark science makes me neither
god nor a monster; not even human.

la petite mort is such an odd thing to say

08 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Amsterdam pure, army of lovers, girl tough, kitty in cuffs, la petite mort, orgasm at work, sonnet, strap-on sister, sword-swallower

There is starlight and strobe in my bloodstream.

With my thumb I blend them in. The Red Queen’s
kiss is good to ward off a hex. To dream
about a pound of Amsterdam pure means
you think about the Netherlands a lot,
that and weed. I dream about my fingers
on your ass, in your hair, licking your spot.

When I dream of war my strap-on-sisters
make great generals. My kitties in cuffs
become brutal sword-swallowers. Queenly
soldiers stretched across my bed; these girl toughs
never suffer from post-coital ennui.

Why blue? Orgasms should make us all strong,
wanting more, unless you’re doing it wrong.

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