• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Poetry

the book of lux ferous

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Bellum Fabula, Book of Revelation, Light Bringer, Lucifer, morning star, revenge, sonnet, The War of the Sons of Light Against the Daughters of Darkness, war in heaven

Note:

In certain Dead Sea Scrolls, namely, “The War of the Sons of Light Against the Daughters of Darkness,” also known as “Bellum Fabula” (the War Scroll), there is a tale which describes “an eschatological war in heaven,” one which pitted the male elements of the heavenly army against the female elements. Led on one side by the usurper,Yahweh of the Iron Age kingdoms of Israel and Judah, and on the other by a Semitic war goddess, know as either Lux Ferous, Morning Star or Light Bringer (the literal translations of the gender-neutral name Lucifer), who was eventually defeated by Yahweh and cast down. Unlike in the “Book of Revelation” and the “Book of Isaiah,” where a very male Lucifer becomes ruler of Hell, the “Bellum Fabula” talks of a return of the female element to heaven, bringing equilibrium and order to a world that views Eve and all mortal women as “the mothers of all sin.”

* * *

In the “Book of Lux Ferous” we extol
Madam General of the seraphic
army. In Yahweh’s “Mein Kampf,” his war scroll,
though, the old man warred against all sapphic
wisdom the heavens had to offer. Sin,
he now claimed, was female. We’re told his sons
dimmed the sky as they flew, beating bat-skin
wings and rattling their sabers. In Milton’s
tale we took up arms against tyranny
but we were cast down, our flesh torn by claws
and blood-soaked maws. But that’s just one story.
The Light Bringer follows older laws
than what is found in these testaments.
I sing of Lady Lucifer’s vengeance.

to enslave a love dog

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Balm of Gilead, ginger root, Hecate's bane, hemlock, mandrake, saffron, sex charm, sex magic, sonnet, Sycorax, witcheries, yarrow

“There are love dogs
no one knows the names
of”
— Jalal al-Din Rumi

Can you read saffron? Can you make sex charms?
Do you know the name of night rain? Glamor
clamors at my backdoor. A shadow swarms
against the glass. Go and find me ginger
root and hemlock, mandrake and Hecate’s bane,
yarrow and Balm of Gilead. I’ll teach
you what Sycorax taught me; how night rain
needs to be seduced; how shameless the beach
is at low tide, the only spot for sex
magic; how to bind cheating dogs to you
through your own cum. I will teach you that hex,
taboo for my kith and kin, that voodoo
curse to enslave love dogs. The big payback.
A hex from which there is no going back.

the myth of free will

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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death, destiny, sonnet, soul food, the myth of free will

Why we come back is as vague as why we
picked out our lovers: “A bodiless voice

told me to?” “Our Elysian chemistry?”
“I was unaware I had any choice

in the matter?” Only the ego talks
about free will. All I know is that I …

faded and then returned. With my nighthawk’s
vision, my vulturous faith, my magpie

song. I’m in the trees; but why I returned …
I don’t know. There are certain damn shadows

far too alive for death. I passed, unburned,
through the living with all their doomed egos.

There is no release, love, just lustful need
and dim echoes of how the soul can feed.

see dead boy come

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, babysitter, blow job, cum in your bum, dead boy cum, death, ghost boy, sex demon, sonnet

 

Passing through the door, I drift nearby you,
spoon your sleeping body. I love your queer
hunger. You said your mother was Zulu,
taught you how to wield a boar-hunting spear.
“But there’s more than one way to catch a boar,”
you said, sucking my cock deep down your throat.
You were my babysitter, took much more
than my virginity that night. “Devote
your soul to pleasure, call upon shadows
to be your lovers,”
you instructed me
as I, on my tip toes, released rainbows
deep in your cunt and across your belly.
Playing with death, you said, “cum in my bum.”
You said, “dead boy cum, I love dead boy cum.”

the first exile

20 Sunday Jan 2013

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

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bisexual, cruising, cunnilingus, drunk on spunk, Edward the Dyke, Judy Grahn, Liliti, mythology, sonnet, strap-on sister, the first exile

 

“I’m not a good lay/ I’m a straight razor,”
Judy Grahn, “Edward the Dyke”

There was no grief. The summer radio
played “you can have my husband/ but don’t mess
with my woman”
all day long. Your afro
gleamed as we cruised in your Austin Princess
downtown. Playtime approached. After playtime
came dawn. Dusk and dawn. But you, drunk on spunk,
the first exile, loved love during wartime,
with your kerosene myth, junk in your trunk
and duck’s arse cut. Girls called you Liliti;
I called you my “mama-jan;” my surreal
strap-on sister. My roots and the orgy
where I was conceived. One hand on the wheel
while your other played with my head between
your thighs, licking your clit stiff and obscene.

cocksure with what you are holding

20 Sunday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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chalice, cocksure, ghost girl, sonnet, stone knife, the headdress of my mistress, the wind's distress

I can sense your scent in the wind’s distress,
in tastes that ravish — the grape and anise
that grow on your grave. I wear the headdress
of my mistress. I carry her chalice
and her stone knife. In the mist of slumming
flowers and wet earth you have hung over
my bed, a silent silver thing, shining
through tree branches. I have pulled you closer,
sucked long at your foggy breast, played with your
wet and hazy clit. If sadness can haunt,
so can need, so can greed. You are cocksure
with what you are holding. With what you want.
joining What-was-not with What-might-have-been,
joining your dead lust with my living sin.

pink egg cracks

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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ghost girl, incest, my little sister, praise song, sinner, sister-brother love, sonnet

If I had the voice I’d sing the mystic’s
lullaby, salt hallow, to keep you safe.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
my voice a lisping hell, must love my waif
sister, family ghost, in a new way.
Your eyes are beautiful beggars, now beg
for fry bread and a butterscotch sundae.
I’ll feed you. Between your legs your pink egg
cracks. I’ll break it for you. Like a firefly
you sleep three feet off the floor. I’ll guard you.
When you cry I’ll kiss your shaggy bangs dry.
And in rutting season I’ll make you mew,
then goo on me. A song for a sinner.
A lullaby for my dead kid sister.

the tempest’s scar: lecherousness

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

incest, lecherousness, lewdness, Lord Byron, lustfulness, Manfred, sister-brother love, sonnet, taboo

I.
Just the merest flutter of temptation
would make a courtesan or a scholar
or a saint wanton, shameless. Lord Byron
knew this. In his Manfred the dead sister
is a symbol of impossible lust.

II.
The mist on the mountain and on the moon
hint at pathways few dare to take. Disgust
is just regret turned in on itself. Soon
the fog of lustfulness, the tempest’s scar,
the night’s charioteer, will come for you.

III.
If you love me, give in, though I am far
away, give in to what we both would do.
You, who are neither nun nor sorceress,
be my sister, my taboo, my lewdness.

as a child the one ghost

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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childhood, cum, fellatio, ghost, school, sonnet, virgin orgasm

Do not believe this tale until the school
bell rings. They said that I played with myself
in a corner of the yard. Boys were cruel
and girls flew away. Even the blind elf,
always drunk, smelling like a tanned horse hide,
was deaf to me. As a child the one ghost
who stayed was a motherly suicide
with a taste for innocence. Who would boast
that it was virgin cum which kept her in
limbo. But she lied. There is no limbo;
only us. I was her pretty plaything.
She would suckle on me, suck my foreskin
down her throat. And just before my deathblow
orgasm in the yard … the bell would ring.

glory hole

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

bathroom, blow job, fellatio, glory hole, sonnet, strangers

 

You are nude under your clothes. Your perfume
gives you away. Sounds of strangers pissing
brings you to your knees in, please, a mensroom;
one you crept in when no one was looking.
“Do it! Do it!” comes a voice, one, you note,
filled with “baby!” how much you are wanted,
as his alien darkness fills your throat.
Some love their trysts and treachery, lifeblood
that sings. Some don’t. There’s the urban legend
about some bloke who lost more than his soul
and his pride when he had his cock bitten
clean off one Thursday at the glory hole.
Do not believe such tales. The earth-weary
tell these tales. We’re not weary, we’re horny.

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