• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Poetry

itchy, fevered, ill

15 Saturday Dec 2012

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

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Tags

homoerotic, les couleurs, sonnet, Yukio Mishima

ice and sunfire 01

ice and sunfire 01

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notes: Yukio Mishima (1925 – 1970) was a Japanese author, poet, playwright and film director. He had been nominated three times for the Nobel Prize in Literature. His visions were avant-garde, displaying a blending of modern and traditional that broke cultural boundaries, with a focus on his own sexuality. He was obsessed with the romanticism of the samurai, as well as that of Bushido, their warrior’s moral code. He once explained in an interview that after WWII Japan was now living in an age where there could never be an “honorable death:” for Mishima that meant dying either on the field of battle or by ritualistically cutting out one’s own intestines with a knife. In 1970, after a failed coup d’état, he committed suicide by doing just that, seppuku.

“got the guts for it?”

Tonight’s ordeal by roses, red poppies,
praying mantises. You left and I came.
You left me and now I am hot with fleas,
regret, none of us can survive the shame
of the morning wind. My love: memory
of things precious keeps me itchy, fevered,
ill. A tower of stone. Rough and lonely.
Darling Mishima: you were a bastard
in life, but god-like in death. I have traced
knife points across my stomach, too, all set
to spill my guts to you. We have debased
any honorable death, and yet — and yet —
Like sex, your love left me sad and obscene,
tending to your grave, clothed in tender green.

the coolest of the seven samurai

[remix]

Tonight’s
ordeal

by roses,
red poppies,

praying
mantises.

You left
and I came.

You left and
now I am hot

with fleas,
regret, who can

survive
the shame

of the morning
wind? My love:

memory of things
precious keeps me

itchy, fevered,
ill.

A tower of stone.
Rough and lonely.

You were a bastard
in life, but god

-like in death.
I have traced

knife points across
my stomach, too,

all set
to spill

my guts
to you.

Have we
debased

any honorable
death? and yet —

and yet —
Like sex,

your love
left me

sad and
obscene,

tending to
your grave,

clothed in
tender green.

desirous appetites

13 Thursday Dec 2012

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

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Tags

conquering worm, ghost, sorrow

desirous appetites [1]

desirous appetites [1]

desirous appetites [2]

desirous appetites [2]

I.
The moon
smiled
on me
last night
as I lay
beneath
the stars hot
and flushed
in the grave
yard winking
as if
to tell me
of more delights
in the time
to come if
I could only
understand.
If I could
only hear
what
they want
to tell me.

II.
Deep down
under
the tombs
the conquering
worms writhe
and twist
with their
desirous
appetites,
hungry for what
remains
of flesh,
now deflated,
long shriveled,
spent. Cocks
and the dead
have much
in common.
Both strut
and fret
and when over
are heard
no more.

III.
Last night
I slept
in the grass
and felt it
tickle
the soft flesh
of my naked
thighs
and dreamed
you were
more than just
a ghost and
I was more
than just
in love
with your
lost,
dead
eyes.

the beasts were all gathered

03 Monday Dec 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Tags

clay, Lord Byron, Manfred, self-portrait

I had a terrible
last night

dreamed:
“The beasts

were all
gathered,

flood-wild,
safe within

Ararat’s shadow
by Lord Byron’s

sons and
daughters, lo!

Syn
appeared,

a dark hairless
waif

striding
upon the cresting waters.”

I, too, am a child
of Manfred.

I just wish
you had had more

faith
in me.

I can’t help
that I am

a creature
of river clay,

crude
and molded,

but you – you
kept finding fault

in everything.
Urchins

in my dreams
gave me

more love
than you

ever did
in this breathing

scarce half
made up

world.
I loved you,

but you,
after

thought,
hurt me.

love like scabies

27 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

disease, homoerotic, love like scabies, Nazgûl, sonnet, Witch-king of Angmar

Give me one last kiss, I ask for no more.
I know that you see our love as bizarre,
grotesque. I wanted to taste battle gore,
to feed on war, my Witch-king of Angmar.
Alone, you have kissed my hungry lies, lips,
finger tips. I have conquered walled cities
for you. I, who was young and fair. What drips
here is only lust, the dark arts, furies,
my blood and disease. Love like scabies. Bliss.

Lover, my dark shadow in a red masque,
give me what I came for: one wild, sweet kiss
to last a thousand years. That I may bask
and die. Trampled. Recall our lover’s vow.
You, who have taught me my ways, kiss me now.

dogsbane [II]

27 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

ces couleurs pervers, dogsbane, sonnet

“The oldest
song ever
sung”
…

and I,
a boy
from Babylon,
can only hope
that
the one
who finds
me knows
how to sew
roasted
tar
and paper,
gun
powder and frosted
raccoon skin.

It is winter,
the stuff
of midnight
fables.

dogsbane

27 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

ces couleurs pervers, dogsbane, sonnet

Swallows twittered all morning; at high noon
blackbirds sang amid the corn. At dusk down
the frogs with piping filled the black lagoon
and the bats, in flight, spoke of the nightgown
and the sticky toy. Let me sing about
going down behind your misty blood veil
finding your red-faced rose moon, your cunt’s pout,
my two fingers in. I love girls’ duck-tail
haircuts and packed strap-ons. Cut birds’ laughter
across the harp strings of the rain, I hear pain.
I sing for the grass. I chime for flower.
This boy is all spring showers and dogsbane.
Let me be your rain, your wild wind, bluetongue.
This is love, the oldest song ever sung.

sticky trinity

26 Monday Nov 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

absinthe, bath house, ces couleurs pervers, Christ of the Phallus, Holy Ghost, homoerotic, sonnet

I have gone down on Christ of the Phallus.
I have sucked dry the Lord of Divine Hosts.
Let men brag about conquests. When Jesus
came he filled my mouth with the Holy Ghost’s
jizm. When he dribbled absinthe across
his god-like cock I prayed to the wild green
fire in its crystal shrine, Fairy-fuck sauce,
as I licked each massive ball squeaky clean.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. Hashish
and bath house gangbangs made for great threesomes,
sticky trinity. We were stoned, puckish,
immaculate. We were smutty pilgrims.
We found, between a prophet’s cock and ass,
all of faith sleeping in an absinthe glass.

doggy-style means nothing

26 Monday Nov 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

doggy-style, sonnet

Down in the sunless depths of clay she sank.
Shocked and flushed as a star for a bridal
dress. Now shrouded. A chain across her blank
breast. The dead have forgotten sex. Babel
Tower Tongue-Fuck Doggy-style means nothing.
The noise they make sounds like weeping waters.
Aghast, she was at the point of cumming
when Death took her, still tasting of reefers
and gin. Cunnilingus interruptus;
Limbo by any other name. How low
would you go? Who would school you in lewdness
if your soul depended on it? I know
all souls do. How low? Today you shall learn
all the ways I make sure that you don’t burn.

your witching spot

20 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Tags

floating, masturbation, ocean, sex magic

your witching spot

your witching spot

Yesterday
I salted
your mouth.
Today there is
a warm, briny
sea
between your legs
as you float,
soothed
by the kiss
of ripples
across
upturned nipples.
Your thatch
of hair a bed
of kelp.
Skinny dipping
near Santa Cruz,
the sea
shimmering
through you,
waves lapping
at your clit
just like I did.
And at each silk-
like stroke
you thrust
your ass up,
heave your hips
out of the water,
as if I were still
with you,
guiding
my tongue
to your witching
spot, as if
you were a sea witch
and all the ocean
your lover.

lo que me conecte a ti

16 Friday Nov 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Tags

black girl, cowgirl, interracial, lo que me conecte a ti, white boy

lo que me conecte a ti

lo que me conecte a ti

Against my pale
shoulder your dark
hand rests.
Against your dark
breast my pale
fingers pull
and tease.

I pray
to Ramses
and Taurus,
the bull.
You sing
songs about love
juice and other
squeezables
“work, boy,
put your tongue
into it.”

Now you
are above
me, lowering
yourself down
onto that simple
swollen link
that connects
me to you,
down until our
pubes touch,
down until our
bones rub
together.

Freud said men
fear the moment
of entry,
the disappearance
of the self
into the other,
the annihilation
of the ego.

Please, Freud
never got fucked
like this.

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