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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Poetry

scratch

10 Wednesday Jan 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Buddha save me from your followers, erotic poetry, Four Noble Truths, root of suffering, rough sex, shag carpet, sonnet, Why I'm Not A Buddhist

I’ll give you the, “root of suffering.” That
and the damn shag carpet will leave fresh rug burns

on your chin, your ass, over each knee, brat.
Sure, they’ll fade soon, from tart’s rosette to slattern’s

brown. The scabs will follow, crusty as lace.
And all around your precious throat, bruises,

both blue and yellow, will mark an embrace
that’ll match my fingertips. There aren’t sutras

for such love; but since all flesh aches, which leads
to such base urges, Buddha will know the itch

that we scratch. Under the shower steam flows
up our backs, soothing our cocaine nosebleeds,

letting heat soak into each scar, each stitch,
burning away all remorse, all sorrows.

Notes:
The basis of Buddhism is a doctrine known as the Four Noble Truths. A loose interpretation of the First Truth is that all life is suffering, pain, and misery. The Second says that the root of this suffering is caused by cravings and desire … at that point I stopped reading.

where it was

03 Wednesday Jan 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, German, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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anal sex, erotic poetry, falling on my head like a memory, German translation, memory, puckered again, rim job, sonnet, where it was, wo es war

“Wo es war,” where it was leads us to it.
There were days as if it were not hunkered

in the distance; from gangrened to frostbit
to flesh in the cold. Where it was. Absurd

to think of it: beastly, feral, depraved.
Absurd to follow. “Wo es war,” and yet,

I do. There be dragons; all that it craved,
ravings. I crave for you: take the blade, whet

stone, carve such German words on my neither.
Twist me this where it was hunkered. Our tryst

begged. I follow. I rave. May memory
be my only brood; the past such future.

You lay with your ass in the air — I kissed,
you clenched; puckered again, I thought, briefly.

memphis levee

20 Wednesday Dec 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, flood, let the pressure build, memphis levee, rough fuck, sonnet, stones gone crack, tender be tide

Of course this is tenderness. Of course, this
shall hurt — tenderly. Memphis’ levee

cracked, as levees do. From pressure. The hiss
of sea, two fingers just so, that achy

need to let go. Let those fingers in. Deep.
But you said no. No. Let the pressure build.

Then, not yet. Then, fuck me. Let waters seep
around stones gone cracked, stone left unfulfilled.

Sea is passage yet you’ll find it a vast,
rough fuck. You, precious stone, go splinter-splish

this way and this. Tender be tide, we’re told,
all which sucks feeds, all which flows needs, aghast

that such levee broke. Old sea was brutish,
nothing rose from the depth, child, nothing rolled.

fat palm

18 Monday Dec 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anal sex, cum in mayhem, erotic poetry, Gleefully, palm, sonnet

Cum drips from your pretty little asshole,
rimming your cheeks. You shift your hips as I

slowly pull out. Your muscles form an O
where my cock has been; until, with a sigh,

your bud closes, trapping my cum inside.
Such orgasmic haze, when the soul, who fled

returns and we giggle, I let you guide
my hand back. You’re seeping cum. Fingers spread

you wide and you pour. My own sperm, millions
of them, pool in my cupped palm and you lick

my palm clean. I keep putting bits of me
in you. Gleefully. These are good omens.

That’s good. What’s better: there’s nothing cryptic
about ravaging your ass. Gleefully.

dumb bone

17 Sunday Dec 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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craze blizzards, dumb bones cum, erotic poetry, hungry ghost, sonnet, witch tongue, witch word

Hunger. Always hunger. Restless. Never
still. The weeping ghost on the other

side of the door. I am elsewhere. Not here
but in need. Bent. Bulging. Dragging this queer

longing about. Hungers need to be fed —
witch-tongue, witch-word, words will do. What you said

about madness, ache, need. What you said. Words.
Your words sate even the dead, craze blizzards,

make dumb bones cum. I heft your words in hand,
finger their whip-like grooves. The world was bland

and then I read you. Now I am frantic,
lust sick. The way the hungry are. Hard, slick

with need. The sound that comes to you, a ghost
on the wind. You can feel this frenzy, almost.

zed

16 Saturday Dec 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic pain, poem, scotland rules, sonnet, weegies, zed

Z. Like the Weegies say, “yoo’re feckin’ zed.”
Which is true. I am obnoxious, bratty.

All these chemicals. Havoc in my head.
Scrimshaw. Cuts. Cairn. Marker. What we bury

when we bury ourselves. This doesn’t work
well. You say that I’m better, like Delphi.

Visions that I don’t get. Let the gods smirk
when my name comes up. I shall have your thigh

around my hips, wrecking you. Even Pan
wept. For all my faults you let me bury

myself in you. No regrets. Just more praise.
Just. You are all. Just. We want a human

that we can call our own. And I, banshee,
death in the last name, wail: love born of haze.

night seed

15 Friday Dec 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

fill the sky, jaguar's toothed song, night seed, poem, Poetry, pony-bird, sky scars, sonnet, the sky, what you need

Empire. Incubus. Lust. The sky came through
and the window stood open. You were not

here, no. You were there; like how the crow flew.
Like the crow caught. Like how the sky was caught

at the foot of my bed. It squawked, rustled,
beat wings as I wrapped my arms around air.

Sky loves us all; but who loves its muscled
grace? When was the last time that you were bare

naked before it? Can you name its scars?
Can you name its need? Sky, love, pony-bird.

You’re still a lost empire. You’re still night seed.
My bed is wide. I swear by the jaguar’s

toothed song that I know why you have hungered.
Love, I know how to satisfy your need.

gospel

14 Thursday Dec 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

anal sex, blow job, drenching, facial, fellatio, gospel, prayer

I like you best with your face dripping cum.
It’s my form of prayer to you. A godhead

splitting your ass, ruining your rectum
until I roll you over on the bed

and you taste your own tart-funk on my cock
as it fills your throat. There’s nothing soothing

about prayer, just the sudden thrill and shock
when I pull out, my orgasm drenching

your cheeks, nose, eyelashes. If seminal
solutions are sacred then my temple

is your ass. Piercing it is like glory,
something sacred and cum proof of faithful

worship. Balls deep in you is like gospel.
Heathen, once more you and I are holy.

hothouse

13 Wednesday Dec 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

comeuppance, drench the floor, erotic poetry, hothouse, poem, RUIN, sonnet, spanking

Spankings seem cruel. But when you bend to bare
yourself to me with your ink—one word stamped

in black, “RUIN,” above your derriere—
when you drape yourself on my knee, thighs clamped

tight with tension; then, yes, this will be cruel.
So rough. So sudden. That first splitting stroke.

You know that I find whining sobs shameful;
only kids caterwaul. Drench the floor, soak

your thighs, if you must, but keep count of each
welted slash left upon your upturned ass.

Correction’s hothouse. Discipline’s garden.
Pain blooms as divine comeuppance; this bleach-

in-the-eyes pain, add a-touch-of-teargas —
that’s why you’re here, you and your prayer: RUIN.

bene faction

08 Friday Dec 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

benefaction, curious strangers, erotic poetry, fuck-friends, sonnet, urchin's greed, waif's weed

We are unnerved by pleasure; it frightens
us when it comes. It comes. I call. I’m out

side your door. I come with waif’s weed, urchin’s
greed. I hunger the way that the devout

hunger for a balm to their holy mess.
Call us a holy fuck. Blunts shared between

two: alms, bene-faction. To kiss. To bless.
To claim. I’ve driven far. I want obscene

things. I want to ruin you. Now re-frame;
I meet you at the door, children on their

way to school. We smile. We are familiars.
Familiar is good. It’s still the same blessed flame,

chaotic nerves, fire. I will take either:
as fuck-friends or as curious strangers.

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