• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Poetry

with the word pervert

08 Friday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

damning erotic life, nasty, pervert, Poetry, sonnet

“nasty boys/ don’t mean a thing …”
— Janet Jackson (1986)

I love how “pervert” is still genderless,
and how anyone can play. Other’s porn

seldom is open-minded. Who’d say “yes”
to things that they’re not hard wired for? You scorn

so much and still claim to be broad-minded.
Curious. I’ve smoked Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

finger-fucked Sexton in her sad bed, slid
my tongue over Lorca’s cock. Rumi’s ass

hung like the moon. Shams’ too. Still, you can’t guess
who I am with the word “pervert.” Riddle

me this: why are you so frigid-rigid
with all your desires? You who profess

to be nasty? You say that you’re lustful …
but you won’t touch me, bite me, drink my blood.

what you call a pimp and a priest

28 Monday Jul 2014

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

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Tags

Colonizers, Donkey Show, erotic poetry, Garden of Earthly Delights, Pasiphae, pimp and priest, Queen Tatana, sonnet, Tijuana, We the Other

Earthiness … “Rutting like beasts in the field” …
It’s hard when the squeamish Colonizers

(all those who never once blurred a line, squealed,
cried or howled) wail against the Others.

There are bars in Boy’s Town, Tijuana,
with their Donkey Shows; “See the Minotaur’s

Mother, Pasiphaë! See Queen Tatana
Seduce the Divine Ass!”
Down on all fours

in Bosche’s “Garden of Earthly Delights” …
We force others to perform all the time

and it’s never enough. If there is sin
it’s these selfish, unending appetites.

The pimp who praises himself in cheap rhyme.
The priest who sees hell in my naked skin.

lapping thistledown

27 Sunday Jul 2014

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

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Tags

age difference, art, erotic poetry, incest, mother and child

car car

piano

bed

purple

kitchen

star

wet as a swamp/ drowning between her thighs/ lapping thistledown

heat shimmers/ in the shade of her bedroom/ the widow goes down

two virgin boys/ all that defines me/ endless hunger, she said

he-she-he/ their teacher showed them how/ to enter together

my heroes are always/ undersexed with/ with the most vivid of imaginations …

my scandalous love affair with things that go bump in the night

23 Wednesday Jul 2014

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

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Tags

art, damning erotic life, erotic poetry, grass stains on your knees, haiku, hard ghost, missing moon, things that go bump in the night, your husband's grave

blue

green

yellow

your husband’s tombstone
between all the weeds I steal
our very first kiss

][

before dawn: nightfall
and my dead lover’s cock shall
rise, mount the hard ghost

][

grass stains on your knees,
your back, the palms of your hands,
inside you … the dead

][

spring’s last missing moon
this damning erotic life
the one that we choose

are you thunder? are you lightning? are you the ionized atmosphere right before all hell breaks loose?

22 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in haiku, Poetry

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Tags

are you lightning?, are you the ionized atmosphere?, are you thunder?, haiku, poem, Poetry

summer heat melting
between our lips, hinting at
the downpour to come

nightmare on horseback

16 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Poetry, Prose, sonnet

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Tags

Mariam Abandian, Poetry, prose, sonnet

Petals of lust. Stamens of dreams. Nightmare
upon horseback. My heart was ripped open;

moonlight in the dust, trampled without prayer,
without mercy. Mustachioed horseman,

blood-red fez, ghost. You planted the horror,
roots like ass’ legs; you have death-head lilies

in place of eyes. The was once a flower
that I loved, for there is no smut or sleaze

when it comes to Nature. No shame. No sin.
That’s Man’s domain. I don’t want a trampled

flower or a dream that promises lust
but can never deliver. Horror-man,

you rise, with your broken tusk you impaled
my curse, you’ll spawn only decay and rust.

hellbent

15 Tuesday Jul 2014

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

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Tags

Armenian heroine, art, blood sister, hellbent, Mama warrior, Mariam Abandian, poem, Poetry, sonnet

MARIAM1

Tonight let the rat steal the rice. The moon
is in love and even the starving flea

will be pardoned. Tonight, hunger, roughhewn
like love, goes down smooth. We’ve all been hungry.

We’ve all wished somebody would speak secrets
that are simply obvious. Big sister,

where is your story? Why aren’t the poets
singing about you? Mama warrior,

let me braid up your hair. I have no tongue
for tune, but for you I’ll sing any song.

Tonight, saddle up. The moon is absent
and the rat is full. No one else has sung

what you do. Sister, you’re my blood, headstrong
fairytale made flesh; violent and hellbent.

thrive

12 Saturday Jul 2014

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

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Tags

Anahit on my tongue, break up song, Devil under my fingers, poem, Poetry, sonnet

lovers of the wand

And I imagine that this is how we
need to be: nude, warm, huddled together,

willing to survive anything with me …
Me? We! Except there is no we, lover.

No us. Nothing folded like paper in
onto itself. Nothing to protect us.

Just old skin and bone minus voltage, sin
and salt water. I’m a child of Venus,

Bacchus and Dryads. But you? Who knows now.
Who cares what you call yourself. I did once.

Songs that the hurt always sing. You’ll survive
and go off with someone else. Will your vow

sound just as hollow? Like hell, your brilliance
is to make a corpse look like it can thrive.

sin and sleaze

12 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

poem, Poetry, sin, sleaze, sonnet

 

Why does lust burn yet my new underwear
makes you wet? Why is it that when I lick

you here you moan, yet when I lick you there
you say, “No, not that! It’s dirty. That’s sick!”

It’s all sick. That’s the whole point. I asked you,
once, what you think of when you masturbate.

Pretty things, I found out. Nothing taboo,
but that can be fun, too. I was once jailbait,

just like everyone else. My fantasies
involve good and evil; it’s the one thing,

save a straight line, that’s not found in nature.
What I call divine you call sin and sleaze.

Where I pray you won’t go. You say, “Making
love,” not “Fucking.” I say, “I’ll take either.”

waiting for you at the gate

10 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

≈ Comments Off on waiting for you at the gate

Tags

free verse, gate metaphor, my sweet rotten, poem, Poetry

My nectar will
make you swoon
my sweet rotten

scent will make
you sweat all
noon, your lunch
pale break,
coming

home bewildered
dog, shame-headed,
fury-foot, child,
hoping for more.

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