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Icarus Falls
Father if I only
could if I only
Father the sky
is vast and I
am if I could
Father I
fall
I
burn Father
damn you
icarus falls
29 Wednesday Jan 2014
Posted in Poetry
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Category Archives: Poetry
a dirty thing
26 Sunday Jan 2014
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
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if the river calls me
It was that rancid smell that made me drive
her off. Damn! What a foul stench! Of course she
fought and cried. Of course. How would she survive
on her own? Who would take in a dirty
thing like her? No one, I am sure. That smell
of hers just wouldn’t wash off. No. Call me
a beast, if you will. Say that there’s a hell
for bad parents who desert their needy
children. I’m sure there is but I don’t care.
What was I going to do with her? Me!
I am no believer in myths. A prayer
only works if someone hears it and we
are deaf. Abandoned down by the river;
she is human now, a fox no longer.
talented cocksuckers
22 Wednesday Jan 2014
Tags
bite hard, come and get it boo, oral sex, poem, Poetry, sinner man, sonnet, talented cocksuckers
Tasting my sex. I want sweat to drip. Eyes
rolled back in your skull. Come large. Come erect.
Come rub it. Come touch it. Come eat it. Sighs
and drawls speak in crazy tongues. You have wrecked
me for anyone else. When I say, “don’t
bite me,” I know that you will. When I say,
“don’t waste even a drop,” I know you won’t.
Impaled mouth. Hollow cheeks. Until I spray
blessings down your throat, you keep your eyes shut.
There are many talented cocksuckers
in this world, but out of all I chose you
because you’re mad and bad and you don’t slut
shame. I come each time I hear that sinner’s
voice on the phone say, “Come and get it, boo.”
mutate
22 Wednesday Jan 2014
Tags
after the surgery, bleak chest, blood mad, mutate, poem, Poetry, scars, sonnet
In the night, I feel you strip my bed clothes
off me, flesh on flesh on my hair, just cut,
drifts down against your neck. You are there, nose
nuzzled, lips pressed against the pale riot-
root scar of my bleak chest. I feel your weight
on my body. It’s not all that I feel.
Softly, slowly both of us will mutate
into the other: the hungry, ideal
hunter, the shyest of bucks. In the night
I’m blood-mad, as if the orgasm’s prey
would now cure me. As if I were the brave
one and you slowly giving up the fight.
I promise, one day you will hear me say
“I love you” while standing over my grave.
splays you out
21 Tuesday Jan 2014
Tags
affair, break rules, dirty grrl, married sex, poem, Poetry, sonnet, splays you out
Rule one: you can’t be single — singles get
the whole world handed to them — they have rules,
rules to break — I adore lovers with debt,
lovers who missed out. Let grief be what fuels
your lust. Let taboo be what ties you up
and splays you out. No hiding from your lust
just yet. Give me a wanna-be trollop,
a day-dreaming dirty grrl. She-who-must-
thrust-her-hips-while-her-children-are-sleeping.
Fluids and sweat gleam … what new debauching
will we dream up tonight? We both hunger
after something new, my married lover.
I have never been told that I’m a whore.
You’ve never begged for mercy and for more.
][][
notes:
“The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules. And tonight, you’re gonna break your one rule.” — Heath Ledger’s Joker
soared flashed gone
21 Tuesday Jan 2014
Tags
erotic, exhibitionist, finger fucking, hot springs, Las Vegas, Nevada, poem, Poetry, soared flashed gone, sonnet
Foliage dark mass fringed by your thighs we’re rude
north of Vegas two hour drunken blur
red rocks screening our bodies laying nude
upon rocks above the hot spring, under
the cliff’s shadow nature is nudity
grace-like you stand hands on hips gazing
upon my half-open calves and fleshy
gingersnaps we have been finger fucking
soared flashed gone all day tease taste swallow deep
throat gag control we came here to get high
above the valley floor you shudder seize
my skull press me deeper until you weep
when I go down. Looking up, you reply:
please please please please please please please please please please …
count each scar
16 Thursday Jan 2014
Tags
brackish mare, count each scar, grief, loss, my sister my lover, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the wave's door, water-witch
Water-witches follow the sea’s rough path,
cross to the wave’s door, ride the brackish mare
tide-ways home. I loved a witch. In my bath
she would let me wash her back, braid her hair,
count each scar. I think of her on the shore,
calling the drowned to come home. Souls like fish
swallowed up. I can’t find the witch’s door,
just snow upon waves; moths that vanish
as she did. My sister, I must make friends
with the waves, as you did. You returned
to me riding their backs like a blue flame
until the drowned called for you. Who pretends
they can sing up storms? I can’t. Lost and burned
I’m a child in the fog, calling your name.
if i can stop one heart from breaking i shall not live in vain
09 Thursday Jan 2014
Tags
art, Emily Dickinson, erotic, If I can stop one heart from breaking I shall not live in vain, poem, Poetry, quote
“If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain” — Emily Dickinson
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry
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as if it were a given
08 Wednesday Jan 2014
Tags
as if it were a given, dreams of the earth, lover's heat, mist as a metaphor, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the dead remember
halo blue light, moon through trees the dead lay
curled in the grass softly teasing the rain
light drops upon its naked skin the fey
delight the wood nymph pleasures each drop pain
each drop, a warming, bringing it nearer
to the mist, the clouds, the shadow glimmers
upon its back and legs, heat, a lover’s
heat, one even dead flesh can remember
whipping now, stinging its back, burning holes
in its ruined blue face as the dead dive
in and the living talk about rebirth
as if it were a given that’s the soul’s
vanity, hoping that it will survive
as its laid down in the dreams of the earth
deleting
07 Tuesday Jan 2014
Tags
Buddha laughs at poets, burn Western literature to set it free, erase every poem you've ever written, fuck zen, immortality is absurd, neolith art, poem, Poetry, sonnet
“if I could I’d burn all of Western literature to set it free …”
Here’s the thing, the problem I struggle with,
the whole kit and kaboodle, here’s how I’ll
go down: one day I’ll get bored, my neolith
art will no longer please. Every exile
knows that immortality is absurd.
It’s that last act: burning books, deleting
computer files, making sure that no word
remains — that is art. Would you keep writing
if you knew no one would read it? Zen tells
us to hit “erase” after each poem.
Enlightenment claims nothing shall remain
behind. Fuck zen. Give me chaos and hell’s
short-term memory. I want to become
nothing, let blank pages be my domain.
memories of my ghost sista 