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
≈ Comments Off on if i can stop one heart from breaking i shall not live in vain
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
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.
07 Tuesday Jan 2014
Posted in Armenian, Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on before the storm
Tags
Armenian translation, clitoris, cunnilingus, ծլիկ, poem, Poetry, the problem with so-called dirty words, tslik
Before the thunderstorm arrives
Ampropits’ arraj galis
Ամպրոպից առաջ գալիս
Rub your tongue across her swollen clitoris
K’sum dzer lezun amboghj ir tslik urrats
Քսում ձեր լեզուն ամբողջ իր ծլիկ ուռած
Watch as she begins to arch her spine
Ditel yen k’ani vor na sksum e shrjadardz ir voghnashari
Դիտել են քանի որ նա սկսում է շրջադարձ իր ողնաշարի
and her thighs begin to tremble
yev nra azdreri sksum yen doghal
եւ նրա ազդրերի սկսում են դողալ
Inhale the rain in the air
Nershnch’yel e andzrev odum
Ներշնչել է անձրեւ օդում
][][
notes:
The best way to determine if a foreign language dictionary is of any use is to see if it has the word “clitoris” in it, a standard medical term. If it doesn’t then there is a good chance there will be a whole mess of other words it won’t have either. If language is simply a tool that allows us to communicate then there is no such thing as a “dirty” word, there are only uptight people who fear the truth behind words. One day someone needs to make an erotic Armenian dictionary. The nearest I could find in Armenian for clitoris is “tslik” (ծլիկ ), though I am sure there are other words, too, that I just can’t find.
05 Sunday Jan 2014
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on clit in a riot
Tags
art, clit in a riot, fatal finger as metaphor for finger fucking, poem, Poetry, sonnet, squirm, venus mound
“Squirm” is one of the most unerotic
words we have. It’s sweaty, but not sweat-fuck
sweat. It speaks of discipline, but not slick
ash cane strokes on up-turned ass, each lilac
kiss-bloom causing you to gasp. The only
thing I can think of that might make squirm sound
naughty involves callused fingers, puffy
lips, tracing the curve of your venus mound,
curling, parting, finding home. It involves
knuckles, first one, then, pushing, a fat second.
Children squirm when touched, as will you. Eyes shut,
with: yes … right … there … Oh … God. What will dissolve
in bliss if rubbed? What’ll leave you dazed, dampened,
gasping, thighs shaking, clit in a riot?
05 Sunday Jan 2014
Tags
beta-bottom boy, excitement in being taken, poem, Poetry, safety in being powerless, shameless, SM/BD, sonnet, submission, thrill in being tested
Pretty thing, ask any beta-bottom
boy, when you are ordered to be shameless,
there is excitement in being taken,
there is safety in being powerless,
there is a thrill in being tested.
Pleasure isn’t always painful, but it
should be. Loyalty comes in cum and blood
and a soft voice telling you to submit,
on the other end of the phone, to show
proof of your transgressions. Some say to love
is to suffer, but only if it’s done
right. Yes, pretty thing, go find one who knows
you inside and out, who towers above
you and will teach you how pain can be fun.
03 Friday Jan 2014
Like that, I’ll take your pain upon myself,
so that you no longer hurt—an exchange,
release, this little act that you, yourself,
can’t do. That isn’t love, but it’ll do. Strange
possession—hot breath on my neck, strong hands
in my hair, cuffs biting my skin, my neck
pulled taught. You call this control? Pain demands
strength that you don’t possess. All your needs: flick
the whip, bend to your will, be mercy’s bane.
Mercy’s bane? Show me a Dom who laughing
at did not fluster—they’re far too fragile
without power. I love the games of vain
people, they’re so easy to break; proving
that they have yet to learn the word cruel.
02 Thursday Jan 2014
What you call manic depression has been
with me for so long sharp jags and deep highs
and that feeling that all that I do — sin
you called it: pink lips, yellow moons, blue thighs
and green clovers — leaves me buried, my head
in my hands. Those blackest of nights. Red hell
leaves me curled up so. You would think this dread
would go away if I just didn’t tell
you, if I filled these lines with want, need, lust.
Whatever you think erotica needs
to be. Whatever. Touch my shoulder. Call
my name. Rouse me from this decay, this dust,
this touch of nightmare. I’m what the worms seed,
the sky’s end, what at last broke the rag doll.
31 Tuesday Dec 2013
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on the secret of the cow’s sorrow
Tags
art, artist unknown, fairy tale, I love the drowned, poem, Poetry, Sea Queen, sonnet, the secret of the cow's sorrow
I had never seen a cow crying big
wet tears before but the wood fairies caught
each one and a bat and a small hedge-pig
came out to comfort her. Then the tide brought
in a girl the color of kelp, a star
set in her brow, on the back of a beast.
I took the tears, walked out on a sandbar
to greet her. “Take me with you, to the east
and make me your lover, I’ll brush your hair
and sing all the songs that I know.” But she
said no, for what does a mortal child know
about the Sea Queen? “Love, do not despair,”
she said. “When you drown I’ll find your body
and then you too will know the cow’s sorrow.”
31 Tuesday Dec 2013
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on nothing human
Tags
crocodile girls, false-faith, nothing human, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Now you believe me; I, like all of us,
have been betrayed and seen that devil’s grin
on the face of one that I loved. Mistress
mouse, my darling horny toad, what is sin
but the conviction that the divine speaks
to you alone? Trace this river of need
spilling over its banks. Sisters, fuck freaks,
brothers all stand and be counted. I bleed
once a month, too, but not like you. In fact,
there is nothing human with this ending.
This start where girl crocodiles are sincere
unlike you, in their love, lovely swaybacked.
What’s faith but knowing that you know nothing
about faith or love or crocodile tears?
