• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: sonnet

here now, return

09 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

adulteress, Frankenstein, heroine, Prospero, re-animation, sonnet, sublime, zombie

All this scandal men and their jokes fall flat,
waking the blue chaos inside. Make me
the saint of the exile and the wildcat,
the mad girl, the adulteress still hungry
for love. Never let us be so unloved
that we start to believe that joke, that crust
the dull and savage dress us in. Beloved
daughter, spirit of my flesh, ghost of rust
and dark re-animation, these are gifts
I’ll dress you in. The color of gasping
breath, the heartbeat’s first beat, a mewl that drifts
from your throat. Rise and rejoin the living.
I am no Prospero, no Frankenstein.
Still, my art is crude, erotic, sublime.

aumakua

08 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Aumakua, island, mythology, Sandwich Islands, sonnet, succubus

Aumakua: a succubus
from the Sandwich Islands,
South Pacific.

Her hair was long, at least by our dreamland
standards. She had wrapped the tail ends around
her toes, so that when she walked she left the sand
patterned, like the wind in the dunes. The sound
of her song could be heard up and down
the beach. In the graves of Chief Roi Mata
and his 20 wives the old man would frown
at all the smutty figures she would draw
in the sand with a stick. Missionaries
called her a devil as she drank the rain
gushing out from her own lap. Her menses,
it was said, could wake the dead, heal that pain.
In our dreamland she waits, a succubus
under a lotus tree, pleasure’s goddess.

itchy, fevered, ill

15 Saturday Dec 2012

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

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homoerotic, les couleurs, sonnet, Yukio Mishima

ice and sunfire 01

ice and sunfire 01

ice and sunfire 02

ice and sunfire 02

ice and sunfire 03

ice and sunfire 03

ice and sunfire 04

ice and sunfire 04

ice and sunfire 05

ice and sunfire 05

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.

love like scabies

27 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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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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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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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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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.

rojo bambu (soneto)

29 Wednesday Aug 2012

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

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Tags

art, rojo bambu, sonnet, Spanish, translation

August 29, 2012 [2]

Primero compré un lanzamiento del bambú rojo, menos

que un pie, y tomó abajo anguila-como la lámina

con la manija de la quijada del boquete. Debo confesar

tomó un día para tallarlos. Estoy asustado

tres eran todos lo que podría dominar. Entonces encontré

el viejo pote de arcilla formado fuera de nightshade

y sangre. La llené y después encendí un redondo

encienda abajo de punto bajo. Tallé una pregunta y puse

en un desecho de madera, lo fijó para arder: ¿quién

hay fuera de? Los fuegos crackled hasta que

A.M.E.X.Q. fue deletreado. ¿Qué blithesome

el alcohol es usted, amor? Después: Le espero.

Mi corte de bambú pasado era rezo: ¿cuándo

usted vendrá? ¿Alcohol de la prisa – cuándo usted vendrá?

][][

(First I bought a shoot of red bamboo, less than a foot, and took down the eel-like blade with the gap jaw handle. I must confess it took a day to carve them. I’m afraid three was all I could master. Then I found the old clay pot fashioned out of nightshade and blood. I filled it and then lit a round fire down low. I carved a question and laid it on a wood scrap, set it to blaze: who is out there? The fires crackled until A.M.E.X.Q. was spelled. What blithesome spirit are you, love? Next: I wait for you. My last bamboo cutting was prayer: when will you come? Hurry spirit — when will you come?)

mi hija, el pornographer (soneto)

19 Sunday Aug 2012

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

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Tags

my daughter, pornographer, sonnet, Spanish, translation

Fue cuando ella comenzó a traer su trabajo

al hogar que comencé a preocuparme. Caminando

por la cocina para encontrar a alguna muchacha

masturbando a un tipo, era mi hija, capturando

toda en la película, grita las instrucciones. Encontrar

el fregadero lleno juguetes sexuales apenas lavados. Un nuevo

tubo de lubricante anal en su monedero. “mirando a

otros coger,” ella me dijo, “es lo que mejor se hacer.”

No puedo avitar pensar que hay voyeurs

en todos nosotros. Incluso la palabra impresa

era una vez de otros. “Estarias sorprendido

qué todos lo que podemos hacer delante de otros,

dado la ocasión,” dijo ella. “es absurdo

decir que no amamos lo que desdeñan otros.”

mi-hija-el-pornographer-2

(It was when she started bringing her work home that I began worrying. Walking into the kitchen to find some girl jerk a boy off as my daughter, capturing it all on film, shouts instructions. Finding the sink full of sex toys just washed. A new tube of anal lube in her purse. “Watching others fuck,” she told me, “is what I do best.” I can’t help but think there are voyeurs in all of us. Even the printed word was once another’s. “You would be surprised what we all will do in front of others, given the chance,” she said. “It is absurd to say we don’t love what others despise.”)

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