• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: sonnet

quaffers

20 Thursday Aug 2026

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, evil hot tubs, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Risking rot, snot, chlorine and the neighbor’s

backwash, their hot tub, that far out relic,

blobbed, then globbed [metaphor: won-ton oyster’s

glaze] in globs on the waves. ‘That’s freakin’ sick,’

you gagged, hunkering. We’d been hunkering

ever since the backyard lights had blinked on,

then off and then on. Constantly risking

absurdity… and rare diseases. Lawn

diseases, too, ones that make your knees green.

Oysters? Won-ton? No, you’re crap when it comes

to metaphor. Just say we saw stranger’s

cum in the tub, okay queen? ‘Okay queen’?

Ah, said Arthur Dent, abuse. Like scrotums?

Goiters? Quaffers? Tweakers? Punters? Tossers?

snarls

19 Wednesday Aug 2026

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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poem, Poetry, sonnet

There’s two blues, Lady Day claimed, the hot blues

and the cool blues. It’s August. Must be hot.

“I’m the people. The mob. The mass.” The news

reports downtown burns. Tear gas. And the fraught

stand-offs. Blues? you say. Hon, you ain’t peoples.

Just good with your tongue. Sirens, still distant,

strut, pout, put it out; your skull-fucked tonsils,

“my seed, my plow, my storm.” Where’s the blunt?

you grunt, while outside the hotel window

smoke still rises. Cool blues in late August’s

swelter. You call your husband. Somewhere Carl’s

ghost sighs. The Good Work comes, but it is slow,

like the blues. It sounds nothing like my thrusts,

your gasps; our meager cries and cum and snarls.

silt

16 Sunday Aug 2026

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Tongue tapped. Tasted blood. I abide in blood,

monthly lune; having no womb I must swim

elsewhere. I’m tomboy’s toy and you’re pure stud,

as in, Stone Butch with strap-on. “On a whim,”

you said, when I asked you how you had come.

“Gotta tongue tap that.” Pulling a muddy,

bloody tampon out with teeth; like I’ve swum

before. Scars on your amputated knee

smelt of cloves. Yes, you’re brutal but I’m built

like cake. What him-femme isn’t? “grrls with girth,”

your right tat spat. “Pussy Power,” your left

tit tat spat back. Ghost of mud-flow and silt.

Ghost of tampons to come. I still taste earth

in you. Ghost of whims and menstrual theft.

das

16 Sunday Aug 2026

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet

First I spoke to the dead. Dull. Then I spoke

to the gods and got cum over your face.

Fucking sober was different: without coke,

skag or das chronic, finding that hard grace

to fill you with jarred me out; as in, “freaked,”

and I streaked your cheek. The gods are vulgar,

being divine. They sound like a gasp shrieked

in pure need, unless that was me. “Gusher

force,” you called it. Whatever, Muse. Take this

with you, proof that someone once volunteered

for das ass. Back in primes, they say. Bad times,

I bone, drunk dead more and more without bliss.

Drunk dead moan. Lovers groan. Gods mumble weird

words, cum-crusted. Das ass; rhymes upon crimes.

violaceous

15 Saturday Aug 2026

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet, violaceous

Amethyst is thicc, phat like mulberries,

wet like mauve. Neighbor flavor; what I’ve missed

with these new memories. Bend of strange knees,

dimples, fat fists, lips you say that I’ve kissed.

Rewired. I forget names, tastes, even hues.

Had I been this age then, instead of nine,

then ‘wine dark’ would still be a reddish-blue.

Your plum to my peach. Your curls to my twine.

You said L.S.D. would set us all free.

You said, “tuck here, toy,” then cried for Jesus.

Love gone messy? So it seems. Like sweet ilk

and sweat. Lotus and loam. Cum foam and glee.

Said I filled your throat? Tickled your glottis

going down? Thicc like brine and buttermilk.

taste

20 Monday Oct 2025

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

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Tags

cunnilingus, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Spanish translation

Now write about yourself. Not witches. Not

lust, but “i” – the gauntest part of myself.

Now write about your childhood – that distraught

grimoire, “vulval witch lore,” lost on the shelf.

Which lore? Exactly. “Witches gummed gristle”?

But of course! “Make a crone moan while sucking

her bone”? Bad rhyme. It must rhyme with “vulval.”

Offal? No. “Something-something … we’re kissing.”

La bruja me agarra,/ me lleva a su casa,/ me sienta en su regazo/ y me besa.

The witch grabs me,/ takes me to her house,/ sits me on her lap/ and kisses me.

Yes! You got it. The clap, I mean … the Witch

Clap. No! You said this would be in good taste.

¡Ay! dígame, dígame/ dígame usted/ ¿cuántas criaturitas/ se ha chupado usted?

Oh! Tell me, tell me,/ Tell me,/ how many babes have you drained the life from?

Cannibal humor slays me. It’s a niche

duffer; like porn for the boring and chaste.

Or this strange folk song you keep quoting from.

Ninguna, ninguna/ ninguna no sé,/ ando en pretenciones/ de chuparme a usted.

None, none,/ none, I don’t know/ but I’m planning to drain you next.

Drain who? You: kid. Me: booty witch like bomb.

Notes.

It’s a sonnet getting interrupted by a folk song. That’s the problem with short term memory loss, I keep forgetting what I wanted to write about. I’m thinking about my childhood and my broken home on the range and suddenly I find this Mexican folk song, “La Bruja,” which apparently was one of Frida Kahlo’s favorites and now I’m trying to work it in as if it’ll magically fit in 14-lines of poetry.

The new Agent Orange: dropping song fragments into crap verse from very far away just to watch it burn.

plum

26 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, fox-plump, plumeria, poem, Poetry, Romans trumpet, shadow's yin, sonnet, spilled ink

The rain made ghosts all down their shirts that clung.

Sugimoto’s tongue. Nakano’s crop beats

time, too. “Again,” iced through the downpour’s lung-

drowning hoar. “Again.” As Aoki bleats

beneath the lieutenant’s hands— Nakano’s

thumb draws circles where before none lingered

“Ai, but teaching what, strumpet?” Pearl-butt knows

what, could not say— Recruits held their hunkered

breath, now watching their Captain, now watching

this plum ballet. The way the lieutenant’s

lips brushed Aoki’s neck. From: “Shadow’s Yin —

shattered cum cup, plum offered, blood booking.”

From: wet shirts. Downpour. Sodomitic trance.

Crop beats. Teaching what, strumpet? Yes. “Again.”

plight

26 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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chaff and cyst mist, erotic poetry, pearl butt, plight, poem, Poetry, sonnet, touch betrays what lips deny

Gun oil mixed with salt on Nakano’s skin.

Teeth wrote Sugimoto’s sermon in. “Flesh!

You watched!” The accusation, sharp and thin.

“Of course.” The Captain’s fingers knew the fresh,

wretched truth; touch betrayed what lips denied.

Inside the lieutenant’s loose braids; gaping

ropy, womblight. C-scar from the Pearl’s Bride.

Outside, marched raw rude recruits to morning,

mid-plight; the space between snap and then twist

entire. No spider here, just deeply spun

strands, peach-shellfish swallowing each other

down. O serpentine tryst chaff and cyst mist.

As in rise, flesh! Fresh pretty inch. Wet nun

womblight. Bride’s nattered Pearl-butt, now ruder.

willow

26 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic poetry, flat as cold, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spilled ink, twisted sea

Moonlight strips striped her throat where buttons paled,

fluxed and veiled: her Moon Rabbit’s lingerie—

Her glove, Sugimoto’s lips— had prevailed.

Unspooled— Her puckered silk sot on display.

“Discipline, mother!” The lieutenant turned,

fallopian rope with shape. Aoki

burned. Eh? Aoki burned. Aoki burned;

became an altarpiece. Their twisted sea.

Nakano, through ghost breath glass that steamed

with her palms, flat as cold reflection. Mapped

how? Aoki prayed, reeked of sea wolves, still

circling. Twisted sea? Twisted sea? screamed

the piece, altar-wise: her Moon Rabbit rapt—

pussy willow— then whippoorwill’s will.

laluah

19 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Aquah Laluah, conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, Gladys May Casely Hayford, Krio language, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

Aquah Laluah wrote about her lover’s

rain soaked breasts, about storms within and storms

without, kissing her dusky throat. Thunder’s

note, she called it, which did more than just warm

her flesh. Auntie I never knew, you wrote

about longing and I keep going back

to the source. I, too, crave. Like Qiu Jin’s quote

about music, yours has been the soundtrack

I’ve been dancing to for years. A teacher

at Freetown’s all-girl school [1920]

Auntie, you drank from Frangepani’s proffered

bowl and called it peace: the first faint glimmer

of light. Tɛnki. I love your long, rainy

season, that storm wet craft that you conjured.

][][

Notes.

Gladys May Casely Hayford (1904-1950), who went by the pen name Aquah Laluah, was a schoolteacher at The Girls Vocational School in Sierra Leone. She is credited as the first poet to write in the Krio language, a regional Creole. Tɛnki is the Krio word for thank you. Like Aquah Laluah, Qiu Jin was also a feminist, lesbian poet who taught at an all-girl’s school in Qing-era China, though Qiu Jin was executed after a failed revolutionary uprising. Four of Aquah Laluah’s poems were collected by Countee Cullen in Caroling Dusk: An Anthology of Verse by Black Poets of the 1920s. The quotes of her that I use come from her poem, Rainy Season Love Song, which I share here in its whole:

Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes;

Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of thunder drums

My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain,

As storms within and storms without I meet my love in the rain.

“The rain is in love with you darling; it’s kissing you everywhere,

Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly hair;

Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate mounds they rise,

I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills your eyes.”

Into my hands she cometh, and the lightning of my desire

Flashes and leaps about her, more subtle than Heaven’s fire;

“The lightning’s in love with you darling; it is loving you so much,

That its warm electricity in you pulses wherever I may touch.

When I kiss your lips and your eyes, and your hands like twin flowers apart,

I know there is lightning, Frangepani, deep in the depths of your heart.”

The thunder rumbles about us, and I feel its triumphant note

As your warm arms steal around me; and I kiss your dusky throat;

“The thunder’s in love with you darling. It hides its power in your breast.

And I feel it stealing o’er me as I lie in your arms at rest.

I sometimes wonder, beloved, when I drink from life’s proffered bowl,

Whether there’s thunder hidden in the innermost parts of your soul.”

Out of my arms she stealeth; and I am left alone with the night,

Void of all sounds save peace, the first faint glimmer of light.

Into the quiet, hushed stillness my Frangepani goes.

Is there peace within like the peace without? Only the darkness knows.

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