• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: sonnet

sheds

14 Monday Dec 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, dashtani, erotic poetry, heavy flow, menses, poem, Poetry, sheds, sonnet

Tonguing, leaving streaks between your cloven
lips, the spots where blushes and bruises bloom,

even during your heavy flow. Back then,
you said, you’d hide away in the bathroom.

Blood in your panties, soaked into your jeans,
and how everyone smirked. In the old tongue

even the word for menstruating means
hidden away, dashtani. “I was young,”

you said, “and Soviet-era tampons?
I’d just stay home.”
Now you press on my face,

here in the bathtub, as your uterus
sheds. I have streaks on my chin, red and bronze,

my tongue working you to a state of grace,
delving deep between your clit and anus.

][][

In Armenian, the word for menstruating, dashtan, (դաշտան), is the same root word for separation, dashtani (դաշտանի).

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that slapping nuisance

03 Thursday Dec 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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Babylon Crashing, erotic poem, quote unquote, reblog, sonnet, that slapping nuisance

I can’t sleep. I’ve listened to you all night.

Over and over, softly through the floor.

This must be your art, your craft. Sodomite.

Pervert. Poet. And while I could say more

there are a thousand reasons why I should

stop here — I’ve wasted so much whiskey on

myself, I’ve bled, I’ve gnawed on green wormwood.

And you — with your, “Afternoon of a Fawn,”

and your beastly hands and cruel antlers —

You sing low. That noise, that slapping nuisance,

fills the night with voyeuristic heartache.

All art is illicit, it seeks pleasures —

In your pause, in your last note, that silence,

coming from below, keeps the world awake.

— Babylon Crashing

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night tide

28 Saturday Nov 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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Armenia, Babylon Crashing, erotic poetry, Lake Sevan, night tide, reblog, sonnet

The drowned girl said, “be rougher, I don’t mind.”

In the old tongue — a tongue that I couldn’t

speak well. The lake water had made me blind

so I clung to her wide hips as her cunt

covered my mouth, my chin. In the night tide

the small waves inched over us. I could feel

her bent forward, pressing down, as she tried

to gag me -drown- while her wild mane went eel-

like, all hither and yon. I’ve walked Sevan’s coast,

the drowned outnumbers the living. Thirty

years-old; wild hair rose up, like — dark like, kelp —

a voice that called from the lake. Carmine’s ghost

calling, “Yeranut’yun.” — Bliss. The way she

pulled back and said, “you naughty little welp.”

][][

note:

In Armenian, the word for bliss is, “yer’an’ut’yun,” (երանություն).

— Babylon Crashing

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acheflow

20 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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acheflow, Babylon Crashing, erotic poem, reblog, sonnet

Here’s release. You and me, we’re not like them.

They pulled away. You sniffed my open palm

as you touched your lips. My fingers, my thumb,

even my wrist were soaked. The low buzz-bomb

growl of my vibrator filled the backseat

of your mom’s car. The upholstery had crude

scars and new finger-funk stains, while slush-sleet

coated the windows — Acheflow — We pursued

whatever we could do between the breaks.

Your prom was a bust; your college transcripts

denied. You were a ball of stress. All fraught

until a toy made you squirt up earthquakes

into my palm. They blanched while your hips

buckled wide in the Gaspar parking lot.

— Babylon Crashing

WARM BODY

17 Tuesday Nov 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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ghost smut, poem, shell of your own, snuggle close, sonnet, warm body, where the dead fall in love

When you finally take you last corporeal

form, I’ll bake you sticky buns, your favorite.

 

Until then, snuggle close; let sunlight, dull

and warm, filter through you. I love ghost smut;

 

where the dead fall in love. Slowly seven

dust motes move as your fingertip explores

 

my breasts, smoothing fabric taut; your ashen

touch. My skin is so alive your dead pores

 

gasp for breath. Will you be this mesmerized

with me once you have a shell of your own?

 

Or will I be just one more warm body?

Will you, who died for love and once despised

 

false hearts, leave me? Is it just flesh and bone

that makes you whisper lover’s vows to me?

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bit salt

06 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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Babylon Crashing, bit salt, erotic poetry, reblog, sonnet

Morning fog. Open window. Her muscled

arms. Spooned in silence. Soft boy flesh waking.

One roll and she mounted, sliding from dulled

sleep into howling wetness. Tightening,

vice-like, a groan, nails marking his shoulder,

husky, low. Fog patches filling the gapes

of the bay. Child of the reef, your lover

caught you out of your drowned-skin. What escapes

lust when a muscle-woman puts her mind

to it? Not even myth. Her thighs buckled,

her heels dug into the mattress. She ground

down. Bit hard. Drew salt. Laughed as she reclined

back; let him breathe while sea-water dribbled

between her thighs dribbled down dribbled down.

— Babylon Crashing

the children of arba lijoch

17 Saturday Oct 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Poetry, sonnet

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Addis Ababa, Arba Lijoch, Armenia, Armenian Genocide, Ethiopia, Haile Selassie I, Kwame Dawes, poem, Poetry, sonnet

— for Kwame Dawes

Crown Prince Ras Tafari brought the children
of Arba Lijoch out of the desert —

Orphans who became Ethiopian,
who sang of the Metz Yeghern, the Great Hurt;

composed, “Marsh Teferi,” the first music
Marcus Garvey heard while in audience.

I, too, have heard of, “Natural mystic
blowing/ through the air,”
Ararat’s fragrance

in each word. I’m told, Babylon crashing.
Where in Kingston is the orchestral sound

of Addis Ababa? — I listen — I
listen, but the dance halls tell me nothing.

The ghosts of Van hang low in the background.
Who will sing their song? Tell their prophesy?

Notes:
Arba Lijoch were a group of forty Armenian orphans who had escaped from the 1915 atrocities in Turkey, and were afterwards adopted by Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia. He had met them while visiting the Armenian monastery in Jerusalem; they impressed him so much that he obtained permission from the head of the Armenian church, the Catholicos, to adopt and bring them to Ethiopia, where he then arranged for them to receive musical instruction. The Arba Lijoch arrived in the capital city, Addis Ababa, in 1924, and along with their conductor, Kevork Nalbandian, became the first official orchestra of the nation. Nalbandian also composed the music for Marsh Teferi (words by Yoftehé Negusé), which was the Imperial National Anthem from 1930 to 1974. Metz Yeghern is the Armenian word for their Great Calamity, their genocide.

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the peel sessions

15 Tuesday Sep 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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Babylon Crashing, erotic poetry, reblog, sonnet, the peel sessions

Ill kept, bad investment, this aftermath

when we drift off to sleep. Some want two sips

I need a whole damn ocean, a bloodbath.

I know about quenching. How the bullwhip’s

handle, when pressed just so, can stem your whole

deluge. I’ll leave it there. To wet my lips

and then moisten my mouth, rupture your soul.

I run my fingers through you, though what drips.

I call it soul — something that I can touch.

Slake. We all have appetites and there’s bliss

when at last full. It’s what copper suggests

on the tongue from peeling fruit. Insomuch

as my tongue can peel your fruit from this kiss,

this pulp, this sweat pooling between your breasts.

— Babylon Crashing

wet charcoal

04 Friday Sep 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

crone, don't get cocky, maiden, mother, poem, Poetry, slashed bole, sonnet, wet charcoal

Don’t get cocky — Everything can get blown
apart. There’s no help the way I’m wired.

Vast sky: I am small. Mother, Maiden, Crone:
be with me as I drift — I’m still tired.

My name sounds rough in your tongue. This slashed bole
of a stump means that there’s no way I can

cling tight, I’ll just leave smears like wet charcoal.
I’ve read the Bible, Torah and Koran:

all man-made laws that restrict my sisters
restrict me — When they came for the sissies

and the butches I was high strung enough
to stand my ground, though there are some horrors

you can’t beat — how do I love these slashes
or find a name that doesn’t sound rough —

claim

01 Tuesday Sep 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

claim, cunnilingus, erotic sonnet, spinsterhood

There’s those who want to be told that they’re good
— Specially in bed — Specially after

doing something bad. This code: “Spinsterhood,”
meaning — good or bad — I love you, sister.

Does it matter that we don’t look the same?
That you can’t take me anywhere? Come close,

I would like to whisper to you my claim.
The one that you can’t share. And yet, what glows

between your legs, in your throat, on your tongue
— I call it a gift — talent uncommon.

You’re a good, sister, even when naked.
Even when you’re more than bad, say, wicked.

I have tasted your passions — though I’m young
enough to be your child, if you had one.

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