• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: sonnet

clit in a riot

05 Sunday Jan 2014

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

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art, clit in a riot, fatal finger as metaphor for finger fucking, poem, Poetry, sonnet, squirm, venus mound

Ja 05, 2014 (2)

 

 

 

 

 

“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?

shameless

05 Sunday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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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.

mercy’s bane

03 Friday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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laughter is a powerful weapon, mercy's bane, poem, Poetry, sonnet, strange possession

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.

what at last

02 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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manic depression, poem, Poetry, sonnet, what at last, what erotica needs, whatever

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.

the secret of the cow’s sorrow

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

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

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art, artist unknown, fairy tale, I love the drowned, poem, Poetry, Sea Queen, sonnet, the secret of the cow's sorrow

Dec 31, 2013 (10)

Dec 31, 2013 (11)

Dec 31, 2013 (12)

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.”

nothing human

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

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

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crocodile girls, false-faith, nothing human, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Dec 31, 2013 (7)

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?

all of vice is my hero

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

age difference, anal sex, art, homophobia, poem, poetrys, sonnet, taboo, you are my hero

Like a roller coaster, like a kiddie’s
park, ride me. I’m hard outside but a fag

deep down — as if I caused your furious
hate by just being me — your: punching bag

— you: thug 4 life. Like Pennywise, I will
let you think that you won. It’s your gospel,

bully’s wet dream, hater hating. What thrill
comes from violence? I’m the gay teenage skull

that you kicked and kicked. Did I say fags? Queers?
T-boys? Dykes? I tell you: there is a price

to this, all rides must end, all that straight hate
that you have toward us perverts who appear

as love’s martyrs. If I’m obsessed with vice
that’s your doing. Love calls. I won’t wait.

the goat dreams of puella aeterna

30 Monday Dec 2013

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

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age difference, art, erotica, poem, poetrys, puella aeterna, sonnet

Dec 30, 2913 (1)

She passed you on the down stair. Erection.
Each time bullies made you cry she consoled

you, brought you close, held your boyish bottom
closer. The one adult who would not scold

you, loved you in gym shorts cut high, showing
thigh and the hint of cock and balls. Widows

hungry for flesh are either a blessing
or a curse. The way she stripped off your clothes

and took you to the bath. The way she gave
herself to you; you who were far too young

to know why, just how. You must have pleased her,
until you grew up and started to shave.

Even now you recall her hips, her tongue,
her voice crying, “like that! harder! harder!”

][][

notes:

The Peter Pan Syndrome refers to a man’s unwillingness to grow up and take on adult responsibilities. There is an entire trope of man-boy characters in literature and popular culture; in Psychology Jung called it, Puer aeternus, Latin for the eternal boy. I’m curious what the female version of the Peter Pan Syndrome might be. Not Wendy, since she spent her whole time acting as a surrogate mother, but a female archetype that optimizes Pan’s cockiness and corresponding immature behavior. The nearest that I can find is from Jung as well, puella aeterna, the eternal girl, but there aren’t any corresponding female characters that I can find in literature as example. There is such a trope in Japanese popular culture that I thought, at first, might work: the alcoholic, single, lustful office lady who is shown living in a filthy apartment, drinking herself blind every night. However, it is a poor comparison since, unlike Pan who has agency not to take on adult responsibilities if he wants, the Office Lady is the way she is due to the misogynistic atmosphere of the Japanese business industry; regardless of education or background her role in most manga and anime is to fetch coffee, fend off sexual harassment and forever cling to the bottom rung of the office ladder. Perhaps one day I’ll find who I am looking for; until then I will keep on reading.

midwives and the hemlock cure

24 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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hemlock, Latin, male doctors, midwives, poem, Poetry, shamaness, sonnet, witchcraft

you who study Latin tend to make poor
doctors, restricted to just your little

world of what’s been tagged and named you ignore
all that’s unspoken and unconquerable

the realms that you must enter but cannot
name — you do not need to disrobe for me

to treat your affected areas — rot
hides in more places than just bones — dream tea

sedation, the hemlock cure, I will go
into the shadow realm for you, consult

that which protects you, that which is causing
you ill — cures might be nameless but I know

they’re still there, like germs even when the culte
des hommes
declared that there was no such thing.

][][

notes:

“Through the late Middle Ages [in Europe], the use of Latin, like the persecution of midwives as witches, became just one more safe-guard guaranteeing a strict hierarchy … with what would become, and still is, the modern male doctor at the top.”
— Chinarski, Harold. (1994). “Quand les femmes étaient sages: la chasse aux sorcières et de la hausse du médecin de sexe masculin moderne.” Journal calais d’Histoire de la Médecine 83 (1): 188–195.

“It’s commonly [known that] the midwife is meddlesome and has her [hand] in everything. That is why she busies herself so much with the art of witchcraft and superstitions and [moves] hither and thither, speaking of things no man can name.”
—Fragmented sermon by Martin Luther, translated and quoted in Diane Muliebris’ “Luther Und der weibliche Teufel,” first published in Marni Siskin and Brígida Rita Rocha (eds.), Gendercide: die Geschichte der europäischen Krieg auf Frauen. (Zenski Mudrost, ltd., Belgrade 1969), pp. 112-113.

the taste of deadweight on your tongue

24 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

consume me, eat me, flay me, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the taste of deadweight on your tongue, your fear, your marrow

take it for it makes me appreciate
all that I’ve earned all that has been taken

from me, needled, punctured, lick the deadweight
dripping from my fingers a valve broken

cannot stop steadfast with the oyster knife
in one hand I want to be filleted raw

fed to you a piece at a time taste strife
and shit at each bite, sup me down and gnaw

the bones you’ve cut me deeper than the groove
from a Swiss-made blade, you must drain my skull’s

juice, you must flay me, because you must know
that I earned all of this, because once you’ve

consumed me you will find my initials
etched in your fear, in your deepest marrow

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