splays you out

21 Tuesday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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affair, break rules, dirty grrl, married sex, poem, Poetry, sonnet, splays you out

Rule one: you can’t be single — singles get
the whole world handed to them — they have rules,

rules to break — I adore lovers with debt,
lovers who missed out. Let grief be what fuels

your lust. Let taboo be what ties you up
and splays you out. No hiding from your lust

just yet. Give me a wanna-be trollop,
a day-dreaming dirty grrl. She-who-must-

thrust-her-hips-while-her-children-are-sleeping.
Fluids and sweat gleam … what new debauching

will we dream up tonight? We both hunger
after something new, my married lover.

I have never been told that I’m a whore.
You’ve never begged for mercy and for more.

][][

notes:

“The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules. And tonight, you’re gonna break your one rule.” — Heath Ledger’s Joker

soared flashed gone

21 Tuesday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic, exhibitionist, finger fucking, hot springs, Las Vegas, Nevada, poem, Poetry, soared flashed gone, sonnet

Foliage dark mass fringed by your thighs we’re rude
north of Vegas two hour drunken blur

red rocks screening our bodies laying nude
upon rocks above the hot spring, under

the cliff’s shadow nature is nudity
grace-like you stand hands on hips gazing

upon my half-open calves and fleshy
gingersnaps we have been finger fucking

soared flashed gone all day tease taste swallow deep
throat gag control we came here to get high

above the valley floor you shudder seize
my skull press me deeper until you weep

when I go down. Looking up, you reply:
please please please please please please please please please please …

count each scar

16 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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brackish mare, count each scar, grief, loss, my sister my lover, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the wave's door, water-witch

Water-witches follow the sea’s rough path,
cross to the wave’s door, ride the brackish mare

tide-ways home. I loved a witch. In my bath
she would let me wash her back, braid her hair,

count each scar. I think of her on the shore,
calling the drowned to come home. Souls like fish

swallowed up. I can’t find the witch’s door,
just snow upon waves; moths that vanish

as she did. My sister, I must make friends
with the waves, as you did. You returned

to me riding their backs like a blue flame
until the drowned called for you. Who pretends

they can sing up storms? I can’t. Lost and burned
I’m a child in the fog, calling your name.

as if it were a given

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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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

deleting

07 Tuesday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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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.

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

“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

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.”

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

Category Archives: sonnet

splays you out

soared flashed gone

count each scar

as if it were a given

deleting

clit in a riot

shameless

mercy’s bane

what at last

the secret of the cow’s sorrow