• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: sonnet

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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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

nerdy and curvy

23 Monday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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curvy, erotica, nearly blind, nerdy, other people's Velmas, pervy, Scooby-Doo, Velma Dinkley

Was it the “jinkies”? Maybe the glasses?
The knee-high socks? The skirt that never once

flipped up despite all the haunted houses
that she explored? There was an innocence

each time she ended up on hands and knees,
searching for her glasses and the campy,

rubber monster would appear. She would squeeze
its hand: “Shaggy! you’re so cold and clammy!”

Velma Dinkley, out of all the sublime
cartoon girls, was the one I could relate

to. Short, plump, maybe bi with dreadful eyes,
she was nerdy and curvy at a time

when no one was; with her orange jailbait
turtleneck, Mary Janes and chubby thighs.

everybody knows that the

23 Monday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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barbaric yawps, bible-thumpers, everybody knows, irony, perverts, poem, Poetry, sonnet

bigger the pervert the more tyrannous
are their gods keeping tempting blasphemes

at bay there’s not a single monstrous
bible-thumper whose erotic day-dreams

if they were known could set the skies on fire
with shock and horror that’s just how boring

they are I’ve no problem with desire
our two tongues delicately slithering

gagging down your syrupy sex eager
barbaric yawps until at last you squirt

over me pity the so-called faithful
who have no faith in themselves or pleasure

who must take these divine gifts and pervert
them no wonder their god is so wrathful

you, me and margo channing

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

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

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art, cocksucker, poem, Poetry, rust of your tum-tum, sick-smack-junk-cunt, sonnet, writing in Free Verse is like playing tennis without a net

Dec 18, 2013 (3)

It was those thousand years of poetry
before “cocksucker” appeared in print, back

when Free Verse was the bad boy with acne
and brylcreem. When simply writing, “sick,” “smack,”

“junk,” “cunt,” made you historic. Those twee times,
niminy-piminy with dead white dollops

and all that rot. Poems should work like lines
of pure cocaine. If they don’t fuck you up

then its crap. I want verse that you must rinse
in blood to understand, cut all the rust

of your tum to open. Write lines demanding
guts. Yours. Spilled like great art. But I’m crap since

I can’t figure out how to do that just
now you’ll have to settle for this warning.

edge of my skin [2]

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

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

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Tags

art, barrow wraith, edge of my skin, grave-fresh thighs, Japanese Shinto priestess, miko, orgasm, poem, Poetry, sonnet, why faith destroys

Dec 17, 2013 (4)

Dec 17, 2013 (3)

Dec 17, 2013 (2)

I still remember your touch, after all
of this time every time I close my eyes

I go back again to that night; the small
softness of your fingers, all those dumb lies

I said to keep you as you grazed my skin
with your lips as our tongues touched. How could I

have kept you safe from my zealots? Cretin
you should have called me, not lover. Defy

us, we who burn witches and call it truth.
We who preach hate and call it love. Wake, wake,

love, in this aftermath, although entwined
around you, our Eden ends. Faith, like youth,

knows all. How can I claim that my heart breaks
when I let — when I’m a child, vain and blind?

edge of my skin

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

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

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Tags

art, barrow wraith, edge of my skin, grave-fresh thighs, Japanese Shinto priestess, miko, orgasm, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Dec 17, 2013 (5)

Dec 17, 2013 (6)

Dec 17, 2013 (7)

Remembering that night makes desire
shake once again. I play it over in

my mind — the thrill of memory sets fire
to my nerves — I’m on the edge of my skin

aching to be set free with your mouth, hand,
tongue all that makes me feel that we did this

before, we’ll do this again. I expand
down your throat. When you part your grave-fresh thighs

I kiss all that I can find. Science still
can’t teach us if orgasms aren’t or are

human sublimity that we call faith.
I know that you came through the door to kill

me, I know that I love you: thief, bizarre
ghost girl, libido, love, barrow wraith.

calling this evil

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

black magic, calling this evil, learn your Latin, poem, Poetry, problem with dualism, sonnet, white magic

Where did you read this crap? Some fake shaman
selling pure bullshit by the pound? Nekros

means “dead.” Manteia means “divination.”
But the opposite isn’t medicus,

as in “healer,” it is fraus, as in “fraud.”
As in refusing the world of Spirit.

As in calling this evil; that sad, odd
faith that refuses all that does not fit

easily. Black? White? Dualism sucks.
If you don’t call on the dead to guide you

who do you call? The man-made gods who burn
witches? That’s like turning to the eunuchs

for sex advice. Embrace the dead, you who
will be one soon. Watch. Listen. Fucking learn.

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