Tag Archives: Babylon Crashing

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mangles

05 Tuesday Apr 2016

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Tangled in the backseat, parked near the bridge,

I am in awe with the curve of your ass.

Under your jeans your telltale scar-tissue,

mortar-shell fragments, your brawny muscles

and the curved stump ending above the knee.

I’m a drunken beast on hands and elbows.

You’re all splorpy-wet from savage foreplay.

“Prends-moi par derrière. Jouis dans mon cul.”

Pressing your forehead against the window’s

glass you shudder at the depravity

of gore, being gored, once more light mangles

itself behind our lids — I would tell you

that I love you as our breath fogs the glass

but I don’t know those words in your language.

][][

Note:

In French, “Prends-moi par derrière. Jouis dans mon cul,” roughly translates as, “Take me from behind. Cum in my ass.”

— Babylon Crashing

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pomegranate

29 Tuesday Mar 2016

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Later you will tsk, rub away a speck

of dried cum. Today the floor needs mopping,

the sheets laundry. You sat in the bathtub

for hours scrubbing. Last night you were filthy.

I knew you wanted more; only took what

I could offer, I received your wetness

trailing down my chin. I could only twist

against rope that bound my ankle and wrist

I don’t protest — I just stared, your lewdness

glistened wide, your clit a pomegranate

seed on my tongue — you stood above me

fingers twined throughout my hair as you rubbed

yourself faster and harder murmuring

into my neck flooding all down my neck.

— Babylon Crashing

grotesque

16 Wednesday Mar 2016

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You like your fuck puppets cute and pig-tailed.

Boys call you, “Papi.” Girls, “Mommy.” I sweat

fugly. I slur. I’m grotesque: — yet, so few

ghosts stay to write your name in cum across

their drowned bellies like I do. There’s no cure.

I grind it in you slow and hot: — You’re ill

for days after. You’re ill enough to bleed.

Sick the way fire needs carbon. The sick need

the rope has for knots. “Make it tighter still,

leave a mark, something to look at when you’re

gone.” — just under the skin, aching for loss.

Bend me, break me, if you must. I give you

my bones, my vulgar flesh that you crave. Let

me be your drug, where all others have failed.

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we

26 Friday Feb 2016

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Today I drink and so do you. These words

enter you, they touch the dark light inside.

You’ve had lovers before. Some were bastards,

some not. They’re all gone. None stayed. None replied

when you called. But that’s not what you regret.

Your cunt milked him as he thrust both his thumbs

deep in your ass, cried out. You felt a jet

of his semen balloon out the condom,

shooting against your cervix. Today we

drink and pause over past lovers; all those

who did not stay. Today we are going

to get so fucking drunk. You are like me.

We have no real friends. We’re no one’s heroes.

This is not love — just a dark light — ghosting.

— Babylon Crashing

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patchwork

08 Friday Jan 2016

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You’ve made a fetish doll from me. From spit

and stains, from my hair and nails. When you said:

— “I want the moon on my tongue, now give it

up to me” — You knew that, when pricked, I bled

pale light; that when, hung, suspended, drugged to

my toes, you could taste how to fly on my

skin. You say it’s about conjure, that you

can drain me, just like that. But I defy

that limp rag. You can suck patchwork veins

all day long and you still won’t get it. Moon

light is a distortion of what we want

inside. All the stolen pubes and cum stains

in the world won’t save you, it’s why you’ll soon

come back to me: hungry, hollowed eyed, gaunt.

— Babylon Crashing

Quote

that slapping nuisance

03 Thursday Dec 2015

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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

Quote

night tide

28 Saturday Nov 2015

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

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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

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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

Quote

bit salt

06 Friday Nov 2015

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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