• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: BDSM

viscid

17 Wednesday Jun 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

BDSM, conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, get spanked, i'm spilling more thank ink y'all, pain withheld, poem, sonnet, viscid

Lame, tame and meek were all that those drudges
that you called Doms could dream up. “Make rules/

Break rules/ Get Spanked,” is what everybody does.
Psychoplasm miscreants need more. “Fools,

you still have teeth,” I jeered, once the acid
kicked in. You were trippin’ balls. All cunning

stunts need are hints at the bloody, viscid
ecstasy that I’ll take at correcting

your flaws. I place pliers, bone saw, hammer
in front of you. Yokes and ropes are common.

You could stand up. You could say no. Instead
you squirm, disturbed. This torture is hunger

for pain withheld, for doors few can open,
for trust that this is love, too; love and dread.

old school

09 Saturday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

BDSM, blue goat, bondage is freedom, erotic pain, erotic poem, loony toons, Marquis de Sade, microdot, Poetry, sonnet

Lift your skirts and face the wall. Such good pain,
De Sade’s pain, takes a cane to make your pawg

wobble. With three strokes I’ll break you, again.
There’s an art to the trounce, the wax, the flog.

It’s how I flayed «Z» into your tush. Blush
with what smolders under your petticoat.

First the gush of endorphins, then the rush.
We drop loony toons, microdot, blue goat

so that old-school worlds open. Once I kissed
you. That was wrong. It’s hard being discrete

when it comes to craft but splattering cum
like paint is absurd. A flick of my wrist

brings forth new terror. New wisdom. New heat
freeing you from flesh. Bondage is freedom.

burn

05 Tuesday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

after a good spanking, BDSM, erotic poetry, poem, raw burn, sonnet, transgress, without transgression there can be no wisdom

I still swear to you by scourge and blowtorch
that at the next stroke you’ll bleat ugly sounds.

Ugly deeds call for the grim “K” of scorch,
quetch, crave. Flick of a supple cane astounds,

raising welts and devils. Call this art brut,
raw burn, a perfect howling pitch locked

inside you. I’ll free it. Others live mute —
waiting for that, “one day.” I know they’ve mocked

your dire itch, your distress. But they don’t cum
when I call you. Bend down. Lift up your dress.

Trust me: I might be cruel working stiff but
I get the job done. Like prayer. Like venom.

Like the song that tells us how to transgress
with the pain that drives both saint and poet.

cram

08 Saturday Dec 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

BDSM, chronic, cram, erotic poetry, moppet, moppet parts, poem, sonnet

Puberty was rough though I am rougher
still. You mumble, “gotta pee,” half way through

being fucked senseless. Strapped in place, collar,
blindfold, clit clamp. The wind in the bamboo

moans low. You’re low, too. You’re stretched. You take it.
Why are parents blind to children’s despair?

This urge, overflowing. First: “Will it fit
inside me?”
Then: “Sooo deep!” Lastly: “Right there!”

and, “More!” Homework, after-school clubs, cram class:
all that can wait. You sit on the toilet,

dazed from bliss. It’s the one moment today
when you’re not heartsick. It takes sick love, crass

and raw, to touch you, make you mine, moppet.
Roll you chronic, thick. Fuck you like doomsday.

tempered

26 Sunday Aug 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

BDSM, Cliodhona, erotic poetry, fae, Irish mythology, pain proves, shorthair, sonnet, tempered, Tuath Dé Danann

Strop me twice. Make it hurt down my blue-ice

thighs and across my feet. Rope wound around

my wrists held high, wet anklets slick with slice.

On my pixie puck-curves welts unfurl, bound

from where the belt’s strop-strap struck. Turning screw

stone of my skin a bronze hue, tempered pearl

ochre. They say the devil wore a blue

dress, but any dress will do. You’re wet curl

below, wet at sweat and bruises that glow

on my cheeks. Queen Cliodhona’s grace guiding

each strop-strap slap, each swing of your arm. Wear

me rough, a glamour is upon me. Show

me fire-licked skin. Afterglow. Show me sting,

swung, stung. Own me stone down to my shorthair.

][][

Note:

Cliodhona (pronounced like Fiona but with a “cl”) is one of the Tuath Dé Danann (“tribe of gods”) in Irish mythology. A Fairy Queen associated with county Cork, the seashore and waves (the tide at Glandore is still called, “Waves of Cliodhna”). Passionate and violent in nature, tradition says that she abducted and seduced poets and bards of both sexes. The McCarthys and O’Keefes of Cork trace their lineage back to her.

unfit

16 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Ammit, Anubis, BDSM, blow job, ces couleurs pervers, Egypt, mythology, orgasm, sonnet, unfit

 

They say that the cruel one must now depart
at dawn. Come back to bed, love. I’ve been cruel
but not like that. I am shallow. My heart
knows that it will be judged by the jackal
headed god Anubis one day. “Unfit;”
I am sure that will be what I am told.
“Unfit” gets you consumed by vile Ammit,
the soul-eater. Tomorrow I’ll be cold
as a crypt. Tonight, though, I burn. Stay here.
They say you can’t get to heaven depraved.
What’s a bruise? a bite? I’ll mark your flesh mine.
And then what comes between us I will smear
across your face. I don’t care to be saved.
Damnation is also an act divine.

* * *

Note:

Anibus is the jackal-headed god associated with mummification and the afterlife in ancient Egyptian religion.

Ammit is a funerary deity, a female demon in ancient Egypt; part lion, part hippopotamus and part crocodile. Her titles included, “Devourer of the Dead,” “Eater of Hearts” and “Great of Death.” Her job was eating souls judged by Anibus as corrupt.

7 is a bad number

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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

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Tags

BDSM, Caina, curse, Dante, Japan, rope trick, seven, sex demon, Sindbad, unlucky

7 japanese rope tricks

7 japanese rope tricks

* * *

Seven is a bad number. Forget sins
or the seas; Sindbad and all the evils

of the world couldn’t change that. It begins
with an usurper, seven archangels
and a week of toil. Dante had seven
circles of hell and Caina the demon.
Mohammad knew of a seventh heaven.

But the seventh son of a seventh son
is cursed. The Lamb’s seven horns brings godless
pain. The conquest of mere spirit over
flesh has unsexed us all. Sappho warned us.
Wilde warned us. Do not be deceived, lover.

Tyrants will say anything to seem strong.

It makes you wonder what else they got wrong?

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electric mayhem [links]

  • clara smith
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  • Poetic K [myspace]
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ars poetica: the blogs a-b

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ars poetica: the blogs e-h

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ars poetica: the blogs i-l

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ars poetica: the blogs s-z

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