• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: clit

orpheus

29 Wednesday May 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

clit, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, lasciviousness that transcends, poem, Poetry, sonnet, stalactite, uvula

The Tomb’s Fruit, the Fuck Doll, the Mystic knows

that the mouth holds endless whims: my wind swims

in these words. My spit. My ire. “Eat me,” flows

out of Alice. Go south. Hold the rough rims

of your grotto askew. Ask any cave-

dwelling recluse to show you and they will:

be it stalactite, uvula or clit. We crave

sunlight but embrace wild darkness. We kill

any end that’s not lonesome, so that, “Find

solace in me,” becomes deceit. This wind

whimpers. I mean, slap me, choke me, fuck me.

Take me like Orpheus: broken and blind.

Now come. If you can’t cum you can’t transcend

this dark south that the Tomb calls, “fuckery.”

in love with sword blades and poppy seeds

02 Wednesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Amy Lowell, bisexuals, clit, fuck Ezra Pound, grandmother, honey slur, Il Duce, Modernism sucks, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Almond’s almond husk, the green husk, the black
and the mottled underclothes still called kink
on you, beloved. Your crevice, your mossback,
exposed to light one more time. Let me think,
Amy Lowell called it fingering the smooth
kernel, grandma for all I write. Yes, fuck
Ezra Pound and all those who try to soothe
over his fascist ways. They’re just bollocks,
dear Il Duce. My grandma would never
put up with that bullshit. She knew the worth
of an almond, a clit, Modernist swine
who made hate new. I call you honey slur,
Mama Amy. Men laughed at your wide girth,
but fuck them, I call you poet divine.

husk thorn

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

bushfire, clit, cunnilingus, female ejaculation, gushing, husk thorn, poem, sonnet

Secret garden, wild grassland and brambles;
I’ve strayed between the highlands of your wilds,
seeking your sweet fruit in bittersweet curls.
Virgin woods? whatever, nothing defiles
you more than a dry spell when husk thorns reign.
The sun burns through your bush, dries your puddles,
and your poor untasted fruit prays for rain.
I’ve been among poppies, tasted thistles,
slept with foxtail. Like the horny goat, weeds
are no problem. Your curls part at my kiss.
Your red chaparral flushes green. Big flood
coming. You are, too. My tongue tweaks and kneads
your clit. First you dew my face, then you mist,
gush and geyser, drenching like sticky blood.

pearl tongue

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

bloodroot, clit, pearl tongue, Poetry, sonnet, your tongue tongued

Call it what you will, this soul called pleasure.
Button, nub, bald girl in a boat, pearl tongue,
jelly bean, pea pod, sweet spot, pink sugar
plum, moose knuckle, the box with the low-slung
jewel.
The clit: here be hoodoo. Among
some this is where all magic gets cracking.
Fairy fire from your kiss as your tongue clung
to her girl flesh, as your tongue tongued. Tonguing.
Grinding. Clits like red cherries and fresh fruit.
Clits like queer books. A clit like a music
box, a song. A clit like sorrow’s bloodroot
for the unknown gods. A clit like lipstick
smear. Bush fire. Call it her goddess. Call it
your bliss. Call it soul-joy. Call it your clit.

khutulun’s war witches

23 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Feminism, Illustration and art

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armor, Celtic, clit, demon, hell hound, Morrigna, sword, the daughters of Khutulun, war witch, woman warrior

the daughters of khutulun

the daughters of khutulun

The BBC has recently reported that Pentagon will end the ban on American women in front-line combat:

US Defence Secretary Leon Panetta has decided to lift the military’s ban on women serving in combat, a senior Pentagon official has said. The move could open hundreds of thousands of front-line positions and elite commando jobs to women.

Which would mean that as early as 2016 it will possible to follow female generals into war, just like the ancient Mongolian days when Lady Khutulun led the Great Khan’s army against China.

I say all this because even in this era there exists a bizarre myth that women and war do not mix except as passive victims, patriotic mothers or trembling daughters waiting back at the hearth fire for their men folk to return. To all these naysayers, I say, “learn your history.” There have been women warriors and generals as long as there has been war.

Learn about Candace of the Sudan, who routed Alexander The Great; Falling Leaf of the Crow nation who counted coup and was considered a chief, sitting in the council of elders; Maria Rosa, a 15 year-old Brazilian girl who led troops in the Contestado War; Japan’s Tomoe Gozen, an onna bugeisha; the Trung Sisters, two 1st century Vietnamese leaders who repelled Chinese invasions for three years; Queen Boudica who led a major uprising of the Celtic tribes against the Roman Empire; Catherine of Aragon; Joan d’Ark; the pirate queen Teuta of Albania; Queen Zenobia of Palmyra; Egypt’s Nefertiti, just to name a few.

prophet of cocks, clits and cum

02 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

clit, cock, cum, divine, hospice nurse, orgasm, prophet

Note: As a hospice nurse I spend much of my time taking care of those who are about to pass over into whatever it is that waits for us when we are no longer alive. The Mystery, as they say. The Romantic poet John Keats called it his Darkling, as in “speak darkling, I listen.” Personally I have no idea what to make of death, other than that, like puberty, it’ll probably change everything. Then, again, maybe not. I’ve always been fond of the fairy tales about ghost lovers, when things like pregnancies and STDs and all the mundane problems of sex have been solved and all you need to do is haunt the bedroom of your beloved because for all of us there are somethings worth coming back for.

* * *

“When you’re dead, you’ll regret not
having fun with your genital organs.”

— Joe Orton’s diary, 23 July, 1967.

Don’t waste this life, darkling. When I’m all ghost
I will spend my time watching you undress.
The dead are voyeurs. Perverts. They are host
to a thousand lusts they cannot possess,
like me. Like a chaste nun who masturbates
in the after-life. We all make amends.
My dark one; he said, “She who menstruates
is now unclean.” “She who hungers, offends.”

That’s an infidel talking. He who “Scorns
the gift of divine orgasm”
deserves
to be a cuckold. Billy-goat rough. Horns
to the devil. We are prophets of curves
and cocks, clits and cum. All sex is sacred.
Why wait til I’m dead to see you naked?

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