• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: conversations with imaginary sisters

laluah

19 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Aquah Laluah, conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, Gladys May Casely Hayford, Krio language, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

Aquah Laluah wrote about her lover’s

rain soaked breasts, about storms within and storms

without, kissing her dusky throat. Thunder’s

note, she called it, which did more than just warm

her flesh. Auntie I never knew, you wrote

about longing and I keep going back

to the source. I, too, crave. Like Qiu Jin’s quote

about music, yours has been the soundtrack

I’ve been dancing to for years. A teacher

at Freetown’s all-girl school [1920]

Auntie, you drank from Frangepani’s proffered

bowl and called it peace: the first faint glimmer

of light. Tɛnki. I love your long, rainy

season, that storm wet craft that you conjured.

][][

Notes.

Gladys May Casely Hayford (1904-1950), who went by the pen name Aquah Laluah, was a schoolteacher at The Girls Vocational School in Sierra Leone. She is credited as the first poet to write in the Krio language, a regional Creole. Tɛnki is the Krio word for thank you. Like Aquah Laluah, Qiu Jin was also a feminist, lesbian poet who taught at an all-girl’s school in Qing-era China, though Qiu Jin was executed after a failed revolutionary uprising. Four of Aquah Laluah’s poems were collected by Countee Cullen in Caroling Dusk: An Anthology of Verse by Black Poets of the 1920s. The quotes of her that I use come from her poem, Rainy Season Love Song, which I share here in its whole:

Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes;

Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of thunder drums

My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain,

As storms within and storms without I meet my love in the rain.

“The rain is in love with you darling; it’s kissing you everywhere,

Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly hair;

Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate mounds they rise,

I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills your eyes.”

Into my hands she cometh, and the lightning of my desire

Flashes and leaps about her, more subtle than Heaven’s fire;

“The lightning’s in love with you darling; it is loving you so much,

That its warm electricity in you pulses wherever I may touch.

When I kiss your lips and your eyes, and your hands like twin flowers apart,

I know there is lightning, Frangepani, deep in the depths of your heart.”

The thunder rumbles about us, and I feel its triumphant note

As your warm arms steal around me; and I kiss your dusky throat;

“The thunder’s in love with you darling. It hides its power in your breast.

And I feel it stealing o’er me as I lie in your arms at rest.

I sometimes wonder, beloved, when I drink from life’s proffered bowl,

Whether there’s thunder hidden in the innermost parts of your soul.”

Out of my arms she stealeth; and I am left alone with the night,

Void of all sounds save peace, the first faint glimmer of light.

Into the quiet, hushed stillness my Frangepani goes.

Is there peace within like the peace without? Only the darkness knows.

quake

02 Wednesday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, quake's fault, sonnet, you squirt up earthquakes

Super lewd stretch time. Thicc new aches, shapes, quakes.

Thicc knew. Ache knew. Quake knew what you wanted.

Me? I didn’t. I never do. I traipse.

I tramp. I walk out. I am undaunted

funeral crap. I go. Soiled comforters. Shite

water. I went. I brought the shadow’s back

and leg and tongue for you. The right in, “fright.”

The hack in, “whack.” Sucka MC. But first: flashback!

“Super lewd stretch time. Thicc new” – No, not that.

Quake knew, stretch pants. Quake knew. No, nay never

forgive Quake. Never. Me? I never – Who?

Not once in a year of Mondays. Cocked Hat?

Not once? Not once did it go – Whatever.

Do be do be do. Do be do be do.

pacific

02 Wednesday Apr 2025

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

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conversations with imaginary sisters, lurk, Pacific, poem, Poetry, sonnet, where the boys are all fey in tight jeans and mullets and the girls can bench-press small cadillacs

I preach you: Venice Beach was Pacific.

I say: Gods still lurk with humans. Muscle

Beach. In a mawashi, no less. Mythic

with such proportions. “Psalm in my bustle/

Swing on my skin” … on Yakuza tattoos.

Bourgeois say women in the Sumo

Ring is unnatural. “I sang the Blues

in/ that string-bikini.” With her cello

wide hips, with each dumbbell hefted, I say,

bodybuilders are a queer lot. –– Gods still

lurk with humans. –– Unnatural, I preach

you, ain’t knowing, taint that. It’s what the Fey

would call, Small Hick Frinergy. –– A hornbill

of a diss: way bey black some Venice Beach.

hints

17 Monday Mar 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, hints, past tense squander, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet, sow doubt

They let the Scurrilous Child imagine …

but they’re all ghastly teachers. Not one graced

with the Lore of the Flesh. Ours: a Common

Pornography. I’m down with the Unchaste-

to-be, with Alien tremors. Hints start

like this. Phantom limbs waiting to be bit

away. Scars prenatal, biding time. Tart

horrors of muscle: in spring they’ll commit.

Trust me: your sex life will be the, “dark times,”

that Brecht warned of. Like mine. Like all of ours.

You just don’t feel it, yet. Go dream about

future fucks; go search for wise pastimes

sublime, as wise as your love without scars.

I’m not here to tease, love, just to sow doubt.

sure

15 Saturday Mar 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, pearl's grave eye, poem, saint sloane's burn, salt burn, sea foam and ache, sonnet

A fig cored in the fog’s nest. Sea kelp curls;

pubes with the long voice of water. Your thigh

marked with bruises. Drawn in the sea, the pearl’s

grave eye, in the tip of my tongue. Pinkeye

and cum, suncocked salt water down your throat

until you cough. Spew. Sex affects, you think,

what it touches. Salt stained bloat. Horny goat

weed cast adrift. Such spindrift of your pink

and plum channel wall. All this bliss, you turn

key, you corkscrew, must be out there. Glamour

like the tide. Neither age nor money nor

time shall dampen a good soak. Saint Sloane’s Burn.

You think. You thunk. Before, when you’re older,

salt glass, triton’s tidal fuck, and less sure.

plagues

09 Tuesday Apr 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, I am a DJ I am what I play, poem, Poetry, sonnet

You say you want to be seduced. I want

that, too. Not me. You. I want to seduce

you: with song, with soul, with the feral haunts

of your thwarted passions. I know the juice

you keep bottled between your legs, DJ.

Let us incantate: Kafé – Kasita –

non Kafela. “All these beats will obey

what these grooves/ demand. Bloody, raw

and in command.” Shall we dance, my spitfire?

Shall I taste all that runs between your legs?

This is my glamour’s glimmer. My coy please.

My pomp’s circumstances and rude desire.

We are what we play. For you lust plagues.

For me one irksome and vexing cock tease.

][][

Notes.

It starts with Bowie’s “I am a D.J., I am what I play.”

linked

03 Saturday Jun 2023

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, linked, Ophelia's Malady, poem, Poetry, sonnet, wasting madness

Back when lust was thought of as a, “wasting

madness,” and wombs wandered through the body,

the old gray poets got off on chiding

children with tales of satyr sex, orgies

in oak groves and dryads who’d swing both ways.

Carnal qualities of beasts were also

a theme, “Never let a bull leave you dazed,

soaked in lavish discharge.” They didn’t know

about clits or cocks; just their dull rancor

that Pan would, “get you with child,” if he caught

you in the farm fields, wet with, “onanism.”

They lived their lives blind to all orgasm

linked souls, to all the lessons flesh has taught.

Come with me, friend, we have worlds to explore.

][][

Notes:

It’s hard not to think of the Victorian-era in Britain as a second Dark Ages, when “experts,” ignorant about both healthy sexual attitudes and the female anatomy, reigned supreme. It was such a primitive time that doctors diagnosed, “madwomen,” as suffering from, “Ophelia’s Malady,” not because there was a shred of science behind it but because Shakespeare wrote about it, so it must be true. I bring this all up because those attitudes have followed us into the 21st century. There is still a profound gulf between the erotic and spiritual. For many, any sexual act not chained to reproductive purposes is sinful and suspect. The penalty for not being chaste is still the label, “whore,” along with the dire warning that if you don’t keep your libido under control “bad things” will happen, anything from unwanted pregnancies, to same sex desires or bestiality (and true to their tyrannical beliefs it’s all one and the same). These are pitiful, broken souls masquerading as god-fearing adults. People so obsessed with genitals and what they’re used for that it calls to mind that other Shakespeare quote about the sincerity of hypocrites, “the lady doth protest too much, methinks.” After all, phobias tend to start with the fear and rejection of what’s already inside.

godhead

17 Friday Mar 2023

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, godhead, my heroes wear hijabs, night glow glory hole, poem, Poetry, puberty sucks, sonnet, wet as a swamp

With blood, cramps and acne came the hijab,

the veil. “Feel blessed that you have a gorgeous

godhead dwelling in your bones.” With a stab

of my tongue I wriggled in. Lewdness

isn’t metaphor but pure parasite.

Like their Holy Laws, I’m an acquired

taste. “Don’t go,” you said on our 7th night,

since you now desire what I once desired:

a new language found in our gasps and purrs.

Your own eldritch ne’er-do-well to rouse “goo”

in your cum-caked skivvies as your mirthless

parents sleep. A companion with fingers,

making circles in the moonlight. In you.

This, too, is sacred; like lust, like solace.

onibaba [i,i]

17 Wednesday Mar 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in drama

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conversations with imaginary sisters, drama, Genpei War, Hangaku Gozen, hitodama, Jiutian Xuannu, jiuzhou, onibaba, play, scene ii, seishin kitsune

SCENE I.

A semi-dark room scantily furnished. A sliding door opens and the distant chaos of a battle can be heard as two ghosts enter. The first, the soul of the legendary Hangaku Gozen, is dressed in her full samurai armor. The second, Lady Seishin, wears a kimono that might have been stylish 100 years ago and a kabuki fox mask that she never takes off. At the back of the stage is a small fire pit and a small window. Seishin stirs the embers and then stands by the window, peering anxiously out.

SEISHIN.

It is a wild night outside.

HANGAKU.

Help me off with this helmet. Is the rain still coming down?

SEISHIN.

In torrents. I cannot see the other side of the road.

HANGAKU.

That’s good.

SEISHIN.

If not being able to see someone ten feet away is good, then hai. Luck is with us. Should I put the oil wick in the window?

HANGAKU.

[Sitting down next to fire with her helmet in her hands.] Why? No. Only when we hear her order a retreat. That’s what she said.

SEISHIN.

But on a night like this she may have pulled the troop all the way back to Kyoto and we’ll never know.

HANGAKU.

Do not be so querulous, you cranky fox.

SEISHIN.

This isn’t me being cranky. Something is about to happen. Listen to the wind sobbing around the house … a lost soul that we’re refusing to let enter.

HANGAKU.

Why would we do that? The wind loves us.

SEISHIN.

The wind puts up with us. Ever since— What was that?

HANGAKU.

[Listens.] It is our message, I think. [Listens harder.] Something is coming. Douse the fire.

[The room is reduced once more to semi-darkness.]

SEISHIN.

Shouldn’t we—?

[This time the sound is heard by both women. Someone or something in groaning in the dark. They stand as the door slides open and Jiutian Xuannu enters.]

XUANNU.

Cousins, why are we wasting time here? I was going to call retreat but those stupid Takahashi samurai are milling about right over there and look so smite-able.

HANGAKU.

But who is going to do the smiting? You?

XUANNU.

You look sad, cousin. We’re shadows, azure-

eyed, made from lust and stardust and despise

blood and afterbirth. Fools fear our power

to peel off our pelts. Fools fear change, disguise,

the way floods deform and do not deform

dry earth. But, cousin, what use are nightmares

if you can wake up? Why try to transform

when we can slaughter? We don’t need more snares

fools keep slipping free from. Call Onibaba.

She’s a friend. She has farseeing vision

and short cruel knives. Fools call her, “Hag with Tusks

and Fangs Chitter-Chatting in her Vulva.”

Fools fear her carnage; her love of carrion;

how she sucks both down to their very husks.

HANGAKU.

Fetch her.

[Jiutian Xuannu exits.]

HANGAKU [cont.]

But first, let’s test her skills. Seishin, you pretend to be me.

SEISHIN.

I’m not a ghost. I think she’ll notice.

[Jiutian Xuannu, Onibaba and Kijo all enter.]

SEISHIN.

Ah, Lady Onibaba. Chrysanthemum in the Legion of Flowers. Mire in the Order of Tenacity. Chalice of Malice. Fury of the Divine Crest. It is I, your Lady Hangaku!

ONIBABA.

Xuannu, I find it odd that the, “Terror of Genpei,” would be both Jiuzhou and alive.

XUANNU.

[Aside.] That was the worst Hangaku impersonation I’ve ever seen.

HANGAKU.

Lady Onibaba, please forgive me for being cautious. Who is this?

ONIBABA.

[Indicating Kijo.] My daughter, Lady Kijo.

HANGAKU.

[Incredulous.] You had sex?

ONIBABA.

Hai.

HANGAKU.

[Skeptical.] With a mortal?

ONIBABA.

Hai.

HANGAKU.

[Scandalized.] O my, you nanty narking chuckabog.

ONIBABA.

I don’t think you brought me all this way to make snide comments about my lovers.

[A loud moaning begins from outside and the wind rattles against the hut’s walls.]

ONIBABA [cont.]

The dusk wails and you pray for Onibaba

to smite souls. It’s fitting that twilight

moans for us, glimpsing our hitodama,

our blue-green flames, as we pass in the night,

searching for the spot where we died; where our

blood touched the earth and our hubris melted

when we found out all our sweet truths were sour,

our faiths false. Who claims to know what’s sacred?

How I don’t know. But they’ll kill for it.

You want me to go out and lay the Eight

Ring Curse on those men? Men who love carnage

and their samurai bushido bullshit?

I’ll do it. Saints say hate cannot kill hate.

I say all we are is gristle and rage.

SEISHIN.

[Aside.] These mountain demons can be very tempting with their tongues.

ONIBABA.

Don’t frown, Lady Hangaku. That was you once, too: a butcher. Now you’re just dead and vague.

[The door opens and a little battlefield spirit acting as a messenger enters.]

SENJO BOZU.

[Bowing.] My sovereign. Ladies of the court. I come from the walls of Osaka. Takahashi’s soldiers have stormed our outer defenses. We are now fighting in the streets.

XUANNU.

What sort of necromancers do they have that can breach our spells?

HANGAKU.

I heard that Emagami The Blight was selling herself again, but her skills are pitiful.

XUANNU.

[To Onibaba.] My lady, do you think that we should give up on Osaka, or not?

ONIBABA.

Of course not. Only cowards and monks run away.

HANGAKU.

Yattaaaa! I agree with what she says: we’ll fight it out.

ONIBABA.

Glory is like the ripples on the water. You have given me the task of whipping the Takahashi then I will beat those waters until they froth.

HANGAKU.

Lady Onibaba, drive the living daylights out of Osaka. They says the root of suffering is attachment. I say we beat that koan home on the skulls of Takahashi and his men.

[All exit.]

][][

Notes:

Onibaba is, as her name states, is a red-skinned, white-haired Japanese ogre. She carries a kanabo (Iron war stick) slung over her shoulder.

Hangaku Gozen  was an actual warrior and fought in the Genpei War (1180-1185 AD).

Jiutian Xuannu (Dark Lady of the Nine Heavens) is a Chinese goddess of war, lust and longevity. With long Mandarin robes and her Dadao (“Big sword”) she justifies showing up in this play by saying that she is on holiday.

Seishin kitsune is one of the names used for a fox spirit.

Senjo bozu. A spirit from the battlefield.

Jiuzhou is an ancient name for China.

Hitodama are a pair of blue flames (similar to will o’ the wisps) that accompany a ghost when it manifests.

tell-tale

22 Monday Feb 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, i'm spilling more thank ink y'all, mischief mad, myrrh like honey, poem, song of songs, sonnet, tell-tale, wet oven heat

Mischief-mad, hidden among the cushions,

you guide three fingers under your burqa,

 

biting back a tell-tale groan. Your oven’s

wet heat, stoked each night from ash to lava

 

while your husband snores near by, still tortures

you the way faith haunts your thoughts all day long.

 

When the first wet spot bleeds through your knickers;

when myrrh drips from, like honey in the Song

 

of Songs, your fingers –– then even mischief

isn’t enough. Mother-in-laws yammer

 

and whine, but you smolder: wet oven heat,

holy cum shrine. Your longing is as tough

 

as your soul’s flesh. Faith is only torture

in a world that wants you chaste and discreet.

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