• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: cunnilingus

làn-mara

23 Monday Nov 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, làn-mara, scottish folklore, selkie, sonnet, witchin the sea

We’ve both seen seals bobbing on the ocean.

Any witchin’ that drowns sailors, cracks ships,

 

is good. Any tongue that makes, “làn-mara,” run

a gift. “There’s a harbor between your hips,”

 

Ma said. High tide runs fast there when your seal

wakes from dreaming. We’ve both heard selkies talk,

 

those gray women bound to men who steal

their skins. Our magic runs different: with cock

 

and cunt, with moon and tide, with your harbor

gushing. “Don’t tell Ma,” you said. “Don’t

 

stop.” I’ve drowned before. Your fat waves break

on my chin. The rim of your flooding shore.

 

The fog-lost lip of your cunt’s brim. I won’t

stop. Our witchin’ of the sea. Our sea’s ache.

][][

Notes:

Folklore from the Northern Isles of Scotland talk of the selkie, the seal folk, who are able to pass as human by shedding their seal skin. Unfortunately the selkie are also in the habit of forgetting to hide the one thing that gives mortals power over them so there are many fairy tales in which some complete failure embodying the worst aspects of manhood brings home a seal wife who spends all her time begging to be released and pining for the sea. In Scot-Gaelic, “làn-mara,” is the term for high tide.

fluttered

15 Sunday Nov 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, erotic poetry, fluttered, horny brat, I make drowned boys go blind, poem, single centimeters, sonnet

Now your soul returns. Consciousness seeps in

around the edges. Blink. Look down between

 

your splayed thighs to watch me watching you. Grin.

Blush a touch. When you said: “Make it obscene.”

 

When you said: “Are you still my big sister’s?”

I paused, poised over your plump swelling,

 

measured not in single centimeters

but in intensity, encompassing

 

everything, nestled soft, held safe by fat

baby phat lips. “I was but now I am yours.”

 

I’ve changed allegiances like that before.

Once she fluttered awake, too. “Horny brat,”

 

she called you. “Mine.” Go blind as the world roars

back in you, my lips tongue-smacking your core.

madivine

10 Tuesday Nov 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

anal sex, conversations with imaginary sisters, cum in mum, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, Haitian Creole, madivine, natty dreads, poem, sonnet, third eye

“Bad girl, good vibes,” your mum said. For a week

you slept between us, the curve of my cock

 

nestled against that wet cameltoe streak

etched deep in your panties. Let neighbors talk.

 

They called her Madivine. Puberty came

round. So did we. First: “Cum in mum,” she said

 

each time I pressed to split your mound. Nicknames

flew: “Mo ve fi, bon vib.” Natty dread,

 

indeed. Madivine: a priestess loving

priestess. Pressing me in you, in your blind

 

other Third Eye deep between your hourglass

hips. The one your mum tongued awake. Tonguing.

 

Gasping. Reckless. Wrecking you from behind.

My hands in your hair. My lust in your ass.

][][

NOTES:

Natty dread is a Rastafari term for a member of the Rastafari community. In Haitian Creole, “mo ve fi, bon vib,” translates as, “bad girl good vibes.” Madivine (also spelled Madivinaise) is a Haitian term for a lesbian voodoo priestess [citation needed].

knurled

19 Monday Oct 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, erotic poetry, infernal teeth, knurled, sonnet, toothless jaw, uncanny anatomy, unzipped jeans, vagina dentata

Look up, you purred while Joan growled, so messed up

I want you here; I looked up, a mustache

 

of your knurled cunt curls glued to the scallop-

scarred wreck of my lip. How’d ya get that gash?

 

you asked after our first kiss. To explain

that would require belief in uncanny

 

anatomy, infernal teeth, arcane

lips that bite back. Sex with queer and freaky

 

friends has its own dangers. I shrugged as I

unzipped my jeans. That’s the least of my scars.

 

I’ve seen worse, you said after a stiff pause.

Really? Shotgun pellets shredded my thigh.

 

So messed up. You came. Bass go boom. Guitar’s

howl. My mouth pressed against your toothless jaw.

][][

note:

The song in question is Joan Jett’s cover of The Stooge’s Wanna Be Your Dog (1969).

saints

14 Wednesday Oct 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, Beaver Island, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, Love shall make us a threesome, Mount Pisgah, poem, sonnet

“¡Ay! ¡Dámelo duro, papi!” your kid

sister said as she sank down, swallowing

 

me whole. All that your crank father forbid

we’ve done. “¡Papito!” you sang out, hanging

 

out near Daddy Frank’s. “Wanna babysit?”

With bong hits in the sauna. With frost’s hoar,

 

winter’s ire. With my mouth glued to your clit

as your sister’s toes curled. I’m thirty-four,

 

renting a cabin near Mount Pisgah. Gales

on the island last for days. Your father’s

 

rage paled before the haze of our chronic

cuddles and cum. He fears, “sinful females.”

 

Fear? This is our faith, our church, our scriptures.

¡Ay! this is what the saints would call epic.

][][

notes:

The poem takes places on Beaver Island, located in northern Lake Michigan. Daddy Frank’s is an ice cream shop in St. James (the island’s only town). When the Mormon migrated to Utah way back when a break-away sect, led by a man named Jesse Strang, settled instead on Beaver. Strang declared himself king and island a kingdom separate from America. This did not end well and in 1856 he was assassinated. Very little of the Mormon community remains except for a couple of biblical names found on the map; for example, Mount Pisgah, the highest point on the island, is a 150 foot tall sand dune. In Spanish, “¡Ay! ¡Dámelo duro!” translates into, “O! Give it to me hard!” Papito and papi are different ways of saying Daddy.

sannine

07 Wednesday Oct 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, erotic poetry, glut of smut, lebanon, misfit clit, oral sex, poem, sannine, sonnet

“Damn. Lost in a forest with Pan.” That’s what

my big splashy mouth on your misfit clit,

 

nihilist cunt, felt like, you grunt: “Glut of smut.”

For hours I devoured; leaving you unfit

 

to drive. Your car slowed on the mountain road

while your son slept in the backseat. “Pregnant

 

and in middle school?” Even your scowl glowed.

“Homeless a month later.” With your silent

 

O and shayla undone you act as if

no one in Lebanon had ever been

 

finger fuck’d before. The divine appear

at odd times; parked on the side of a cliff

 

near Mount Sannine it spoke through you. No sin

or remorse; just faith found in your cum smear.

][][

Notes:

Shayla is a long, rectangular scarf popular with women in the Gulf region. It’s wrapped around the head and pinned in place at the shoulders. Mount Sannine is the highest peak in Lebanon.

glimmer

23 Wednesday Sep 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

anal sex, conversations with imaginary sisters, cunnilingus, cunt cum-drenched bald, erotic poetry, fuckdoll jane, glimmer, more than just spilled ink, poem, sonnet

Darkest night drawn to flesh, to forbidden
curves. You’re why I returned after your mom

banished me. Venus bitter sweet. “Christian
women don’t do that,”
she said. Napalm

burns less than those words. “She won’t but I will.”
It’s why we’re both tensed, two bodies impaled

as one. Kisses that end in gasps. The thrill
of tough tongue lashes as you came, you wailed,

“For all that’s holy, harder!” Tongue to salve pain,
to salve darker things. My gnawing between

your hips. “Horny little demon,” she called
you. Ay, there’s the rub. “I’m your Fuckdoll Jane.”

You are while your mom works. We dream obscene.
My cock all glimmer. Your cunt cum-drenched bald.

urgent

21 Monday Sep 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

chaos gone urgent, cunnilingus, David Bowie, erotic poetry, glint, more than just spilled ink, poem, prince, sonnet, urgent

Being dead you spoke Latin, as all dead
people do. You talked of, “ligurio,”

eating your full by licking up. You said
that your, “landica,” needed a kiss. “Go

south, child,” teacher taught. Your clit mewled, snuffled
the scents on my hand. Being friends it crawled

from its shell to kiss me. I love jeweled
queens that glint cum with joy. Back then you sprawled

with your south mouth gaped. Back when Bowie, Prince
and you were still alive. Now you speak words I fear

are hard to translate; still, your dead girl’s cunt
still tastes divine. You know I love you since

we share your darkness, my light. I’m still here;
my tongue in your cunt. Chaos gone urgent.
][][
Note:
According to J.N. Adams (The Latin Sexual Vocabulary, 1982), the ancient Latin verb, “ligurio,” meant, “to eat something by licking it up,” and was used when referring to cunnilingus and oral sex. “Landica,” was the term used to describe the clitoris; however, it was considered such an obscene word that even Cicero was embarrassed to use it and simply mentioned that there was a word but refused to mention what it was.

shaman

15 Saturday Aug 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cunnilingus, erotic poetry, gold mine, lilith's daughter, more than spilled ink, poem, ramrod, shaman, sonnet, sopping mess

Our gods call this prayer. Men say sin. I’ll take
divine every time. Your fingers barely

brush my flesh as they pass by. We are ache
and stardust, star-child. In a galaxy

afraid of this sort of pleasure you press
down. Take me in, shaman. We speak in moans,

holy words that leave us a sopping mess.
This prayer. This space between your pubic bones.

Stretching you. The good pain when you use this
as the conduit to speak to our gods ––

Lean back while I finger your clit until
you can’t hold yourself up. Hard fuck. Hard kiss.

Hard faith, moon girl. Lilith’s daughter. Ramrods.
Gold mines. We cum as one. Our gods’ goodwill.

tricks

10 Monday Aug 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cunnilingus, erotic poetry, feel that scratch, more than just spilled ink, poem, snatch, sonnet, toes curling, tricks, trouble between your legs

Bit of scruff? My cheeks, your pubes; when we come
together can’t tell where one ends, where one

begins. You can tell where my tongue ends. Hum
of my lips on your lips. Your low, “damn, son,”

as I carry more than a tune. Turning,
lifting, touching, fingers sliding in fat

back there. Toes curling. Go with it, stirring
trouble between your legs. Calling me brat

each time your hips jerk. Call me sir each time
you cry, “amen!” like applause. Night before

I come over I don’t shave. Feel that scratch.
DJ’s sick turntable tricks work sublime

on your clit. Time enough for an encore;
a tune that I call tongue-fucking your snatch.

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