• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: cunnilingus

buckle

15 Monday Aug 2022

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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buckle, cunnilingus, drowning bliss, erotic poetry, moon tide, poem, Poetry, sea poem, sonnet, the sea, with your tampon between my teeth

I learned to walk when the rolling sea ceased

to roll like the earth. I learned to sleep on

billows when you taught me about your creased

lips that tasted of lime. With your tampon

between my teeth I ached for that other

low tide. I didn’t blame the moon, that time,

when you pulled your swimsuit aside. “Lick her.”

I won’t blame it now. Let the sea’s stars climb

the sky, I will not drown while going down.

Without sea legs I drank my fill between

your hips. Rising. Falling. Groaning

of a ship’s hull about to buckle. Drown

with your tampon between my teeth. Sea-queen.

Argos-eyed. You are the vast Deep, moaning.

conked

28 Sunday Nov 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

blood, conked, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, flux, phat ass spasms, poem, rage, rumpus, sonnet, tongue lashing

Fury. Less than an inch. A fingertip’s

worth of savagery. With winter over

your dress lifted breezily. With your hips

laid bare, with your thigh laid on my shoulder ––

a tongue lashing. Thawed flesh; like how ghosts crash

through conked swamp roots or gods, once sour, soon calm

under stress. Under your dress spiked mustache

cacti nestled my lips. Sophomore prom.

Without relief you made jaw clenching mewls,

then phat-ass spasms. Dissolving in blood

and flux; dissolving, all rage and rumpus.

I was a clueless child … but so were you.

“What was that?” you gasped as the world, viscid

and vast, slowly swam back into focus.

caked

22 Monday Nov 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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caked, cunnilingus, discord, erotic poetry, la dedova, leccamela tutta, poem, Poetry, sonnet, William Blake

Discord in the backseat. Once, as a child

in Rome, I paused too long next to a parked

car at the sound of our neighbor’s voice, wild

and weird. “Leccamela tutta,” she barked.

Lick it up. Blake talked to fiery angels.

Dama Belle in black also knew secrets

but did not explain what, “finding Naples

on a map,” meant. Later, wayward spirits

would teach me how to make my own earthquakes;

but, back then, as both car and my neighbor’s

voice shook, I gawked through the fog-caked window,

baffled. “Fiery the angels rose.” Blake’s

voices were not mine. He saw holy choirs

and I saw la Dedova, the Widow.

][][

Notes:

“Leccamela tutta,” is an Italian phrase that falls somewhere between, “lick it all up,” and, “lick my pussy.” In 1765, when he was only eight years old, Romantic mystic and poet William Blake is said to have had his first vision when he saw a tree full of angels in Peckham park. Naples is the third-largest city of Italy, after Milan and Rome.

mixed

14 Sunday Nov 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, sonnet

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Chava, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, Love shall make us a threesome, mixed, niqabi, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Did your mother-in-law ever once guess

that your best friend, Chava, sat in the front

seat while you and I made an unholy mess

under your niqab in the back? “My cunt

needs this,” you shivered and Chava giggled.

Love is so hard to grasp. It’s all taboo

and shame until your friends arrive. Cuckold,

they call it … though what that is in Hebrew,

I don’t know; just that under your niqab

you are flood-warning wet. Later, back home,

Chava will tongue-fuck you in the bathroom,

tasting my cum mixed with yours while you grab

the sink and quake at the touch of a tongue

so long it feels she’s licking out your womb.

ragtime

09 Tuesday Nov 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, sonnet

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Tags

blood, bodéwadmimwen, cosmic blots, crone island, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, kwek ezhechkewat, moon blood, poem, sonnet

Rhythms scuttle through your blood. Even I,

tone-deaf and banal, can feel them each time

I press my tongue inside you. Some still cry

that you’re unclean. They’re afraid of ragtime,

watinen, blood clots; of, kwek ezhechkewat,

menses. They would keep us … separated;

keep you from lifting your nightgown to squat

over me. Some call the beat in your blood

briny like zinc. I call it honeyed, sweet

sounding, melodic on the tongue. Grunge drips

rhythm, glory and scuttle. Fraught with clots.

Chaos in your capillaries. These neat

beats each time your cunt nuzzles to my lips,

staining my humdrum teeth with cosmic blots.

][][

NOTES:

“Leaders bleed, period,” Sylvia Young once wrote. In the Potawatomi language, Bode’wadmi, the word for blood is, “mswké” (also, “mskwim”). When blots clot it is, “watinen.” Menstruation is called, “kwek ezhechkewat.” There’s a lot about other people’s taboos concerning moon-blood that I find perplexing, from the concept that someone can be, “unclean,” to the need of keeping those with wombs separated from the rest of us. My teachers over the years have almost all been crones and wise women, people who’ve had very little use for prohibitions and superstitions concerning, “Eve’s curse,” as the boys would say. I like what Lucy H. Pearce said on the subject, “[at] her first bleeding a woman meets her power./ During her bleeding years she practices it./ At menopause she becomes it.” Migwetch.

glob

01 Monday Nov 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, sonnet

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beastly hoofs, crow knows, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, glob, gulps you down, owl knows, poem, Poetry, raw, sludge, sonnet

Damn fuck beast, you mumble as I tremble

inside. All at once it’s a throng of beasts

bellowing through you; the stars of your skull

quail and the moon, that great gray glob of grease

and grime and gaudy guts flashes and goes

out. This is how love should end: in carnage

and fire from beastly hoofs. Owl knows. Crow knows.

Kronos knows. I pound your cum into sludge;

wallop your lust, turn your climax all grungy

grim. Love is messy, like children’s street songs,

like minced up monkey meat. As I withdraw,

I leave my beastly snail’s trail of jolly

havoc behind. I’m that which gaily wrongs

you; the only one who gulps you down, raw.

desists

28 Thursday Oct 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, sonnet

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Tags

cunnilingus, desists, erotic poetry, Hecate, lick me don't fuck me, lingis non futuis meam, poem, Poetry, right hand magic, sonnet

Pornographer of Left-hand magic, you

said. Freak. Pervert. Hecaté understands;

we both speak vulgar Latin. The taboo

that you call lust still stands. Magic commands

so much. I burn thyme, hemlock, devil’s weed,

coating my cauldron’s concave sides with ash.

My blood that I kept on ice has jellied,

along with my dumb cum. The zigzag slash

cut in my palm desists to scar. I mix

the red slop with the cinders. “Lingis,”

Hecaté said, “non futuis meam.” Lick me,

don’t fuck me. This is prayer, too. All that licks.

All that laps. All that sucks. Watch how I kiss

her cunt, phosphorescent and velvety.

][[][

Notes:

Hecaté is the Roman goddess of crossroads, witchcraft and ghosts. In a world obsessed with duality we’re told that all which is, “dark must be sinister,” (Left-hand magic), while all that is, “light must be good” (Right-hand magic). Must be, must be, must be. I find such moral claims contemptible since there is no good or bad, black or white, just muddled, ashen gray.

just

31 Tuesday Aug 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Aeschylus, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, Odd Nature of Death, of all the gods, Sappho, sonnet

The day done gray. “Of the gods,” Aeschylus

said, “Death alone does not crave gifts.” The rest

love their altars and praise; become jealous

and ill-tempered if crossed. For Death the blessed

and the sinner are the same and worms feed

on them all. “Death shall be Death forever,”

Sappho said; unlike us, love, with our need

to see ourselves in what we praise. Lover,

love me now before I become just dust

of ten thousand years. My gift is coaxing

of my tongue – stroking foam – sucking obscene

– tasting what you crave. Let the righteous rust

since Death won’t care if we do everything,

nothing or just hardcore bling in-between.

][][

Notes:

Aeschylus was an ancient Greek playwright, known as the, “Father of Tragedy.” Sappho, “The 10th Muse,” was master of the lyric poem. I like what Kenneth Rexroth said about her art, “There has been no other poet like this. Wherever enough words remain to form a coherent context, they give one another a unique luster, an effulgence found nowhere else. Presentational immediacy of the image, overwhelming urgency of personal involvement — in no other poet are these two prime factors of lyric poetry raised to so great a power.”

làn-mara

23 Monday Nov 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

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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Tags

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.

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