• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: erotic

the sick art

11 Tuesday Feb 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic, horror versus terror, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the sick art, the time has come

The time has come to tell tales of the dead.
Strictly speaking, terror is rational

fear, fear of what is known; horror, instead,
is fear of all that is irrational.

The night versus the day. Dionysus
versus Apollo. But the erotic

world has no such separations; lewdness
is just what we make it. I know the sick

art to make you flood; the soft seduction.
A slick, sultry mouthful; these are queer tastes.

Do you care? Day or night? Crude or sublime?
Rational? Irrational? Moon or sun?

Living or dead? When your dam bursts
I will drown, going down for the third time.

soared flashed gone

21 Tuesday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic, exhibitionist, finger fucking, hot springs, Las Vegas, Nevada, poem, Poetry, soared flashed gone, sonnet

Foliage dark mass fringed by your thighs we’re rude
north of Vegas two hour drunken blur

red rocks screening our bodies laying nude
upon rocks above the hot spring, under

the cliff’s shadow nature is nudity
grace-like you stand hands on hips gazing

upon my half-open calves and fleshy
gingersnaps we have been finger fucking

soared flashed gone all day tease taste swallow deep
throat gag control we came here to get high

above the valley floor you shudder seize
my skull press me deeper until you weep

when I go down. Looking up, you reply:
please please please please please please please please please please …

Image

if i can stop one heart from breaking i shall not live in vain

09 Thursday Jan 2014

Tags

art, Emily Dickinson, erotic, If I can stop one heart from breaking I shall not live in vain, poem, Poetry, quote

Jan 09, 2014 (20)

“If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain” — Emily Dickinson

Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry

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cocksure

06 Wednesday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cocksure, erotic, know your limits, not by you, poem, Poetry, SM/BD, sonnet, woeful bottom

I have never understood the allure
submissively—-meekly—-obediently
of such surrender you can be cocksure
I will not—-yield yet—-to one so wildly
barren—-in visions I’ve been pushed non-stop
beyond all—-my limits yet not by you
I have been taught with the sting of a crop
I’ve been ridden—-far yet not by one who
cannot command armies with a dark glare
it is known that I am a pretty piece
of flesh I—-am yet to need a scourge cum
in my mouth to taste hell if my nightmare
makes you my mistress master uncle niece
know that I’ll make you a woeful bottom

who heard you say no

04 Monday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Baron Samedi, Dionysus, Don Juan, double standards, erotic, feminism, Freyja, poem, Poetry, Rati, sonnet, Venus

Baron Samedi, Dionysus, Don Juan,
these be the masks that men can slip into.

Every culture has its sex gods that spawn
the myth of great sex. What that means to you

ain’t my concern. Tell me, who do women
in your land have when lust’s fire burns within?

Venus? Rati? Freyja? Fuck that Virgin
and Whore dogma. You gonna say that Sin

be just another name for girl pleasures?
Absurd. A bee won’t stop being a bee

because you ignored it, lied about it,
tried to shame it, stupid. I love lovers

who break the rules, who laugh, who aren’t sorry,
who heard you say no and don’t give a shit.

][][

a note:

Most of the time when a writer name drops (especially names 90% of the rest of us haven’t heard of) or uses foreign words or phrases without translating them I end up getting turned off as a reader. Being well read shouldn’t be a license to be conceited. I say that because I use six names that probably most people haven’t heard of before. They are all love gods and goddesses from around the world. At first I tried to leave them out but the whole point of the poem was to show that there are more female erotic archetypes than what we have here in this modern world, which still teaches girls sex is bad, celibacy is good and anyone who actually likes pleasure must be a whore (unless you’re a man … men are never criticized for liking pleasure).

In Voodoo Baron Samedi is loa (spirit) of the dead, sex and resurrection.

In Greek myth Dionysus is the god of wine, ritual madness and homoerotic ecstasy.

Don Juan usually refers to a monster-long poem written by Lord Byron, but he based his story on old Spanish legends of the world’s greatest lover.

Venus is the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess Aphrodite.

In Hindu mythology Rati the goddess of passion and lust.

Freyja, in Norse legend, is the goddess associated with love, magic, shamanism, sacrifice, war, death and sexuality.

she called him her

29 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, all that's taboo, cute anal angel, erotic, poem, Poetry, she called him her, sonnet

Mottled tattoo—-a taboo—-beckoning
her to return to—-sip the fine vintage

of his fourteen-year odd—-essence needing
but a single nip from her—-teeth carnage

blood-blood reopened—-her tongue bathing in
his dusk boy—-blood that sticky grin. The curve

of his cock above the sheet’s skin, boy sin
calling to her fingers. Who has the nerve

to go there when lust is neither legal
nor pure? Caught in—-that dim shadow she did

nothing but obey as her cooled flesh warmed
and she called him her—-cute anal angel

he was all—-that’s taboo—-what we forbid.
All that will leave us a monster transformed.

a dirty word

26 Saturday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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beast-pawed sphinx, erotic, erzatz punch-card, hummingbirds, pneumatic tubes, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spacial code, steam-powered cock, synthetic virus, thrunge breast-plate

His sprung-wound tongue was better than vinyl
ether; than any old erzatz punch-card.

He burned like boiler plate. His odd-shaped skull
was full of pneumatic tubes. He offered

up a spacial code, synthetic virus,
shrunken to chrome beads on his fingernails.

His cock, its own clockwork apparatus,
naturally throbbed. Silver cooled the details

of his past. He said that the beast-pawed sphinx
was his mother. He said that he could see

in the dark. He drank your breath down, hovered
over you like a hummingbird. What syncs

up with a thrunge breast-plate? History
is a curse. Memory a dirty word.

pig roast

23 Wednesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

anal sex, bisexuality, blow job, erotic, fellatio, homophobia, MMF, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the problem with straight men, threesome

What was awkward wasn’t the need, wasn’t
just the will, it was the way that the straight

guy made it clear that he had consented
to this only to fuck your wife. The eight

shots of vodka that the three of you split
should have loosened things up, but no. You both

take a place beside her. He will submit
to her deep throating him down. But he loathes

the thought that he might be forced to kiss you.
Perhaps she’s watched too much porn. Perhaps she’s

blind to the clues. But with your cock in her
mouth and his in her ass she grins at you

both with joy. This is what she wants: boy grease,
cum, sperm, pig roast with two men, two lovers.

come away

20 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, come away, erotic, human foundling, Kitsune, myth, poem, Poetry, sonnet

 

But you’re not a fox-witch, so maybe
it wasn’t how you handed him your damp
bloomers, it was that you had on any
at all. Maybe it wasn’t your half-vamp
eyes, your toothy smile. Maybe that which
bewitched him was when you said: come away.
Maybe. You, who aren’t fox or witch,
had gone out in first light and found this stray
man-cub. “Come away, O human foundling,
to my den in the hills.”
All that fogbound
winter he slept naked in your arms. “My
little toy,”
you called the boy. “My play thing.”
Maybe he loved your wicked smile when he found
that your bloomers were damp. We all know why.

wet silk

20 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bus trip, erotic, finger fucking, Me and Bobby McGee, poem, Poetry, sonnet, sticky fingers, wet silk

The first time I slipped a finger inside
you was on a cross-country bus trip. You
sung “Me and Bobby McGee” to me, cried
when you climaxed. None of the sleepers who
sat all around us saw you lick your own
pleasure off my fingers. The second time
you were a new mother. We were alone,
you had just fed your baby. Your sublime
nipples called for sloppy seconds. Your milk
tasted sweet, warm, leaving a rapture smear
across my lips. As I sucked sucked greedy,
as I found your spot, melting like wet silk,
as you said, “suck hard, put your mouth right here,
put your tongue in me, put yourself in me …”

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