• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: erotic poem

lolls

27 Wednesday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

conversations with imaginary sisters, deep throat, erotic poem, fuck fiend, Poetry, randy varmint, sonnet, witch's brew

Slick from a randy varmint, your nipples

swell in your strappy tee as I watch you

 

take the pills that we found on the motel’s

bathroom floor. You taste just like witch’s brew,

 

rancor, a chloroform soaked handkerchief.

Ill pills freeze time then turn our lust heinous.

 

You are the color of storm and I grief.

On your back, your head lolls off the mattress

 

as I grind in. Your throat bulges, jaws twinge

as my balls smother your nose. You gag-retch,

 

spitting cum, bile and ache down your forehead.

Fuck fiend, you called me, words that made you cringe,

 

once … like love, or every time that I stretch

you wide; an act that you both long for and dread.

xenolibido

22 Friday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, drifting through space, erotic poem, fermi's paradox, panspermia, Poetry, queer DNA, sonnet, witchling, xenolibido, xenomorph erotica

Panspermia: Life hidden in drifting

space dust; scatterings of queer DNA

 

awash in the high heavens. Begetting

the ones zealots fear on Earth. Castaway,

 

satyr, witchling; this would explain but not

excuse my lecherous bursts. The drama

 

of throat fucking in public. Your distraught

“¡Oi!” as you wear my cum like mascara.

 

There is no ill will in our tribe. We hunt

all who love their carnal but odd essence.

 

Xenolibido. “Whores of Babylon,”

the saved sneer. No, try Betelgeuse. Try cunt.

 

Try cock. Try us all. But they won’t. Not once;

their junk genes come from dullest of god-spawn.

][][

Notes:

Besides being a great name for a drag queen, panspermia is a theory that life on Earth originated from alien DNA drifting on galactic winds, searching for a suitable environment to call home. The plot of the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers explains that the pod people came to Earth in the form of gelatinous creatures able to survive in the vacuum of outer space. I tend to fall on the side of astrobiology and ask for some actual proof before announcing that something is possible, but I do like playing with the idea in poetry. People who are very very keen on the idea of extraterrestrials tend to point to Fermi’s Paradox (which more or less states, “Empirical evidence is for Sucka MCs/ P-Funk’s Mothership Connection puts/ the xy chromosome in sexy”) and speculative fiction as to why they got a D- in high school science but an B+ in creative writing (naming no names, of course).

fettered

16 Wednesday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anal sex, erotic poem, fettered, night frost, Poetry, queens and concubines, sauna sex, sonnet, threesome, wet heat

Night frosts. Fettered gales. Sauna sun rise. Steam

fit for queens and concubines. After school

 

you came, brought her with talk of romps, extreme

and droll. “Not in her rump,” was your one rule

 

as I slipped out of you. “Only in mine.”

All day the sauna’s pine walls soaked up heat.

 

When you two arrived, frigid as frost’s shine,

we puffed and passed, shucking off our clothes. Cheat

 

ice-sleet like this. Mellow lay, they say. Stoned,

you laughed when she impaled herself. I laughed

 

when you kissed the spot where the two of us

joined. She laughed and came. Others have condoned

 

this. Meh. You asked to learn my queer witchcraft;

craft built from libertines and the Goddess.

lunacy

25 Saturday Jul 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

c-section scar, crotched, daddy defiled me, erotic poem, gang bang, i'm spilling more thank ink y'all, love-in, lunacy, Poetry, sonnet

Your mom said good girls don’t go there. Bummer.
Last year you and four other girls dropped out

pregnant. Now you do, often; your daughter
snoozing in her crib, your hips crotched, girl scout

skirt pulled to your lips. Charmed, I’m sure; you smiled
at my tongue’s path from your C-section scar

down through phat flesh. You got, “daddy defiled
me,”
inked above your ass. Bedroom-boudoir

with your bizarre mix-tapes. Cigar-sized spliffs.
Death was the breath that you sucked from my lungs

as I dived face first through you. Flesh slapped. Skin
bitten. Fingered and fucked. I miss those whiffs.

Scent of lunacy. Reckless as cum. Tongue’s
crow. We say gang-bang. Your mom says love-in.

for grace

06 Wednesday May 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic poem, for grace, infidel b-boy, phat freckle, Poetry, safe space, sew your woe, sonnet

“Just don’t bring home a white boy,” your father
bid. So you did. He was flippin’ flippant

when he said, “the devil is in my daughter,”
but I was, too, daily. We’d had blatant

need for veils: your hijab, my sonnet. Place
for grace. Safe space. Each poem was a road

home for us: “Fuck ass, let no wrath erase
our path.”
In my bedroom more than faith flowed

where my tongue teased. Each kiss a phat freckle,
salvation. My palms on your breasts. Until …

fissures from your father’s need to control
us: his, “modest virgin,” her, “infidel

b-boy” – men who sew their woe; men who kill
joy all because of their own broken soul.

rascality

23 Thursday Apr 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic poem, keen to please, phallic, Poetry, rascality, sonnet, spring follies, uncanny

Look back. No thirteen sisters. No coven.
No high priest. Just you with your spring follies

at the farm house. Perhaps you did summon
him: one more demon, kid stuff, keen to please.

Perhaps you two found purchase propped against
the wall. Brick patterns on your backside, skirt

rucked up, hair all undone – until you sensed
strain, like your husband’s porn: watch mommy squirt.

You still love men who ooze delinquency.
Men and monsters. You called. Lust breeds mischief

when we’re alone; rutting near walls, mazy
hedgerows, fallow fields. It’s still not enough.

Called and summoned. You’re starved for rough magic,
for all that’s uncanny, fell and phallic.

fiasco

17 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

all our little deaths, erotic poem, fiasco, Poetry, sonnet

Your dead breath on the neck as my hair stands
erect. “Why be ashamed of being dead?”

I asked. “I can’t hold you with wispy hands.
My lips are so cold when we kiss.”
You said

you dread going down; all those small complex
movements that oral sex requires. “I know,

I know, death robbed me of my gag-reflex.”
To spit or swallow turned pure fiasco;

my cum flew through your face. Was that what lured
you in, though? Hope for one last kiss — the snips

and snails of my breath? What’s a, “little death,”
to the dead? The air tasted of frost poured

on grave dirt. You couldn’t baptized my lips,
so you stared, enthralled by my fleshy breath.

lèche-la

15 Sunday Mar 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cunnilingus, erotic poem, i'm spilling more thank ink y'all, lèche-la, sonnet, Trots and Cap'n Bill, Wizard of Oz

There is monotonous darkness and heat
under your bed. What adults fear they shun.

They took me away. Now nightmares will eat
you — not like how I ate you, that was fun.

Just why Trots and Cap’n Bill’s adventures
were,“Grand,” but ours were,“Smutty and Unchaste,”

I still don’t know. Was it the sex? Sex blurs
the line, they claim. So I know what you taste

like. Is that a crime outside of Utah?
As if. “Lèche-la,” you sang. What am I but

fable? Lèche-la: now they police even
your make-believe friends. What will you let gnaw

on you? Them or lust? There’s no shame in smut
or lust or hungering to be eaten —

Notes:
Trots and Cap’n Bill were characters created by L. Frank Baum for his Wizard of Oz series. Lèche-la is French for, “lick it,” as in, “lèche-la chatte.”

despite

01 Thursday Aug 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

despite, erotic poem, lust sublime, my Orpheus, praise this sleaze, sonnet, vulgarity

Gorged on hope you forget your place. Desire
won’t save you. If you’re the stuff of dreams then

you’re a safe flame for those afraid of fire
… a vague vulgarity. Who’d ever sin

on your behalf? There is no Orpheus
for you to sing you out of hell. Your place

is to warn others that all the lewdness
in the world feels most often like disgrace

and woe. Smut won’t save you. All this is true,
but I still give thanks for smut. I praise those

who’ve praised me with their libidos; who’ve taught
me lust sublime and passion’s true virtue …

I love that, despite all my griefs and woes,
despite feeling so broken and distraught.

last act

05 Sunday May 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on last act

Tags

erotic poem, freakshow, horse cock, last act, New Orleans Centaur Show, Poetry, sonnet, your cunt's soul-gate

Snatches of dream: horse cocks and long grayling
men, scents of blackcurrant and pheromones.

I dreamed that you drove to the Gulf, searching
for the best beast to fuck. I run with Crones,

Maids and Mothers, with smut, skin flicks and sleaze.
I dreamed of a red thread leading to you —

freak thread. Like all beasts, I cum in furies.
I hunt for your cunt. In dreams I pass through

your cunt’s soul-gate, as consorts do. To ache
with you, with ruin, with greed. Obsessed

with need, with how my cum-splatters flow
over your breasts. Come and find me and wake

me and fuck me like a freakshow conquest.
Last act at the New Orleans Centaur Show.

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