come down

20 Saturday Apr 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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come down, dentist chair, erotic poetry, Let's Get It On, Marvin Gaye, sonnet, squelchy sounds

Had there been a door, perhaps. The sex-fiend
in me knew. Out in the hall Marvin Gaye’s

“Let’s Get It On,” was playing while you leaned
down and told me to spit. Praise soaked lips. Praise

all the squelchy sounds that you make under
your scrubs. The pulse of your breast in its bra

pressed to my cheek. Perhaps in some other
room there was a door to let the wet, raw

musk of impaled cunt and cock fill the space
between us. “Let your love come down,” Marvin

crooned. Let the drill’s buzz drown out your fox yips
at each stroke. Let my cum dry on your face.

Instead, your nipple hard against my skin,
you smiled, slid a finger between my lips.

prurient

18 Thursday Apr 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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ben wa balls, clit rings between friends, erotic poetry, fuckcube, poem, prurient, sex toys, sonnet, suffering sappho, sybian, well-loved smut

Fleshlight. Teledildonics. HiTechPorn.
Pity unloved sex toys. Lost anal beads

in the sock drawer. A vibrator forlorn
and cracked. We all have lascivious needs.

We all have prurient interests. But butt
plugs and cock rings sauced with crusted up lube;

broke-ass nipple clamps; someone’s well-loved smut
discarded — they’re all my pathos. FuckCube

busted. Sybian broke. I know the dismay
of a Ben Wa ball torn from its playmate.

I’m still sentimental for your clit rings,
for all childish things that you put away.

Suffering Sappho, save me from straight hate
that schemes against us, your divine blessings.

bouldered

28 Thursday Mar 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bouldered, cervix pounding, erotic poetry, grindstone, misbehave, ocean, perverse nature, sea, sonnet, tide

Heavy pull of tide makes your nipples hard;
suck of abyss on your lips like grindstones.

Others have been worn down by flood, reward
for all perverse natures—we know that bones

cannot last. Already this bouldered beach
has been scoured, cliffs swallowed. In a year

all this will be gone. Let tide-water teach
you all that you need to know. Do not fear

drowning, just love perversion. When you flip
your skirt up on hands and knees, when each wave

pounds your cervix, when your mouth gapes in faint
cool groans and your drool seeps onto salt-tip

stones. Then, perhaps, you’ll learn to misbehave,
as the waves do, without shame or restraint.

cum mum

13 Wednesday Mar 2019

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

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Big-C, Big-O, breast cancer, cum mum, erotic poetry, poem, seducing the younger generation, snark, sonnet, yummy mummy

Legs in the air after chemo. Truck seat
as pink as the cracks in your missing breast.

Back then our Lover’s Lane was the short street
near school. Adults were callous and depressed,

except you, except: “not there, pet, my ass …
put it there.” In the distance the school bell

rang as you came, as I flunked out of class —
as your muscle phat squeezed my cock farewell.

“Call me yummy mummy. Call me your cum
mum.” That was snark but I didn’t know snark

then — just plain child’s play and being wanted.
Plain as Big-O, Big-C, finding freedom

in who you fuck far too late. Plain as dark
in hurt flesh, brittle bones, corrupted blood.

infernal fountain

01 Friday Mar 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet, Spanish, Translation

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a-wop-bop-a-loo-bop-a-lop-bam-boom, erotic poetry, infernal fountain, it's all erotic poetry in the end, Me haces mojada, sonnet, Spanish translation

The street kids all laughed at the noise we made,
hurried over at the first lop-bam-boom,

first toe-curling wail. Infidel who prayed
to false female gods, your mom declared. Womb

talk by a man? Tsk, she spat. She’s correct,
but it’s more than just talk. Window open,

slick with kisses, afternoon sweat, respect
for bald lust, for the infernal fountain

of your cunt. Call my promised land Lilith
and your clit. Your mom freaks at, “¡me haces

mojada!” At your skirt pulled up, midriff
exposed. At what I call prayer that gushes

sublime between her adored First Daughter
and the infidel who knows no better.

NOTE:
“Me haces mojada,” translates from Spanish as, “you make me wet.”

hoarfrost

25 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anal sex, erotic poetry, frost, hoarfrost, ice demon, nicht mein arse, poem, sonnet, winter god

After school the god Frost loves us naked —
loves how we kiss, our blood filled with fire-juice

flames. With our snowsuits peeled down, your rosebud
peeled wide, with your lewd laugh, the one you use

when you’re on the edge, with the fogged-up glass,
Mad Bad Winter watching, with your groan, “nein,

nicht mein arse,” but it’s often in your ass,
often in your mom’s shed filled with old pine

smoke as you stare without blinking. Gods lost
still love us, love our fire-juice, love the shock

of flame. Frost loves us even though my cum
doesn’t splatter plumbed, feathered, like hoarfrost

on glass. — That’s why it stares as we walk,
hand in hand, through dingy sleet and dusky slum.

groove

22 Friday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cataclysm orgasm, catawampus, erotic poetry, klittra, masturbation is the door we all need to pass through, poem, sonnet, touch of sodom

You got klittra on your fingers from rump
shaking on your kid’s hobbyhorse saddle,

cracked curved horn. Glitter oozes at each thump,
spews the bump stroke. One sick beat — bestial,

a touch demonic, a touch of Sodom —
gets your cunt all catawampus. The groove

that spins you through space to cataclysm
orgasms is the same groove that you move

schlip-schlap against the rough saddle. No one
has seen you this high from what a blissful

state can do, heard the bwow-chcka-bwow bass
in your clit that means you are the shaman

who cums, returns and nuzzles the puzzle
of how through flesh the soul embraces grace.

NOTE:
In 2015 the Swedish government officially made klittra, a combination of clitoris and glitter, a legal definition for female masturbation.

jikʼeedgo

18 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Navajo, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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butterfly cacti, cunnilingus, Diné bizaad, erotic poetry, holy smut, jikʼeedgo, poem, sonnet, toothed and notched

Some sacred texts of smut are smooth as ash,
afterglow’s fire — lightning’s ozone — desert’s

rain. Some are scraggy. Your mom calls it trash.
The nuns call them sin. Holy acts of perverts:

-psycho- -porno- -jikʼeedgo- toothed and notched.
Certain words crack doors wide. Your butterfly

cacti knows this. So does moon blood. Debauched
flesh flow. Sticky chin. Certain words defy

grace and good taste. Words be nasty with want.
These are our myths. Our filth and bawdiness.

The chaste fear this. They are sick in their soul
without either consort and confidant.

We’re rough, we’re smooth, we burn like a furnace —
this makes us blessed, makes us love, makes us whole.

NOTE:
Jikʼeedgo translates into the act of fucking in the Navajo language (Diné bizaad).

crooked

16 Saturday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Baal, crooked, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, poem, rebel angel, sonnet, vicar's wife

When dark fell the dog recoiled in disgust
at the -scritch-scratch- outside of your window.

My voice, all curved ice thorn, called in a gust
of wind for you. The young village widow

and the vicar’s wife both said that I’m one
of the angels cast down in flames. I’ve hung

with Baal’s crew before. They’re dull. No passion.
Night-clad among dark trees give me your tongue.

Under dark skies I’ll bury jackal bones
in you, raise your petticoats, your hackles,

suck your clit dry. Starved thing, invite me in.
I know what lurks in your bones and hormones,

in the dark of your soul and the muscles
of your cunt. I know your crooked, lewd grin.

burn

05 Tuesday Feb 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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after a good spanking, BDSM, erotic poetry, poem, raw burn, sonnet, transgress, without transgression there can be no wisdom

I still swear to you by scourge and blowtorch
that at the next stroke you’ll bleat ugly sounds.

Ugly deeds call for the grim “K” of scorch,
quetch, crave. Flick of a supple cane astounds,

raising welts and devils. Call this art brut,
raw burn, a perfect howling pitch locked

inside you. I’ll free it. Others live mute —
waiting for that, “one day.” I know they’ve mocked

your dire itch, your distress. But they don’t cum
when I call you. Bend down. Lift up your dress.

Trust me: I might be cruel working stiff but
I get the job done. Like prayer. Like venom.

Like the song that tells us how to transgress
with the pain that drives both saint and poet.