• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: erotic poetry

plight

26 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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chaff and cyst mist, erotic poetry, pearl butt, plight, poem, Poetry, sonnet, touch betrays what lips deny

Gun oil mixed with salt on Nakano’s skin.

Teeth wrote Sugimoto’s sermon in. “Flesh!

You watched!” The accusation, sharp and thin.

“Of course.” The Captain’s fingers knew the fresh,

wretched truth; touch betrayed what lips denied.

Inside the lieutenant’s loose braids; gaping

ropy, womblight. C-scar from the Pearl’s Bride.

Outside, marched raw rude recruits to morning,

mid-plight; the space between snap and then twist

entire. No spider here, just deeply spun

strands, peach-shellfish swallowing each other

down. O serpentine tryst chaff and cyst mist.

As in rise, flesh! Fresh pretty inch. Wet nun

womblight. Bride’s nattered Pearl-butt, now ruder.

willow

26 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, flat as cold, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spilled ink, twisted sea

Moonlight strips striped her throat where buttons paled,

fluxed and veiled: her Moon Rabbit’s lingerie—

Her glove, Sugimoto’s lips— had prevailed.

Unspooled— Her puckered silk sot on display.

“Discipline, mother!” The lieutenant turned,

fallopian rope with shape. Aoki

burned. Eh? Aoki burned. Aoki burned;

became an altarpiece. Their twisted sea.

Nakano, through ghost breath glass that steamed

with her palms, flat as cold reflection. Mapped

how? Aoki prayed, reeked of sea wolves, still

circling. Twisted sea? Twisted sea? screamed

the piece, altar-wise: her Moon Rabbit rapt—

pussy willow— then whippoorwill’s will.

laluah

19 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Aquah Laluah, conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, Gladys May Casely Hayford, Krio language, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

Aquah Laluah wrote about her lover’s

rain soaked breasts, about storms within and storms

without, kissing her dusky throat. Thunder’s

note, she called it, which did more than just warm

her flesh. Auntie I never knew, you wrote

about longing and I keep going back

to the source. I, too, crave. Like Qiu Jin’s quote

about music, yours has been the soundtrack

I’ve been dancing to for years. A teacher

at Freetown’s all-girl school [1920]

Auntie, you drank from Frangepani’s proffered

bowl and called it peace: the first faint glimmer

of light. Tɛnki. I love your long, rainy

season, that storm wet craft that you conjured.

][][

Notes.

Gladys May Casely Hayford (1904-1950), who went by the pen name Aquah Laluah, was a schoolteacher at The Girls Vocational School in Sierra Leone. She is credited as the first poet to write in the Krio language, a regional Creole. Tɛnki is the Krio word for thank you. Like Aquah Laluah, Qiu Jin was also a feminist, lesbian poet who taught at an all-girl’s school in Qing-era China, though Qiu Jin was executed after a failed revolutionary uprising. Four of Aquah Laluah’s poems were collected by Countee Cullen in Caroling Dusk: An Anthology of Verse by Black Poets of the 1920s. The quotes of her that I use come from her poem, Rainy Season Love Song, which I share here in its whole:

Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes;

Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of thunder drums

My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain,

As storms within and storms without I meet my love in the rain.

“The rain is in love with you darling; it’s kissing you everywhere,

Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly hair;

Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate mounds they rise,

I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills your eyes.”

Into my hands she cometh, and the lightning of my desire

Flashes and leaps about her, more subtle than Heaven’s fire;

“The lightning’s in love with you darling; it is loving you so much,

That its warm electricity in you pulses wherever I may touch.

When I kiss your lips and your eyes, and your hands like twin flowers apart,

I know there is lightning, Frangepani, deep in the depths of your heart.”

The thunder rumbles about us, and I feel its triumphant note

As your warm arms steal around me; and I kiss your dusky throat;

“The thunder’s in love with you darling. It hides its power in your breast.

And I feel it stealing o’er me as I lie in your arms at rest.

I sometimes wonder, beloved, when I drink from life’s proffered bowl,

Whether there’s thunder hidden in the innermost parts of your soul.”

Out of my arms she stealeth; and I am left alone with the night,

Void of all sounds save peace, the first faint glimmer of light.

Into the quiet, hushed stillness my Frangepani goes.

Is there peace within like the peace without? Only the darkness knows.

shunter

12 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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booty deep, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, putting the anal in bacchanal, quote unquote, shunter, sonnet, spilled ink

Amor fati, it starts like this: She bop

a loo bop a whop bam boom. Not Tutti

Frutti, but buggery none the less. Flop

sweat. The first inkling of pain. Booty

deep and spread wide. No, you say. O hell no.

But to love what Fate brings requires you to

explore. From the bar through the slush and snow

to bed. Batty fang. Caterwauling. Screw

shunter. Slang … as I pause before the O

of your ass. Hell no. Then, by turns, Rome burns

between your cheeks. Tonight we will transgress.

Call me daddy, stranger, your queerest beau;

bent, we say. Soon wild rapture will return.

Soon you’ll claw my flesh, shuddering: fuck, yes.

without

10 Thursday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, masturbating to emily dickinson, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spilled ink, without transgression there can be no wisdom

Venus fly trap. Pheromones and cock. Seed’s

heavy fluid. Stamen’s curve. Stamen’s lure.

Flower hell; as in, fuck, you sigh, your greed’s

drippage. As in, there! a touch of the pure

slipping three fingers in. Buck on the cot,

in the tent, with your parents by the camp

fire’s fire. The tendrils. The roots. The cumshot.

None of that is here. Soon your fingers cramp.

Soon you hear: good night, while the tent’s zipper

unzips. Cocksleeve dreams fade. Nature’s excess

goes on without you. Zero at the bone,

indeed. No tight breathing. No clit trigger.

Just dark. Just something out there in distress.

Something bestial. Something that can moan.

quake

02 Wednesday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, quake's fault, sonnet, you squirt up earthquakes

Super lewd stretch time. Thicc new aches, shapes, quakes.

Thicc knew. Ache knew. Quake knew what you wanted.

Me? I didn’t. I never do. I traipse.

I tramp. I walk out. I am undaunted

funeral crap. I go. Soiled comforters. Shite

water. I went. I brought the shadow’s back

and leg and tongue for you. The right in, “fright.”

The hack in, “whack.” Sucka MC. But first: flashback!

“Super lewd stretch time. Thicc new” – No, not that.

Quake knew, stretch pants. Quake knew. No, nay never

forgive Quake. Never. Me? I never – Who?

Not once in a year of Mondays. Cocked Hat?

Not once? Not once did it go – Whatever.

Do be do be do. Do be do be do.

calcified

27 Thursday Mar 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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calcified, erotic poetry, lady bits, poem, Poetry, sonnet, tentacle pubes

Murky. Shapeless. Rag. Squeeze me here, I’ll mange

and moult. That’s not my flesh. These photos lie.

“But don’t they all? Those who dwell here must change,”

she said, “This wet, starved sheath shall ossify

to bone soon.” Her stoned stonework. “Lady bits,”

her son, Cthulhu, claimed. Tentacle pubes

and the big bling words: ossify, moult, clits.

None of that is found in these photos. Sleaze?

Maybe … but not meaning. Hashish muddles

me mind, dusk’s spliff, dusk’s gloaming. Under skirts

my dear eldritch horror had grown bouldered,

calcified. Flint’s bling. Flesh without jiggles

like seas without stars. Why? No: how? Perverts

taking selfies. Murky. Shapeless. Naked.

fried

25 Tuesday Mar 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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ash denied, erotic poetry, fried, frost fried, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Glazed frost spores on the water. I was drift

wood but ill will has washed me back to shore.

Anger still clings to my heart. Spores shift,

spores bloom, even now when I know the cure.

Ja, wrath and fears are inane. Ja, one numb

thought fills me: the lust tree of ash denied.

Darkness root covers me. I have become

hungry, a ghost dwelling in my frost fried

thoughts, hell of a rage cloud, ah desires.

I would drink so I wouldn’t have to dwell.

Antarctic; it means, “without bears.” Fitting.

Inward. Roots in fog. Forcemeat. Vice stung choirs

whinnied, then shied. Frost, indeed. That ice smell.

Margin’s djinn. A fond farewell, farewelling.

puck

23 Sunday Mar 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Bonnie & Trots, cray thong, erotic poetry, master's beat, poem, Poetry, sonnet

That’s a crazy strong root work. With lewd psalms

scrawled on my hands. With the words that set Lot’s

daughters; mum lit, mum spit on their jaws, palms,

phat ol’ coccyx. That’s too …? “Bonnie & Trots”?

Far too Fanny Hill. A touch wrong? These runts

and cells divide. Master’s bed. Master’s beat.

Droll, your grandma called it, as in, “that’s Cnuts!”

As in, Lot’s daughters. Cave wet. Thick and teat.

Newborn. Nothing. Gained and scrawled on my hand.

Great gray chested. Scars upon czars. Crone’s zones.

Meaning? Raw root work. “A gumbo cooker.

Alligator hooker./ Make a dead man

jump and shout, woo.” Love, I’ll soothe away bones.

Cray thong. Lewdly palm. Puck. –– ‘gator hooker?

splayed

22 Saturday Mar 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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B-4, erotic poetry, liebesgemetzel, petite fille gang, poem, Poetry, splayed, tongue lashing

Our act sung between grunts and squeals. Hang

on. True to your profit and pride, you made

me weep before you died. Petite Fille Gang;

slept me dreams named me soul nailed me hue splayed

me shame. B-4. More tripe. More hype. Less floor

pie. Less said mass in my mouth. Pour ash. Speak

in tongues. Rend me like sackcloth. You speak more

when you cum. Tongue song. I’m here for the freak

carnage. Liebesgemetzel. Love. Slay. Sleep.

Our tongue sung act. “What the devil?” you hiss

as I try something new. Beetle buzzes

in the tin. The vibrator buried deep.

Our tongue sung bet. We go together bliss.

We go. We rest. We come as flesh to ghosts.

][][

Note:

Liebesgemetzel is a German term that means, “Love massacre.”

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