• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: erotic poetry

bestial

25 Sunday Feb 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Bugblatter Beast, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, fallacio, hit the high chords, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Shan’t know, I suppose. So I’ll go … I’m gone …

watch me, “went.” To find that blessed spot. Even

that sounds like a joke. Flesh Gordon. Sex Spawn.

Deep throat Nine. Whimsy, chaos & semen.

Even Leia’s, “Into the Garbage Chute,

Fly boy,” made you snicker; though sodomy

remains a tribal language. That & brute

passion, which is also a force. Your knees

around my neck. Your nails digging fjords

down my back. I tongue-fuck that spot & you

groan like the ravenous Bugblatter Beast

that you are. That spot? You hit the high chords

each time. Messy mirth is always taboo;

messy, whimsy, chaos with lips well-greased.

Note.

The Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal is a fictional monstrosity from, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. File it under: Other People’s Pillow Talk.

frets

01 Monday Jan 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, first poem of the new year, frets, poem, Poetry, revenge porn, sonnet

Death is cold. I am cold. I must be death;

thin as rain, thin as chill. My haunt’s haunting.

Thrill of dire distress mixed up with your breath.

Pleases? I am, “of an age,” where nothing

pleases. Even frenzy feels frayed; its pink

velvet border rubbed away. Once, a whiff

of your breath kept me going for days. Kink,

as in kinky. Now? [– –] You cough, snort and sniff

what’s in your sloughed lungs. Kissing the lovelorn

has lost its appeal. [– –] My nipples are hard,

like a mood killer. Once you wrote, “your nudes

are safe with me.” No, they weren’t. Revenge porn,

the kids called it. Even my scars are scarred.

I’m not death. I’m the one who frets and broods.

lavash

27 Wednesday Dec 2023

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

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Tags

blowjob, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, lavash, obscene sucking noise, poem, Poetry, power of grief, sonnet, spilled ink

There’s dough in my hair, flour on my fingers.

Lick them clean. These fingers. I’m leaving.

Kiss me clean. Obscene what this finger stirs

in you. All day long you’ve seen me making

flat bread. Lavash. Song of cracked wheat. Fable

of dough rolled flat, slapped against the Tonir’s

brick wall. The dead’s flat food and what the skull

won’t eat I will. Breathe in all these odors.

Simple smells at night fall imbued with grief.

When you make bread, you make me; when you roll

dough flat you touch me. I’m leaving; come clean

me one last time. My lips, my flesh, this brief

hint at soul. I’ll be ghostly so soon. Soul,

love me like this: obscene, obscene, obscene.

notes:

Lavash is a popular flat bread in Armenia. Tonir is a stone oven used to cook the bread, similar to an Indian Tandoor.

demotic

12 Tuesday Dec 2023

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cum unto me, demotic, dusk, erotic poetry, milky spurt, past tense squander, poem, Poetry, sonnet, worship all

& I yanked your hair until you whimpered

& moaned. I call this, too, a sacred act.

This queer cheer. Odd? Odd that the only pact

between us was no pact at all. Squandered

without ache, spurt or need. Without my root

in your root cellar; stretch marks, scabs, stubborn

scars. Proof that the euphoric brute in Brute

Love is still love. Worship all that return

to yearn for a blinding flash. Milky spurts.

Spasms. Second comings. “Cum unto me.”

I did. Past tense squander. I am a thing

of dusk; a thing that divides & perverts

both day & night. Even murk is holy.

All this demotic. All this queer hexing.

bop

29 Wednesday Nov 2023

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bacchanal, erotic poetry, motley, poem, Poetry, She Bop, sonnet

Meet me near the mine shaft. We’ll put “anal”

back in “Bacchanal.” You know my wet-wired

flesh, fat stall-fed steak, the hole in my skull

that lets the gods in. All that you’ve desired

is here; two palm’s worth, plucked from the motley

pelt of some goat; unkempt, tangle-haired, lop

-legged, chewing on the bark of yon gnarly,

oaken bough. I’m the “bop” in your “She Bop.”

The thrill you seek every Sunday in church.

Gods are a dime a dozen. But this thrill?

This kiss? This holy rude exchange? It’s this

that you want. Dreams to make you gasp and lurch

out of bed, goat dreams, god dreams, dreams to spill,

to flood. Come. The one faith I follow: bliss.

zealous

01 Wednesday Nov 2023

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

all my friends are dead and things, dead boy cum, dead little things, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Waking to the stench of cum and compost.

One more morning. One more old ecstasy.

Waking up with a stranger, with a ghost,

someone else’s dead aunt. You were puffy

with rot, zealous with a whiff of one more

fling, fuck, whatever. I’ve got a nephew’s

hunger for the taboo and your poor, sore

cracked skin. Let the souls of sex addicts choose

me and not the Nether world. Goosebumps came

as you dug your cracked nails into my skin,

as I clutched the sheets and groaned. Willingly

given. Brutally taken … without shame.

Death is a small price to find your fuck-twin.

Celestial desire. Queer mercy.

stirrin’

16 Friday Jun 2023

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

age difference, booty call, Crone of Raunchy Calves, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, milf, poem, Poetry, sonnet, stirrin', we wear short shorts, you're never too old to be someone's wet dream

Monsters are rare, being mostly sleazeball

dreams and inventions. To be infertile,

Crone of Raunchy Calves & Posh Booty Call

Shorts, is to be obscene. “What? This? Evil?

I’ve been doin’ this before you were born.

Wham bam, thank you, ma’am.” You cackle and pause.

“Men called me witch. Sappho called me pure porn.

I’ll call you … Raw meat.” For some, menopause

killed their libidos. For you? “These itches

get me drippin’,” you grin, spreading your heat

wide. “Scratch me right here, moon dog. My witch’s

cauldron demands … stirrin’.” You’re not discrete

as you scratch, like cum-sloshed selfies you send

to your children, dubbed, “Mom & Cub Offend.”

willendorf

05 Monday Jun 2023

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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big grrl sexy, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, fierce, Lizzo, milf erotica, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Venus of Willendorf

With my thick, awkward fingers you taught me

to plait your hair. Boundless hips like the earth,

you had said. Lizzo-fierce. Big Grrl sexy.

You can’t be a MILF without belly-birth

curves, thighs like mountains. Before work, after

your kids are at school, you’d drip, dark like plum

juice, like my tongue slick between, like a prayer

down for the Willendorf. Clits thrum, cunts cum,

you’d said. Neighbors talked, “look at them, howling

on her stoop, with some of the worst braided

cornrows ever.” They scowled, “and at her age?”

Fierce looks like many things, but fierce fucking

looks like this. Beyond rude. Beyond wicked.

Beyond the haters and all their daft rage.

][][

Notes:

Venus of Willendorf is a 30,000 year old statue, unearthed in 1908, and thought to be some sort of fertility idol by many male archaeologists at the time due to its, “exaggerated,” sexual features, and not, say, just simply erotic for desire’s own sake. This is why so many archaeologists are horrible at their jobs. When I refer to Lizzo as a, “goddess who walks among us,” what I mean is that she is revolutionary in the deepest sense of that term. She is giving voice and making change happen in a world toxic with body-shaming and fatphobia. She tells us, “I love normalizing the dimples in my butt or the lumps in my thighs or my back fat or my stretch marks. I love normalizing my Black-ass elbows. I think it’s beautiful.” Amen.

linked

03 Saturday Jun 2023

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, linked, Ophelia's Malady, poem, Poetry, sonnet, wasting madness

Back when lust was thought of as a, “wasting

madness,” and wombs wandered through the body,

the old gray poets got off on chiding

children with tales of satyr sex, orgies

in oak groves and dryads who’d swing both ways.

Carnal qualities of beasts were also

a theme, “Never let a bull leave you dazed,

soaked in lavish discharge.” They didn’t know

about clits or cocks; just their dull rancor

that Pan would, “get you with child,” if he caught

you in the farm fields, wet with, “onanism.”

They lived their lives blind to all orgasm

linked souls, to all the lessons flesh has taught.

Come with me, friend, we have worlds to explore.

][][

Notes:

It’s hard not to think of the Victorian-era in Britain as a second Dark Ages, when “experts,” ignorant about both healthy sexual attitudes and the female anatomy, reigned supreme. It was such a primitive time that doctors diagnosed, “madwomen,” as suffering from, “Ophelia’s Malady,” not because there was a shred of science behind it but because Shakespeare wrote about it, so it must be true. I bring this all up because those attitudes have followed us into the 21st century. There is still a profound gulf between the erotic and spiritual. For many, any sexual act not chained to reproductive purposes is sinful and suspect. The penalty for not being chaste is still the label, “whore,” along with the dire warning that if you don’t keep your libido under control “bad things” will happen, anything from unwanted pregnancies, to same sex desires or bestiality (and true to their tyrannical beliefs it’s all one and the same). These are pitiful, broken souls masquerading as god-fearing adults. People so obsessed with genitals and what they’re used for that it calls to mind that other Shakespeare quote about the sincerity of hypocrites, “the lady doth protest too much, methinks.” After all, phobias tend to start with the fear and rejection of what’s already inside.

quenched

31 Wednesday May 2023

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

a ghost in love with the living, cunnilingus, cunt quenched, erotic ghost, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Walt Whitman

This is not Whitman’s city of orgies,

flesh and funky like the poet declared.

This is a courtyard without grass or trees.

At night it’s the only space that we’ve dared

venture into. My mouth glued to your hard

nipples. Your tongue tangy from the cold-salt

of my skin. Kissing each finger, the scarred

flesh of my arms, each shiny pink-cobalt

slice. The world falls for hard men and soft boys;

since I’m neither I have no purpose here …

except to please you. Down the fire escape.

Against the wall. Haunted with city noise;

as in, your cunt quenched without shame or fear.

My ghost fingers. My cadaverous shape.

][][

Note:

The good, gray poet, Walt Whitman, once referred to Manhattan as, “the city of orgies,” which still makes me chortle whenever it comes up in conversation.

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