• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: ghost hunger

bootchy

16 Thursday Dec 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Uncategorized

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Tags

Amy Lowell, bootchy, ghost hunger, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet, The Camellia Tree of Matsue, Two Speak Together

“The Camellia tree would leave its place/ By the gateway,/ And wander up and down the garden,/ Trailing its roots behind it.” ~ Amy Lowell.

Fetch the axe, the poet said. But when you swung,

and bit deep, dark blood spouted, and when you

bent down to tear out the stump, the ground hung

open, “like a wound.” That you could, then threw

the foul thing ten feet, was lost on Lowell.

It was her ghost tale; as if a lewd tree

using lewd roots in lewd ways made a hell

better tale than you. Bull-dagger, Bootchy

-bitch, she called you. Boon-butch. Why the poet

of, “Two Speak Together,” shunned you, dunno,

but you swaggered like a boss. That macabre

bit of wood could only spew sap: scarlet

juice. You rose, aflame, but found your hero

didn’t notice, the one you called heartthrob.

][][

Notes:

This poem began with a line from the American poet, Amy Lowell, in, “The Camellia Tree of Matsue,” a curious little tale about a haunted tree. It ends with an anonymous gardener digging up said tree and finding it hemorrhaging blood. For whatever reason the gardener got my attention so I began doing research about Lowell and that led me to this asshole: Ezra Pound. Truth be told, taking Pound to task for his treatment of Lowell is the least of his crimes. As a fascist collaborator he ignored the massacres of Italian Jews and Gypsies in 1943, he ignored the Risiera di San Sabba extermination camp in Trieste, he ignored the Nazi occupational forces and Fascist militias running amok throughout all of Italy. However, much like with Gertrude Stein in Vichy France, when Pound’s name comes up there are still apologists who will hand-wave all this away by saying, “Yes, yes, the Holocaust was unfortunate but that was all Germany’s fault, all Mussolini wanted was for the trains to run on time.” I bring this up because long before he was Benito’s boot-licker he spent his time between Cantos attacking Amy Lowell in the way so many men do when talking about their betters: he ridiculed her for her weight, her “mannish” appearance, her love of other women. She wasn’t an Imagist poet, Pound wrote, she was a, “Hippopoetess … who wore pince-nez glasses and smoked cheap cigars.” Why there is still a cult of personality around this man to this day baffles me, except that it takes a fascist to love a fascist, I suppose. If you’ve never read Lowell before I highly suggest, Pictures of the Floating World (1927) which contains numerous erotic poems written to her lover and muse, Ada Dwyer Russell.

disposal

11 Saturday Apr 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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disposal, ghost hunger, it's all love, poem, Poetry, rubber teeth, sonnet, temper my muse, Tsunami

Two tabs of Memory, a shot of Mind’s
Eye, and the tsunamis rise. Vile temper

of the garbage disposal, how it grinds
and screams on nothing behind black rubber

teeth. I’ve inched my fingers to that maw. Dread,
though, stops me: once in there’s no coming home.

That’s not love, you said. Odd, you’ve also said
it’s all love. I remember that my own

temper was filled with screaming, with sea storms
wrecking coasts. You tried to temper my muse.

Nothing calms tempests; like the disposal
I still consume all. Ghost hunger deforms

my dread, makes it something that you’ll confuse
for hope, for home, for something beautiful.

ghost hunger [rewrite]

07 Wednesday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

bedlam, blood fountain, cunnilingus, ghost hunger, ghost lover, poem, Poetry, sick chaos, sonnet

In this spirit’s world, this less than human
mouth goes down on you. Each chill, ghost fingers
unzip your fly, pull your knickers to one
side, while this ectoplasm tongue slithers
inside. How far out are we? Knuckles deep.
You suck all the air out of your lungs. Vast
forces are at work when twilight can’t sleep.
Delirium and the dead; an outcast
at your gate. This is beyond mingled breath.
Beyond love in the dead years. Do not die
just yet, my lover. Take me as I come
inside you. Then, a small cry, a small death.
Come like sick chaos, like a devil’s cry,
a blood fountain, a ghost hunger, bedlam.

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erotica [links]

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