• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: homoerotic

cropped marshlands

03 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cropped marshlands, forest gods, Great God Pan, homoerotic, metaphor, poem, Poetry, sonnet

forest_god

From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust

clear and erect into coming twilight.
How did Freud ever pass through such forests?

They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.

Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates

flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.

Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along

my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.

my dear little dead one

12 Saturday Apr 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Prose

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Tags

Federico Garcia Lorca, homoerotic, Juan Ramírez de Lucas, my dear little dead one, prose, short-short story

“I can’t listen to you. I can’t listen to your voice. It’s as though I’d drunk a bottle of anise and fallen asleep wrapped in a quilt of roses. It pulls me along – and I know I’m drowning – but I go on down.”
― Federico Garcia Lorca, Bodas de sangre.

I love the dead because the living spend so much time worrying about them. Plagues come, plagues go; someone flits like a shadow by your open bedroom door; the child of a broken heart discovers a thousand years later that kissing isn’t immoral, degenerate or likely to spread disease. During all that time — you living, you dull creatures — you either worship or fear all those who have gone before you.

“You have to know, sister,” Juan Ramírez de Lucas said, pale and drawn, “you have to know that no one here will show you disrespect. Say what you wish. But will you not sit down? You look very tired.”

The nun — her fingers still smelling of freshly cut ginger, copper, blood — took the offered chair and fixed her eyes upon the one sitting across from her.

“It is this, senior,” she spoke rapidly, lest her courage should freeze in her throat. “He is unhappy. He is in pain. All night long he hears the brute iron and the cocking of rifles. He smells the foul smoke of burning bodies and the shrieking that hides in the throat. It has awakened my dear little dead one.

“When I guarded him with holy water he heard nothing. Back then the fires of the century held no curiosity for him, since the hearts of the living are based upon greed and corruption and hate.

“But one night he came to me, shaking the nail out of his coffin. I awoke but the deviltry had already been done, he was awake, the dear sleep of eternity was stirring. He thought it was his last trump card and he wondered why he was still in his grave. But we talked together and it was not so bad at the first. But, senior, now he is frantic. He is in hell. O, think, think, senior, what it is to have the long sleep of the grave so rudely disturbed? Love? Yes, love called him back from the sleep that he so patiently endured!”

The nun stopped abruptly and caught her breath. Juan Ramírez had listened without change of expression, convinced that he was facing a madwoman. But the travesty wearied him, and involuntarily he stood up as if to leave the room.

“O, senior, not yet! not yet!” panted the nun. “It is of him that I came to speak. He told me that he wished to lie there and listen to the earth and sky and all the secret’s of the sea; so I stopped sprinkling holy water on his grave. But the dead have needs that the living cannot understand; for he, too, your love, is wretched and horror-stricken, senior. He moans and screams. His unmarked grave can never be found. He cannot break out of it. I have heard his frightful word from his grave tonight, senior; I swear it upon the cross.”

Juan Ramírez de Lucas shook from head to foot, staggered from his chair. He was staring at the nun as if she had become the ghost of his dead lover. “You hear him, too?” he gasped.

“He is not at peace, senior. He moans and shrieks in a terrible, smothering way, as if a bony hand were pressing down upon his chest until his ribs crack.”

The young man suddenly recovered himself and dashed from the room. The nun passed her hand across her fevered forehead, as if a terrible dream still remained in the corners of her memory. She stood, facing the door. The living are all cowards when it comes to the great gray shadow that they blithely call death.

I have searched for Hart Crane among the dice of drowned men’s bones. I have wandered Alfacar looking for the fountain of tears. Federico, your body has yet to be discovered. We call the dead back to us but the living have nothing to say.

cum slush and stubborn flesh

11 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic art of drowning, homoerotic, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the sea

From down here the sea’s surface is the sky,
waves are clouds, seaweed marks where you got bored

and left me. I hate you — but I know why
you did all this when I fell overboard —

just to watch me drown. I am still drowning,
just as memory falls, stone through depths, sea

green to blue to black, as we did. Kissing
until your cold flesh robbed me. You robbed me.

I gave so easily — a heart that beats,
cum slush and stubborn flesh. I licked your gills.

Your cock was otherworldly. Who cheats
death cheats life. I need neither. Drowning thrills

but not as much as what you took: love, joy,
slam-bang blowjobs. Flesh from a living boy.

rip

01 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

homoerotic, let it rip, poem, Poetry, sonnet, you handsome devil

My spine twists as I roll beneath your nails.
I’m so awkward, but you taste like Spirit.

I’ll roll you up, let you run through my veins
in a cab; if I could paint I’d paint smut,

I’d paint your future: two fingers deep in
until you grab my wrist and hiss: “not here.”

So you’re sixteen and deadlier than sin,
I just had to ask, tell me if it’s real;

as the radio says; as the boom box
commands. Everything I’ve said has been told

by far better souls than mine. I still drip
like blood, like snot, like love. When all the cocks

and cunts are revealed — like these center fold
gods — we the divine will say, “let it rip.”

dead man switch

01 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Tags

bleed me, dead man pleasure, homoerotic, poem, Poetry, switch cutting

 

thoughts are of muscle and
bone thrash under ankles

and wrists ache as the ropes
cut into muffled moans permeate

the dark truck stop bathroom
straddling at the neck slowly

rip the tape off force
it into the back

of the throat re-enter
with a renewed determination

hard pleasure dead man
switch cutting through

my belly watch
everything spill

quiver

01 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Tags

Camp aesthetic, homoerotic, one well-hung cookie, poem, Poetry, pre-Stonewall, Saint Sebastian

 

a river of stars flooded
out of me even what’s

beautiful can be pain can
be violent joy where

the first arrow ended
marked the path you must

take to cross to me
the scene has been

set the bow tense
quiver in anticipation

][][

note:

Forever young and looking good tied naked to a tree, a saint popular with solders and athletes, Sebastian was a curly-haired Roman youth shot with arrows on the orders of emperor Diocletian, martyred by the establishment. In 1976, the British director Derek Jarman made a film, Sebastiane, which caused controversy in its treatment of Sebastian as a homosexual icon; though, as many critics have noted, this has been a subtext of his martyr story even before the Renaissance. In his novella Death in Venice, Thomas Mann writes about the Sebastian-Beauty as the “supreme emblem of Apollonian beauty, that is, the artistry of differentiated forms; beauty as measured by discipline, proportion, and luminous distinctions.” From these roots as well as the work of Susan Sontag and other pre-Stonewall theorists arose the aesthetic known as Camp; an acceptance of masculine effeminacy and a “heroism born of weakness.”

Video

make much of me

03 Sunday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in video

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Tags

Boss Cupid Studios, ch3mical r3nt boy, Christina Rossetti, Detroit, DJ Liliti, Goblin Market, homoerotic, jazz, Michigan, video

][][

Crouching close together
in the cooling weather,
with clasping arms and cautioning lips,
with tingling cheeks and finger tips.
“lie close,” Laura said,
and for the first time in her life
began to listen and look
she clung about her sister,
kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her
look at our apples
bob at our cherries,
bite at our peaches,
plums on their twigs;
pluck them and suck them,
pomegranates, figs.
then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:
sweeter than honey from the rock,
stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
clearer than water flow’d that juice,
she never tasted such before
she suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more
fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
she suck’d until her lips were sore,
brother with queer brother
hugg’d her and kiss’d her,
squeez’d and caress’d her
tore her gown and soil’d her stocking,
held her hands and squeez’d their fruits
against her mouth to make her eat.
Lizzie utter’d not a word;
would not open lip from lip
lest they should cram a mouthful in.
but laugh’d in heart to feel the drip
of juice that syrupp’d all her face,
and streak’d her neck
and lodg’d in dimples of her chin,
she cried, Laura,
did you miss me?
come and kiss me.
never mind my bruises,
hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
squeez’d from goblin fruits for you,
goblin pulp and goblin dew.
eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
for your sake I have braved the glen
and had to do with goblin merchant men.
her lips began to scorch,
she kissed and kissed her
with a hungry mouth.

][][

Jazz composition based on the poem “Goblin Market,” by Christina Rossetti; recorded at Boss Cupid Studios, Detroit, Michigan (October 5, 2013) All mixing by DJ Liliti.

horny goat weed

26 Thursday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Greek myth, homoerotic, horny goat weed, Pan, poem, Poetry, satyr, sonnet

 

 

 

He would look like a girl, save for that curl
of a beard, that fine, thick hair, those antlers.

He skips girlishly but in ways no girl
ever skips. When he kisses he offers

you all of Arcadia, for his tongue
is far sharper than his pipes. During sex

you catch him maa-ing with pleasure. He’s young,
bound in the response of the moon, reflex

of the stars. Imagine heavy, round limes
lost in the leaves. When you swallow his cum

he melts into you like myth. His singing
is of worlds you will never see. Sometimes

you hear his hooves clicking in the kitchen,
his rude goat cock hanging silent, dreaming.

501 jeans

20 Tuesday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, haiku, Illustration and art, Poetry

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Tags

501 jeans, art, haiku, homoerotic, poema, Poetry

501

501s

Image

little ashes

28 Sunday Apr 2013

Tags

art, cute boys kissing, Federico Garcia Lorca, gif, homoerotic, Salvador Dali

a1

a2

Riwkin NEG 002

a4

a5

a6

a7

a8

Little Ashes: the passion of Federico Garcia Lorca and Salvador Dali

Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under .gif, Erotic, photograph

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erotica [links]

  • nina hartley
  • the pearl (a magazine of facetiae and volupous reading, 1879-1880)
  • erotica readers and writers association
  • nifty stories
  • poesia erótica (português)
  • mighty jill off
  • armenian erotica and news
  • susie "sexpert" bright

electric mayhem [links]

  • ida cox
  • Severus & the Deatheaters [myspace]
  • Poetic K [myspace]
  • sandra bernhard
  • cyndi lauper
  • clara smith
  • discos bizarros argentinos
  • aimee mann

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ars poetica: the blogs e-h

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ars poetica: the blogs i-l

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ars poetica: the blogs m-o

  • heather o'neill
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  • mlive: michigan poetry news
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ars poetica: the blogs p-r

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  • sina queyras
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ars poetica: the blogs s-z

  • sexy poets society
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