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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Las Vegas

unfit

26 Sunday Sep 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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creosote, horrible pang, Las Vegas, my gristle, poem, Poetry, sage, self-portrait, sonnet, unfit

Ask me. I will. Where I used to dwell I’d smell

the ghost of the red desert stirring, sensed

it wake at dawn. Creosote, sage, the swell

of black palm fronds flinging themselves against

a sky neon green, warm as bath water.

I will. I had the loneliness that sang,

too. It gave me songs but not one lover.

Songs of dust and rust, that horrible pang

of loss that left me sick. I still smell it.

In my sweat and sperm, my gristle. I’ll share

it, if you ask. Songs of blank bricks, Vegas

heat and heartache. I’ll sing of dawns unfit

for these dull days; when even rage is prayer

and we burn together, full of malice.

double down

03 Tuesday Dec 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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double down saloon, erotic poetry, hot springs, Las Vegas, paphian cream, paphos of cyprus, poem, sonnet, threesome

“Venus with a penis.” After Britt’s third
bong hit. After the third time I surfaced

between her legs, with, “Paphian custard,”
on my chin. We left Vegas and August

and soaked in thermal springs. Now our unsafe
sex is just some flashback, lust gone manic,

like you. Did you like your chronic? your waif
boy’s 12-inch tongue? your day that started sick

at the Double Down? She was Britt the Clit.
You were her Mama Jama. I was pleased,

thinking my dust witch happy at last. No.
Even at those springs. Even with Britt’s spit

slick on my cock and the fingers you eased
into her, red rocks still split, stoned and slow.

NOTE:
The Double Down Saloon is a bar in Las Vegas that, at least back in 2000s, had a fabulous “old school break dancing” night once a week. In myth Paphos of Cyprus was daughter of Pygmalion and built a temple to Aphrodite on the island. In Victorian sex-slang, “Paphian cream,” was a euphemism for girl cum.

coup d’etat

03 Sunday Mar 2019

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

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ars poetica, Cosmic Vulva, coup d'état, Las Vegas, poem, Poetry, seppuku, She Slits Open, sissy soul, sonnet, Yukio Mishima

That’s the knife called: She Slits Open.
Once I sang that I’d slice open my gut,

reach in and drag out loops of intestine
if it ever got that bad. Before smut

and my sonnets I lived in Las Vegas,
crossroad of ghosts. I carried her with me

all the time: at the Shrine of the Goddess,
in class, at the gym. I was one sissy

hellbent on going out like Mishima.
Honor is queer, though: once it got that bad

only survival could prove them all wrong —
prove my fey soul is strong — Cosmic Vulva

strong — strong as the ghosts calling me comrade.
Stronger than this old belly-slitting song.

NOTE:
Yukio Mishima was a Japanese author and literary luminary, obsessed with beauty, homoeroticism and death. On November 25, 1970, Mishima and four members of his secret militia entered a military base in central Tokyo, took the commandant hostage and tried to persuade the soldiers there to join in overthrowing the new pacifist government in a coup d’etat. When this was unsuccessful, Mishima committed seppuku, ritual suicide by cutting open his belly.

She Slits Open

vegas

10 Saturday Jun 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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hand sweats, Las Vegas, my pubes itch, poem, Poetry, sonnet, summer heat, the air bathwater warm, thighs splay

The heat rises. It’s nothing like spring storms.
Nothing stirs. Whose fur hangs dank? Who drowses

and sleeps half the day away? Heat deforms,
corrupts us. The sweat in my pubes itches.

I scratch and scratch until tufts come away:
soggy cum, soggy spit and tight black curls.

You sprawl nearby me. The way your thighs splay
makes me blush though our naked boy’s and girl’s

secrets mean little in this heat. We pass
a spliff back and forth. We drain our whiskey

and pour out more. Cicadas drone. The glass
in your hand sweats. Everything is raspy.

Tonight we’ll go out in the summer storm
with heat-lightning, the air bathwater warm.

canyon shadows

04 Tuesday Nov 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry

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canyon shadows, free verse, gout ragamuffin, Las Vegas, Nevada ghost, poem, Poetry

Deserted mountains, hoist
the provisions among

the fronds, I love
a burned country.

Only the sound of
quails can be heard,

gout ragamuffins through
the crags, do not talk

to me like I’m perishable
food. The sunbeams look

best when free, undress
upon entering the deep

hills. The rocks on
the green moss will

say: I love
the pigment in you.

soared flashed gone

21 Tuesday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic, exhibitionist, finger fucking, hot springs, Las Vegas, Nevada, poem, Poetry, soared flashed gone, sonnet

Foliage dark mass fringed by your thighs we’re rude
north of Vegas two hour drunken blur

red rocks screening our bodies laying nude
upon rocks above the hot spring, under

the cliff’s shadow nature is nudity
grace-like you stand hands on hips gazing

upon my half-open calves and fleshy
gingersnaps we have been finger fucking

soared flashed gone all day tease taste swallow deep
throat gag control we came here to get high

above the valley floor you shudder seize
my skull press me deeper until you weep

when I go down. Looking up, you reply:
please please please please please please please please please please …

erotic obscura

17 Tuesday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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djinn, erotic obscura, glowing green, Las Vegas, poem, Poetry, Sin City, sonnet

Kiss me, fool. I’m the last clockwork djinn. Kiss
me. You’ve always wanted an infernal
toy made of Tesla glass and Anubis
fire. Now distill breathing love from crystal
ardor. Like Las Vegas, I glow green
in the dark, I’m an amorous engine.
Where else but to Sin City would a djinn
go? Now bare flesh and sing incantation.
Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. By high backstreets
and dark thoroughfares I come: a loosed wild
wind, the last of the spring-propelled djinni.
The old gods did not die – not with Yeats
and mad Crowley. Why would they? Come, love child,
erotic obscura calls you. Kiss me.

rain like doomsday

04 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Dante, desert, flash flood, Las Vegas, mesquite, rain, saguaro, sonnet

On that day the worse rain in thirty years
poured down, killed three people. Very little
causes Las Vegas to shut down. The fears
of the Rust Belt have no home here. Virgil
sat on my left hand, Dante at my right.
We watched the streets flood and the arroyos
overflow. Mesquite released a smell, fright
mixed with fate, in the air. The saguaro’s
green sides rumbled in the rain like doomsday
drums. I have met some fearful and anxious
ghosts since, but none were afraid as Dante
on the day I moved into Las Vegas.
Still, we survived, came out the other side
with no hoopla, or even spirit guide.

phantasmic comforts: asleep in the city of souls

14 Monday Jan 2013

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

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Tags

alien, city of souls, ghost lover, Las Vegas, Nevada, Sekhmet, sonnet, The Strip, Valley of Fire, veil

Las Vegas literature has been and continues to be a literature of exiles, written mainly by outsiders who arrived from elsewhere, stayed briefly, lingering along the city’s glittering Strip and never once invest the place with any depth, any soul, any idea of what was going on around them.

Las Vegas literature has been and continues to be a literature of exiles, written mainly by outsiders who arrive from elsewhere, stay briefly, linger along the city’s glittering Strip but never once invest the place with any depth, any soul, any idea of what is going on around them.

I had never witnessed so many ghosts
until I lived in Vegas. The desert’s
potter’s field; for, what other city boasts
such a thin veil? What phantasmic comforts
could such a necropolis offer up
to the living? The Valley of Fire called
and the temple of Sekhmet called. Worship
comes in all forms. Can you hear this? Ribald
pleasures are nothing compared to carnal
worship. The ghosts came in throngs. They hungered
to be witnessed. “Hear me, friend, the frightful
veil is not all so frightful,”
they murmured.
There is no Emerald City; Vegas
is a way station, nothing more or less.

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erotica [links]

  • armenian erotica and news
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  • nina hartley
  • nifty stories
  • the pearl (a magazine of facetiae and volupous reading, 1879-1880)
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  • poesia erótica (português)

electric mayhem [links]

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

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ars poetica: the blogs a-b

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ars poetica: the blogs c-d

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ars poetica: the blogs e-h

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ars poetica: the blogs i-l

  • emily lloyd
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  • ikonomenasa

ars poetica: the blogs m-o

  • monica mody
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ars poetica: the blogs p-r

  • red cedar review
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ars poetica: the blogs s-z

  • umbrella
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  • womens quarterly conversation
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