• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: lilith now and forever

bratz

12 Saturday Sep 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

bratz bra, erotic poetry, Hello Kitty panties, lilith now and forever, Love shall make us a threesome, mot hyt be, poem, sonnet, Y-fronts

Sister, tease me with a, “mot hyt be,” please.
Brother, now you, “amen.” I’ll take you both.

Plump, ripe fruit. Plowed fields. Prelude to orgies,
to feasts, to harvest. A hint of the oath

that I took to befoul Chosen Ones, lead
the Star Children to sin; which, for you two,

will be in my bedroom stoned while we read
Byron’s Manfred, snog and giggle. This, too,

is an After School special. These misfit
pleasures. This wolfish love of ewes and rams.

Come. I’ll guide you through cum-fueled odysseys.
There’s a far shore where you’ll learn to submit.

I’ll fill you with myth: Eve’s Bratz bra, Adam’s
Y-fronts, Lilith’s Hello Kitty panties.

][][

Notes:
I’ve never understood why Neopagans began using the Freemason’s, “So mote it be,” to end their prayers with, but they do. “Mot hyt be,” is the original spelling, taken from the Regius Manuscript. Snog is British slang for sloppy kissing. According to Sigmund Freud, out of all the underwear in the world, the diaper-rash whitey-tighty Y-fronts symbolize discomfort and awkwardness in the male psyche. Of course Adam wore them.

inferno

25 Friday Jan 2019

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

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erotic poetry, holy like sin, impaled, Inferno, lilith now and forever, poem, rage fuck, rehab, sonnet, va ao inferno

I note how in rehab you sound drunken
with awe while going on about how sex

was fun back in Nineteen-seventy One.
Fun ain’t a word I use. “Savage.” “Complex.”

“Impaled.” Break me double until you feel
my heart beat under my ribs. Connected,

with cock, with fingers, with mouth, with that squeal
squirting, flesh tethered flesh. “Rage fuck.” “Blood

brutal.” “Holy like sin.” Still, you fear hell
so you got some quick faith, some religion —

that’s not my fate. Sex is the Inferno;
Lilith, the guide. Perhaps, in some motel,

somewhere, sex is fun. I don’t know. Your fun
has brought me only pain, ruin, sorrow.

perked

24 Thursday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blow job, born dead, erotic poetry, fellatio, lilith now and forever, nipples perked, poem, raw like mescal, sonnet

I taste of mud, pert meat, the moon’s eclipse;
being born still and cold until Lilith

breathed life into me, wrote the word, “Emeth,”
on a stone and placed it between my lips.

I still shimmer as I pass through heated air,
though my lisp anchors me here. One day soon

you’ll kiss me and taste the wasteland’s dark moon
while on your knees, while tonguing my curled hair.

Lockjaw and spittle. “Lilith’s Pet,” you said,
staring as your nipples perked. Like footprints

trampled in red mud, in blood, my kiss shall
leave its mark, tell you that I was born dead

in dearth and plague. I want to see you wince
taking me in, like sin’s gin, raw’s mescal.

][][

NOTE:
According to Jewish folklore, Judah Loew ben Bezalel (a 16th-century rabbi of Prague) created the automatonic Golem by shaping it from river mud and writing the word, “Emeth,” meaning truth, on its forehead.

mercy

27 Thursday Dec 2018

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

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

alcoholic, Armenia, Gyumri, lilith now and forever, Nagorno-Karabakh, poem, Poetry, ptsd, recovery, sonnet

Christmas Eve’s “No First Drink” Recovery
Meeting. The reek of Pall Mall in the air.

Don’t talk now. Don’t stand out. Not of Gyumri.
Not of dead orphans. Not of the nightmare

that haunts you from Nagorno-Karabakh.
Everyone here carries their own horrors.

Right now just listen, just be present. Black
humor, Lilith’s mercy, depraved lovers

kept you, if not lucid, at least sober …
but not tonight. You woke. You sit and grieve,

nod and listen. You love these survivors.
You love everyone but yourself. No prayer

will heal what you conceal under your sleeve,
under your burn scar, your broken knuckle.

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