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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: memory

roughhouse

07 Sunday Jun 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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BFG, memory, Peace Corps, poem, Poetry, runnyrot, scrumdiddlyumptious, sonnet

When I lurched from the old-timey, baroque-
ass stove, when flame claimed my lashes and brows,

when a third of my scalp went up in smoke.
Odd how our flesh reacts. You say roughhouse

is fun. Hot wax feels scrumdiddlyumptious,
you say, lighting the candle. Suddenly

my scalp’s scars come alive with pink, wet puss
as the skin peels back, as I sit for three

days with open wounds until the Peace Corps
doctor can drive to my post. I forgot

that pain. My flesh, though, still loves to remind
me, in odd ways, at odd times, that I’m more

scab than baroque, that I’m slow at being taught,
that these scars are of the runnyrot kind.

][][

Note:
Scrumdiddlyumptious (wonderful) and runnyrot (horrible and painful) are gobblefunk words made up by Roald Dahl for his book, The BFG (1982)

where it was

03 Wednesday Jan 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, German, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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anal sex, erotic poetry, falling on my head like a memory, German translation, memory, puckered again, rim job, sonnet, where it was, wo es war

“Wo es war,” where it was leads us to it.
There were days as if it were not hunkered

in the distance; from gangrened to frostbit
to flesh in the cold. Where it was. Absurd

to think of it: beastly, feral, depraved.
Absurd to follow. “Wo es war,” and yet,

I do. There be dragons; all that it craved,
ravings. I crave for you: take the blade, whet

stone, carve such German words on my neither.
Twist me this where it was hunkered. Our tryst

begged. I follow. I rave. May memory
be my only brood; the past such future.

You lay with your ass in the air — I kissed,
you clenched; puckered again, I thought, briefly.

shadows follow

10 Thursday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Poetry, sonnet

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1995-1997, Elie Wiesel, memory, Peace Corps, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Yerevan

Most people think that shadows follow, precede or surround beings or objects. The truth is that they also surround words, ideas, desires, deeds, impulses and memories.
— Elie Wiesel

If my memories could have only slept
in Yerevan; if I would have never
faced the sky’s worrisome slackness, windswept
spirits swept between mountains and further
rocks; if the swifts and skylarks had only
saved me; then telling you of what happened
would be utterable. My skull’s memory
feels like an oak-beam ripped in two, opened
by force. Hesitantly I step forward.
I want to tell you how this all began
but pain is potent and drives everything
away. There is no magic, no numbered
spell to ease this. No. I left Yerevan
and went north, which was all my undoing.

tsovinar

07 Thursday Mar 2013

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

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Armenia, ghost city of my soul, Gyumri, memory, Nar, Peace Corps, sonnet, sorrow, Tsovinar

sky child 2

I.
I was twenty-six when my neighbor sold
me his daughter. She was twelve, he explained,
and if I didn’t pay drams, dollars or gold
for her, the brothel in town would. He feigned
sorrow at such an act, though my neighbor
had been happily drunk the day before.

I was an oddity: a foreigner
living alone. I despise the word whore.
Pimps are poltroon dogs. But at twenty-six
I was easily confused; too frightened
that I would become the sort that inflicts
hell on a girl by saying no. Orphaned

for a month worth of cheap vodka, I paid
$82 dollars for her. All that night

we cried, sitting in my one-room hut; prayed
that there was some quick answer to make right
things that are neither. I could barely speak
her odd, harsh language. Nar knew no English.

She owned one dress, but no shoes. All that week
I went clothes hunting; hoping to furnish
for her at least underwear. But no one
sold such things at the market. Malnourished

and lice-ridden I shaved her. Her fallen
mane writhed upon the floor. Nar’s small, anguished
face looked foreign like me without her hair.

All that week she did not speak; lay in bed
and cried and cried. All that week my despair
deepened too. It was as if we had known
there was no easy out. I bathed her clean
and fed her full of lavash, khorovadz
and tahn. Even so, I felt obscene,
queasy, with my stomach tied up in knots.

II.
Nar will visit me sometimes. It took me ten
years to quit blaming myself. I never

have stopped blaming myself. Again, again,
again; the whole sick night, like a fever,
returns. Sweating and shitting and throwing

up all I gave her, Nar grew weaker, day
by day. I had no medicine, nothing
to ease her pain. Neighbors all stayed away;

even the bastard who had sold my Nar,
my lost Tsovinar, to me. Each visit

of hers is bitter-sweet. She travels far
for a boy who went mad; burnt down his hut,
got sent home in shame. I’ve never forgave

myself for leaving my Nar in her grave.

Notes:

The name Tsovinar (Ծովինար) is very ancient and very sacred. It was given to one of the pre-Christian deities in the Armenian pantheon. Tsovinar, or Nar, is the goddess of water, sea, and rain. A fire creature, she forces the rain and hail to fall from the heavens with her fury. Her name translates as “Nar on the sea.”

The Armenian monetary unit is called the dram. I also use several words in the poem which are the names of various Armenian dishes. Lavash (la’vash), bread of the gods, is soft and flat and when made by hand is rolled out and slapped against the walls of a clay oven. Khorovatz (xorovatz) is the Armenian word for barbeque and is often served using chunks of grilled meat rolled up in lavash. I found it similar to the Middle Eastern shawarma. Finally, Tahn (t’an) is a sour milk soup prepared by diluting yogurt with water. Often in Gyumri cucumber and dill were added.

that’s enough for me

15 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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Aladdin Sane, Gravesend, homoerotica, memory, Putney, redheaded witch, self-portrait, She Who Cannot Be Named, sonnet, winter

putney in wintertime.

putney in wintertime.

London and a diet of shrimp curry,
Southern Comfort, hashish; I can recall
my poor hip pressed up against your icy

wall. We spooned all “winta.” Your Gravesend drawl
made me giggle. We loved Aladdin Sane.

I won’t list faults. Complaining kinda blows.

Why should I complain about love? Complain
it did not work? As if no beasts, heroes,
singers or thinkers ever once fucked up.

We don’t talk about redheaded witchcraft
or She Who Cannot Be Named. Talk is cheap.

Betrayal poems cheaper. I’m grown up.
You’re dead … so what? Once you told me you laughed
with joy as I lay in your arms, asleep.

upon a hint of ginger

02 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bastard lover, ginger root, memory, New Mexico, Old Spice, Pinos Altos, scent, sonnet, winter

A scent comes back to me. The last safe love
I knew smelled of pinon nuts, a winter
in New Mexico. Brine from an olive
still scares me. A bastard of a lover
ruined cloves and made the hint of Old Spice
into fear. A boy I loved in fishnet
stockings knew how to make plums smell like vice.
I have forgotten names. I don’t forget
the musk you once used to mask your true scent.
There’s no hiding from that. But memories
of scents are either sad joys or hell-bent
dread and nothing else … nothing that can please.
How odd that the one who loved me the most
turned this mild whiff into a vengeful ghost.

a dark science

13 Sunday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, dark science, flavor of love, memory, orgasmo divino, sonnet, the dead

There are two scars on the dead woman’s breasts
but when I run my finger over them
she mews, shivers and turns away. Our chests
soon touch and she pushes her need and phlegm,
a stub of a blue tongue, into my mouth.
Love should come with no strings or not at all.
When I move between her thighs, “go down south,
Moses,”
I can taste on her clit the gall
of the methanol used in embalming.
There is a science to all this, I know.
A dark science. I treasure that second
when she climaxed, laughing and crying,
when the dead discovered lust once more
and our understanding of love deepened.

belladonna recalls

27 Friday Aug 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

ass girl, Belladonna, cum and cry, Dante, memory, rudest of playthings, sonnet, strap-on sister

OOBATZ. Pronounced oo-‘botz.
It means ‘crazy’ or ‘you’re crazy’
in Italian slang.

This was merely one more new delight 
for my horse-dick brother -- dripping honeyed
cum. He slowly pushed steel into my tight 
asshole until the whole shaft was buried 
to his balls. Then Dante began shaking 
back and forth, moving his cock in my ass. 
I felt filled, throbbing, my asshole gaping
as I squeezed him. Grabbing my hourglass 
hips he jack-hammered, oobatz. He and I 
then came: me for the third time and his first.
Cum and cry. That's all I did. Cum and cry
with his cock until I thought I would burst. 
That's how I became a Strap-on Sister.
Rudest of Playthings. An Ass Girl Lover.

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erotica [links]

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

electric mayhem [links]

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

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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

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