• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: more than spilled ink

nostalgia

29 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

conversations with imaginary sisters, deathblow, flog the fog, Grace, more than spilled ink, nostalgia, poem, Poetry, praise, sonnet

Around the time when earthly pinks and pearl

had been drained from the sky and the crows rose

 

in their trees to caw gray into the world

I stirred in nightmare, in sodden nightclothes,

 

in that sick sweat I get when pneumonia

curls cute in my lungs. I type in a fog

 

while in bed, one fingered, the nostalgia

of lust both heavy and out of reach. “Flog

 

a dead horse,” you text back. “Lust is all that

you write about.” Perhaps. These new gray days

 

of crow caws and ice match my libido.

Who do I turn to? Even my tomcat

 

retreats. Once I called lust prayer and could praise

pleasure. Now it’s less grace and more deathblow.

études

28 Monday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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études, crassest of sex, fiddle, ippy bullsheet, more than spilled ink, Paganini, poem, Poetry, seducing fugues, sonnet, violin

Climax, crescendo and the Devil’s joy

wrung from her violin in the café.

 

Later she said: “Oui. You’re ah ‘ice fuck toy.

I weehl steahl you.” Soon she turned to risque

 

tunes coaxed from Paganini’s cursed fiddle;

four strings hinting at uncanny glamour.

 

“Oui. Zat despair een ‘is eyes, unable

to speak because, you know, lairynx can’cair,

 

as I slipped eet from ‘is ‘ands.” The dying,

she said, were, “ah ‘oot,” to fuck with. “Love eet

 

with zair, ‘but mon Dieu loves me’, attitudes.

Pourquoi?” Hers was a fugue seducing

 

glamour and the rest just,“’ippy bullsheet.”

Hints of crassest sex from refined études.

][][

NOTES:

Niccolò Paganini (1782-1840) was an Italian violin virtuoso and believed by many to have sold his soul to the Devil for a legendary red violin. I go back and forth as to whether regional accents help a poem or hinder other people from understanding it. The truth is that I have a lot of fun figuring out various accents but there’s no point in writing something no one else can read. Here’s the translation if any of my fake Parisian words confuse:

Climax, crescendo and the Devil’s joy wrung from her violin in the cafe. Later she said: “Yes. You’re a nice fuck toy. I will steal you.” Soon she turned to risque tunes coaxed from Paganini’s cursed fiddle; four strings hinting at uncanny glamour. “Yes. That despair in his eyes, unable to speak because, you know, larynx cancer, as I slipped it from his hands.” The dying, she said, were, “a hoot,” to fuck with. “Love it with their, ‘but my God loves me’, attitudes. But why?” Hers was a fugue seducing glamour and the rest just,“hippy bullshit.” Hints of crassest sex from refined études.

splurges

16 Wednesday Sep 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic poetry, like Brigitte Bardot, lust is hard, more than spilled ink, poem, sonnet, splurges, submarine fuck-pad, worth these wages

They say virtue is its own reward. No.
Champagne tastes on beer budgets is a sin.

After all, if Brigitte Bardot can throw
orgies in her submarine fuck-pad then

so should I. I just need a submarine,
lots of love slaves and a sugar daddy

billionaire willing to make my obscene
dream real. Is that asking too much? Maybe

you think that I’m lowbrow since I value
both lust and the free market. Lust is hard

work, one worth these wages. If undersea
splurges are a special kind of virtue,

then maelstrom sex must be its own reward.
Let’s try it. We’ll cum with gale-force fury.

tower

08 Tuesday Sep 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

chaos, erotic poetry, gape your grin, hip your lips, more than spilled ink, riot smoldering, sonnet, tower

Chaos. I can feel the howl of your blood
calling me home. You’re slung low in my guts

the way gods cradle a newly minted
mortal. Kiss me and know just how riots

smolder, vexed by their own fire. Chaos feels
nothing like that, being form and formless,

like blood, like cum. Spread your lips wide, ordeals
of the soul require a gaped grin. Transgress

with blood-honey dripping legs. Carnivore
your needs. Betray your paths. You know I will

follow you anywhere. Your rosebud, gaped
O wrapped around a stone tower. Sink core

deep. That’s my Chaos to you; deformed thrill,
gnarled and scintillating, passion misshaped.

at all

22 Saturday Aug 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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at all, butch girls are the best, erotic poetry, more than spilled ink, poem, sissyboy pale, sonnet

I want it to be quick, green like windfall.
But it won’t. It’ll be bitter as daisies,

slow as barley. News comes late, if at all.
Then you’ll recall raiding you mom’s panties

drawer for the thong she never let you wear.
Laughing as you sniffed it. “Eww, that’s her pussy’s

smell. Mine smells better.” Back when underwear
and school skirts were a drag and my sissy’s

flesh and my cock’s joy were a queer boy math
that you didn’t get. Back when Lilith’s owls

still called you. Spellbound I fled through the fox,
through the barley. You changed. Daisy’s sabbath.

Recall? Once it was real, all vowels, growls;
that taste, like myth, like the tang of my cock.

stranger

20 Thursday Aug 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, heal thyself, hellbent, her finger on your clit, Love shall make us a threesome, more than spilled ink, poem, sonnet, stranger danger

They say, “any port in a storm.” Yes. You
both came home with me for spliffs of righteous

bush, bi-boy porn, sauna’s wet heat. Who knew
stranger danger could be fun? A scrumptious

orgy while we play Witches and Warlock.
Now, all aglow, your best friend asks how it

feels while rubbing the tip of my cock
against your lips, her finger on your clit.

Life in a small town; you two craved to feel
depraved. Your dad said I’m a foreigner,

hellbent on trouble. All true. We love storm;
chronic thunder and rain. It’s how we’ll heal

from a world that hates pleasure and laughter.
Ecstasy is the key. Watch us transform.

craptastic

19 Wednesday Aug 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

being besties, craptastic, erotic poetry, fuck squad of friends, more than spilled ink, poem, subaquatic sex pad, submarine of sin, there are 3650 days in a decade

Others have promised heaven, which is odd
since that’s not my heart’s delight (that would be

a subaquatic sex pad) but I nod
all the same because we are trying. We

both know that we’ll never meet. All those text ––
threats of being besties, of cum, of bliss

–– end the same each time. I use to be vexed
with that. Five hundred weeks (without a kiss,

without a lover, without the passion
I write of) is craptastic but honest.

A chaste decade. Let heaven be a fuck
squad of friends in a submarine of sin

in the Seine. But who gets heaven when lust
can’t be reached? I dream of cum and havoc.

shaman

15 Saturday Aug 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cunnilingus, erotic poetry, gold mine, lilith's daughter, more than spilled ink, poem, ramrod, shaman, sonnet, sopping mess

Our gods call this prayer. Men say sin. I’ll take
divine every time. Your fingers barely

brush my flesh as they pass by. We are ache
and stardust, star-child. In a galaxy

afraid of this sort of pleasure you press
down. Take me in, shaman. We speak in moans,

holy words that leave us a sopping mess.
This prayer. This space between your pubic bones.

Stretching you. The good pain when you use this
as the conduit to speak to our gods ––

Lean back while I finger your clit until
you can’t hold yourself up. Hard fuck. Hard kiss.

Hard faith, moon girl. Lilith’s daughter. Ramrods.
Gold mines. We cum as one. Our gods’ goodwill.

daemon

27 Monday Jul 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

best kind of haunting, daemon, erotic poetry, more than spilled ink, poem, sonnet, taboo bustin'

Your breasts, pressed; a valley where cum gathers
like ghosts. Through your bra, your scrubs, your nipples

hardened as you bent over me, fingers
at work. Your dad warned you of white devils.

Your mom said that I wanted just one thing.
If so we’re taking our time. I’m ghostly

pale when pressed against you; all my scarring
in stark relief, my veins glowing faintly.

What do taboos do but hold back chaos?
I love chaos. I love how you bent down

while I sat in the dentist’s chair, nodding
for more. Fingertips soaked. Crudest of sauce

coating each. Dappled ash pressed to wild brown.
I’m your daemon. The best kind of haunting.

breathless

21 Tuesday Jul 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

breathless, erotic poetry, if you do not cry out in pain while writing, more than spilled ink, poem, sonnet, stretching fun

I say, I am proud to be worth beating.
Love gets irksome. Today I’ll get broken.

I say, my limbs are good strung, like stretching,
but with more gore. I say, what hurts is fun;

that quick stroke, devil gone breathless, one hand
gripping. I want bruises across my hip,

dig? With your wrist, sharp red. Let it expand
with each stroke. I say, I pray to the whip

and all metal that cleaves, carves and slices.
I want it between these ribs, push in slick,

then down. I want to hear these bones of mine
shiver, splinter, crack. Grin like a corpse’s.

What pain curses it blesses. Horrific
leads to holy; my demon to your divine.

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