• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: poem

pestilence

20 Wednesday Apr 2022

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Azalea Crypt, bent moon, conked smile, erotic poetry, pestilence, poem, Poetry, sonnet, wet dreams, where nightmares go to die

Rise as the nightly scourge of a sanguine

people—Illusive as a ghostly stroke

across one’s cheek. Not a spring-heeled villain;

be that other sort of pestilence—smoke

smitten, unfettered, the Azalea Crypt

of quick caresses that makes flesh quiver.

I think of the moon bent; how cum once dripped

from your smile. A conked smile that grows fainter

in my mind as all memories grow faint

when you’re no longer haunted by a bent

figure pressed to the window. I know why

you’re gone. A scourge would need to be a saint

to slake my passions. For nightmares hellbent

on wet dreams I am where they go to die.

umbral

31 Thursday Mar 2022

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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blood umbral, cavort in the moonlight, crossroads, feast among the graves, Hecate, lost grave, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Hecate. Mother of the Moon. Hear me.

3 Fates. 3 Faces. Nighttide-bellower.

Thrice-voiced. Beloved of the Cemetery.

Mistress of Corpses and Fire. Bewitcher.

You, who Cronus gave the Underworld to.

You, who feasts among the graves; with this knife

I cut my flesh. 3 drops of blood might do.

Lover of Erinyes and Afterlife;

you face 3 Paths. Show me the 4th. Crossroads

form an X, show me the 5th. Blood umbral.

Mother mine. I am blind from Right-hand light;

from saints that rot, from angels that corrode.

Hecate: show me what’s veiled, nocturnal,

lustful; all that cavort in the moonlight.

serpentine

22 Tuesday Mar 2022

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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downcast ghast, Eros, erotic poetry, hueless meringue, Lilith, poem, Poetry, reviled wild child, serpentine, sonnet, stunted feet, woebegone eidolon

Yes, let all dried pied things that hunt beneath

hueless meringues, that kink about and crawl

upon claws or stunted feet in the heath,

let them all come. Let the dead things that brawl

with the living come, too. The fell things cast

out who walk in the wild woods by their wild

lones. I want them all. Every downcast ghast;

woebegone eidolon; every reviled

wild child. My bed is big. My appetite

curious and my hunger fabulous.

Mortal hordes bore me. Nations of grundy

prigs priss want away. But passion, delight

bred, its fire stirred by Lilith and Eros,

is worth it. Here, serpentine lust, take me.

thunderhead

09 Wednesday Mar 2022

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

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ars poetica, birthday, ghosts and gods and stuff, half-assed conduit, Ոչինչ, poem, Poetry, sonnet, thunderhead, vo'chinch

Half a mile high. Book open. Pen drooping

in one hands; the hand that writes secret words.

Just as the in-flight drinks are served something

enters. “Sounds like dementia. It’s absurd;

ghosts and gods and stuff.” I’ve done deep damage

with my drinking; taken blows to my head.

Who knows? Half a mile high and a mirage

enters me. Shadows? The dark thunderhead

out my window? “Sounds like that Twilight Zone

Gremlin.” On Thursday I’ll be fifty-two.

“Vo’chinch,” my pen writes. Nothing? Good enough.

Good? I’m a half-assed conduit. I’ve grown;

not wiser, just … vaguer. Just … the one who,

miles high, mumbles of ghosts and gods and stuff.

][][

Note:

Armenian, an ancient language I am forever butchering when I try to talk, has the most useful word in the world, “Vo’chinch,” (Ոչինչ) an expression that literally means, “Nothing,” but is used in the same way that the French use, “Comme ci Comme ca” — neither good nor bad, it just is.

irrumabo

05 Wednesday Jan 2022

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Catullus, gnostic gibber, Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo, poem, Poetry, priggish schlock, sonnet, translation

Before the Great War poets saw Gnostic

gibber everywhere. “Hark! The voice of Dawn!”

they’d write and then Dawn would say some stomach

turned tripe about Divine will and Bygone

virtues. After great wars and great horror

the shit got real. “Make it new,” had no place

for, “Lord’s sweet orbs of night,” or whatever

passed as gritty for those sad fucks. “Embrace

vulgar and speak truth,” Catullus charged us.

Brother, even now they still don’t get it;

if those hard sibylline K’s in Cunt, Cock

and Cum offend how will they bear witness

to real horror? –– “Irrumabo?” Shit,

time to go Orphic on your priggish schlock.

][][

NOTES:

When the subject of wretched poetry comes up my first thought is of those slushy, inbred Victorians, who gave us some of the worst doggerel to be found in the English language. Full of pomposity, being grandiloquent without humor or irony, they seemed entirely unwilling or unable to write about anything without heaping bathos all over it: “Theirs not to make reply,/ Theirs not to reason why,/ Theirs but to do and die.” Yes, please put this schmaltz out of its misery. It’s no surprise that the artists who survived WWI quickly realized that their forebears were altogether useless when describing the horrors that they themselves had just witnessed. Burning it all down and salting the earth after was the only logical way to go. Thus, “Make it new,” became Modernism’s imperative and we’ve been following that maxim ever since … with mixed results. I lay claim to the Roman poet Catullus (84-54 B.C.) as poetic progenitor (that’s approximately 84 generations back). He’s a clean old man; though these days Catullus is chiefly remembered for a line of verse considered so obscene that a complete English translation of it wasn’t even published until the 20th century. “Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,” which translates as: “I will sodomize and face-fuck you” (best opening line to one’s critics ever). That is the, “vulgar truth,” that I look for in poetry.

gauche

29 Wednesday Dec 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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ars poetica, blatant bleeding, Bronski Beat, gauche, jinkies, Oscar Wilde, poem, Poetry, sonnet, twenty seven scars

We all bleed; I’m just ill-bred about it.

Of the twenty-seven holes so far bored

through my flesh all were amateurish, split

seconds of poor choices. There’s no reward

for a gauche childhood other than blatant

bleeding while your betters smirk. Oscar Wilde

never tripped on rusty farm equipment.

No one in Bronski Beat had such reviled

puncture wounds. Jinkies! I hear their peevish,

“Tsks,” each time I must take off my trousers.

Tsks and, “If you call that mutilating.”

Twenty-seven scars and not one foppish

gaffe; just crackups, buckshot, brass knucks, a spur.

–– Redundant wounds. –– Tedious hemorrhaging.

bootchy

16 Thursday Dec 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Uncategorized

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Amy Lowell, bootchy, ghost hunger, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet, The Camellia Tree of Matsue, Two Speak Together

“The Camellia tree would leave its place/ By the gateway,/ And wander up and down the garden,/ Trailing its roots behind it.” ~ Amy Lowell.

Fetch the axe, the poet said. But when you swung,

and bit deep, dark blood spouted, and when you

bent down to tear out the stump, the ground hung

open, “like a wound.” That you could, then threw

the foul thing ten feet, was lost on Lowell.

It was her ghost tale; as if a lewd tree

using lewd roots in lewd ways made a hell

better tale than you. Bull-dagger, Bootchy

-bitch, she called you. Boon-butch. Why the poet

of, “Two Speak Together,” shunned you, dunno,

but you swaggered like a boss. That macabre

bit of wood could only spew sap: scarlet

juice. You rose, aflame, but found your hero

didn’t notice, the one you called heartthrob.

][][

Notes:

This poem began with a line from the American poet, Amy Lowell, in, “The Camellia Tree of Matsue,” a curious little tale about a haunted tree. It ends with an anonymous gardener digging up said tree and finding it hemorrhaging blood. For whatever reason the gardener got my attention so I began doing research about Lowell and that led me to this asshole: Ezra Pound. Truth be told, taking Pound to task for his treatment of Lowell is the least of his crimes. As a fascist collaborator he ignored the massacres of Italian Jews and Gypsies in 1943, he ignored the Risiera di San Sabba extermination camp in Trieste, he ignored the Nazi occupational forces and Fascist militias running amok throughout all of Italy. However, much like with Gertrude Stein in Vichy France, when Pound’s name comes up there are still apologists who will hand-wave all this away by saying, “Yes, yes, the Holocaust was unfortunate but that was all Germany’s fault, all Mussolini wanted was for the trains to run on time.” I bring this up because long before he was Benito’s boot-licker he spent his time between Cantos attacking Amy Lowell in the way so many men do when talking about their betters: he ridiculed her for her weight, her “mannish” appearance, her love of other women. She wasn’t an Imagist poet, Pound wrote, she was a, “Hippopoetess … who wore pince-nez glasses and smoked cheap cigars.” Why there is still a cult of personality around this man to this day baffles me, except that it takes a fascist to love a fascist, I suppose. If you’ve never read Lowell before I highly suggest, Pictures of the Floating World (1927) which contains numerous erotic poems written to her lover and muse, Ada Dwyer Russell.

construe

14 Tuesday Dec 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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ars poetica, cirrhosis, construe, consumption, poem, Poetry, skag, sonnet, spilled ink, tuberculosis

Somehow now I’ve cheapened delirium.

These days I float with a fever above

my bed, staring down at my husk in glum

humor. Dear foul body, I want to love

you, but damn! Even cirrhosis never

caused me this much grief and it was killing

me. Float and fret. Float and sweat in a blur

of noise that I can’t construe while passing

skyward. Once I thought consumption cool:

burbling blood just like Paganini.

Black-flecked spittle was so gothic. But now?

Niccolò, when I said, “Give me an old-school

death,” it wasn’t this; rather skag, filthy

deeds and all that deliria might allow.

][][

Notes:

Niccolò Paganini (1782-1840) was a violin virtuoso so astonishingly talented that it was rumored that he had sold his soul to the Devil for his crazy skills. Like Dunbar, Chopin, Kafka, Keats and Robert Louis Stevenson, Paganini also died from TB (tuberculosis). Skag is an old nickname for heroin. On a personal note, I mention cirrhosis (a disease of the liver from chronic alcoholism) because I am a life-long alcoholic who would be dead right now if it weren’t for AA (this February 18 will mark four whole years of sobriety for me). While my doctor insists it was not Covid and just borin’ ol’ pneumonia, last year I was bed-ridden for months due to a painful, horrible cough that wouldn’t go away. With the coming of winter I can feel, once again, something in my lungs.

corrupt

04 Saturday Dec 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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blight's, conquering worm, Edgar Allan Poe, holy and corrupt, ode to gangrene, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spilled ink

“And the Fever is Conquered at last,” Poe

proclaimed. Fevered bruise spreading; a blossom

cracking with canker, with necrotic glow.

Where’s the Divine in rot? It’s the problem

with a poet who ignores the mundane ––

After the membrane burst, flushed brackish wine

spewed from your leg; and, with each squeeze to drain

the blotch, rank sludge glooped out. If the Divine

rests in our soul then it’s in our corrupt

flesh as well. Poe’s Conqueror Worm knew that.

Fetid phantasma. Blight’s phosphorescent

twin. Ode to Gangrene? Cut it out. Worship

the flesh warily. See? What will erupt

in me hunkers and waits with a vile scent.

][][

Notes:

Apparently Youtube is awash in videos featuring blighters suffering from subcutaneous hematoma in one form or another, something that I find I cannot turn away from once I hit “play.”  I know, I know, “fetid phantasma,” is such a $20 phrase in a $5 sentence but it’s so much fun to say. It’s like the word, “glooped;” sure, I can use other words to describe decay but my world would be slightly duller without some good gloop in it.

profundo

01 Wednesday Dec 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

ars poetica, basso profundo, distraught, ghost shark, poem, Poetry, radio static, sonnet, tinnitus

That was the year the cicadas started

in my skull. Their buzz-saw droning; the fraught

song of dust and summer, I’m told. Bleated

noise. It came with the pneumonia. I thought

it was part of the fever. If my ghost

shark can haunt me during delirium

why not raucous bugs in the innermost

depths of my ear? Soon my fever’s bedlam

faded but the sing-song did not. Even

now, love, as I write this, the din’s low groan

keeps me distraught. I wake with radio

static, thinking the dark bellowed. Listen.

Only I can hear it, that deep bass drone;

what hell’s divas call, “Basso profundo.”

][][

Notes:

In opera the lowest vocal range that a tenor can go is called basso profundo. Starting around a year ago I began developing tinnitus, a ringing in the ears like radio static that is often accompanied by hearing loss. In the last two months or so it has gone from a dull buzz that I could ignore to a much louder droning which wakes me up at night. I find the sort of disconnected musing I need, such as when I’m writing, harder now.

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erotica [links]

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  • the pearl (a magazine of facetiae and volupous reading, 1879-1880)
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  • erotica readers and writers association
  • mighty jill off
  • nifty stories
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electric mayhem [links]

  • sandra bernhard
  • Severus & the Deatheaters [myspace]
  • discos bizarros argentinos
  • ida cox
  • Poetic K [myspace]
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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 s-z

  • temple of sekhmet
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  • switchback books
  • sharon zeugin
  • tuesday poems
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