• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: poem

clot

11 Sunday Jun 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in haiku, Poetry

≈ Comments Off on clot

Tags

another's life, haiku, motel sores, poem, Poetry, this bed

drunk as fuck, this bed,
clotted with another’s life
crusts, stains, motel room

trails

11 Sunday Jun 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cold and dank, Madness, poem, Poetry, Skatalites, sonnet, stray cat, Toots and the Maytals, trails

Morning heat is drying out the ragged
bits of snail trails on my front stoop. The gin

at last kicks in. I was throwing up blood
last night, leaving me cold and dank, my skin

waxy. I love how silver fades away
in heat. I sit on my stoop, run a thumb

over the trail. Lick it clean. An old stray
curls at my feet; her purring a rhythm,

one that I follow. My neighbor calls out,
heading for work. This is how everything

should end. I’m lost in the Skatalites, Toots
and the Maytals, Madness. We all burnout.

We all fade. Snail trails. A stray cat purring.
Some of us are stars; some only tributes.

vegas

10 Saturday Jun 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

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.

milking

26 Friday May 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

BBW, bhang, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, hashish, kif, lactophilia, milking, poem, sonnet

You with the double-hung belly. You made

a sound like, “sissk,” each time I drained you dry.

We’ve played Asmodeus and the Milkmaid

far too often. For a week we were high

as fuck eating euphoriants — (bhang-bhang

and hash rolled in jam) which gave your breast milk

the odd taste of sweet kif, gin and ginseng —

while I sucked stains from inside your bra’s silk

after each of Harley’s feedings. Each romp

remained perverse; my head buried between

your thighs, fingers on your nipples, milking,

tripping balls, the bed shaking, you calling

out to the gods prayers devout and obscene

as you came; soaking my face like a swamp.

Quote

quote unquote

19 Friday May 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

≈ Comments Off on quote unquote

Tags

paul celan, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, razor in the prayer

You, prayer,
you, blasphemy,
you, razor in the prayer
of my silence

Paul Celan

ills

19 Friday May 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

all ghosts bleed, chaos, Lilith, meltdown, poem, Poetry, scab over, sonnet

Ghosts rise and drink. Before the sulfuric heat

of the muggy gray sky (which never rains)

untwines itself from the dawn my heartbeat

murmurs and my hand shakes. Each new bloodstain

from the kitchen knife oozes down my arm

only to scab over. My body plays

host to a host of ills that plague and swarm

throughout me. I’m simply the obscene maze

that all things must flee from — Mama Lilith;

I’m shit-faced and you’re here with my meltdown.

Your twitch, my cut, all this must bleed. As host

to this chaos I’m your kith drunk on myth,

your kin sodden on gin — I won’t come down;

nothing comes down; not host-demon, not ghost.

rapt

19 Friday May 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

baffled and rapt, poem, Poetry, rapt, secret alphabet, sonnet

Perhaps while straddled. Perhaps in the gloom

of your nightgown; all that whiteness against

your breast. Perhaps in the small folds, the bloom

of heat where my skin pressed. Perhaps I tensed

when I should have relaxed. Perhaps we lapped

something queer from a gourd or a clay pot

that left us, in turns, both baffled and rapt.

Perhaps when it was time what you thought

you could do you couldn’t and simply choked.

Perhaps none of these. Whatever has brought

me here, love, doesn’t matter. Why regret?

Why so sad? Your cigarette has been smoked.

My wine drunk. Let’s share all that we’ve been taught.

Your pen. My ink. Our secret alphabet.

Quote

quote unquote

19 Friday May 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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Tags

poem, Poetry, quote unquote, Warsan Shire

You think I’ll be the dark sky so that you can be the star? I’ll swallow you whole.

Warsan Shire

Quote

THREE VARIATIONS ON DESIRE’S ALPHABET

04 Saturday Feb 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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Tags

ghostsista, poem, reblog, three variations on desire’s alphabet

inanotherdirection:

“How many licks” – Lil Kim

I need a new word. The ancient mothers had tongue,

but I’ve lost how to read. The Chinese call it, “Tian yin.”

The Greeks, “Aidoioleixia.” The Welsh, “Gweinlyfu.”

The Tamil, “Vay neṟikkoṇam.” The Nepali,

“Yoni mukhamaithuna.” But for the rest of the world

it is simply “Cunnilingus,” or “Kunilengus,” or

“Cunnilingio.” It sounds like a medical term. The fruit from

the Tree of Diana would never taste like how that word sounds.

The Mystery is there, on the tip of our tongues, I can

almost hear the proper words, like trying to decipher

the chaos as the Goddess of the Hunt brings down the old boar;

at the climax we all make noise that sounds like sacrament.

][

“… how summer learns to end.” – etherlighter

Mother Lilith, progenitor, what breeds

deeper disquiet in the human heart

than this celibacy that only bleeds

the soul of ecstasy, sets us apart

from the Divine? Debauchery, speaking

in tongues, music: they hold truths and secrets

that the piety of silence, lacking

epiphany, can’t find. When you say, “sluts

and whores,” you speak of prophets. We all die,

Lilith, but not all of us have to numb

our souls first. First Mother, First Wife;

let the world burn, even Augustine’s lie.

Orgasm: it’s the closest that we’ll come

to the Divine in this short, little life.

][

Babylon, man-child,

grow up, there is

more to riding off

on a foamy white

horse, a jism of

release, never to

return, the patriarch

will fall for he is

blind, somewhere

in Rome hidden

from view rests

Saint Hripsime’s chemise,

made of sackcloth,

which rubbed her

right there when

she walked, for even

martyrs are full

of desire, much

like in Boccaccio’s

Decameron, in

the first story of the

third day when Masetto

becomes a gardener,

who “tills the soil

and makes barren

plots fertile,” discreet

easing of the pangs of

lust among the bold

sisters and abbess

and though Hripsime

was a virgin Pier

Paolo Pasolini showed

us how Christ treats

those who put horns

on his crown, they are

the true

children of heaven.

[submitted by ghostsista]

Quote

slices [haiku]

18 Wednesday Jan 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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Tags

erotic haiku, ghostsista, poem, Poetry, sheismadeinpiland, spilled ink

ghostsista:

fruit left uneaten
pulpy slices juice-curled hair
burden of wanting

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