• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: poem

what at last

02 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

manic depression, poem, Poetry, sonnet, what at last, what erotica needs, whatever

What you call manic depression has been
with me for so long sharp jags and deep highs

and that feeling that all that I do — sin
you called it: pink lips, yellow moons, blue thighs

and green clovers — leaves me buried, my head
in my hands. Those blackest of nights. Red hell

leaves me curled up so. You would think this dread
would go away if I just didn’t tell

you, if I filled these lines with want, need, lust.
Whatever you think erotica needs

to be. Whatever. Touch my shoulder. Call
my name. Rouse me from this decay, this dust,

this touch of nightmare. I’m what the worms seed,
the sky’s end, what at last broke the rag doll.

most adults are dull degenerates

02 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic

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Tags

aurora borealis, cast-off choirboy, cum in mayhem, devil's brat, most adults are dull degenerates, poem, Poetry, schoolboy shorts, sonnet

 

It’s that time of year, the long winter squalls
set in. From my front porch I cannot see

Russia, but the Arctic Light, like you, crawls
towards me. I love that you’re so motley,

forlorn, devil’s brat in cast-off choirboy
skin. Let me take you behind the temple

and draw down the sky, your little schoolboy
shorts, all the joy my right hand can bring. Dull

degenerates, most adults are, reading
the worst in every word I write. Let them

purposely misunderstand this, malice
fills their hearts. But for you, little sex thing,

little toy, I’ll make you cum in mayhem,
like heaven’s aurora borealis.

][][

nothing stands between us here/ and I won’t be denied
—Sarah McLachlan, possession

the secret of the cow’s sorrow

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

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

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art, artist unknown, fairy tale, I love the drowned, poem, Poetry, Sea Queen, sonnet, the secret of the cow's sorrow

Dec 31, 2013 (10)

Dec 31, 2013 (11)

Dec 31, 2013 (12)

I had never seen a cow crying big
wet tears before but the wood fairies caught

each one and a bat and a small hedge-pig
came out to comfort her. Then the tide brought

in a girl the color of kelp, a star
set in her brow, on the back of a beast.

I took the tears, walked out on a sandbar
to greet her. “Take me with you, to the east

and make me your lover, I’ll brush your hair
and sing all the songs that I know.”
But she

said no, for what does a mortal child know
about the Sea Queen? “Love, do not despair,”

she said. “When you drown I’ll find your body
and then you too will know the cow’s sorrow.”

nothing human

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

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

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crocodile girls, false-faith, nothing human, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Dec 31, 2013 (7)

Now you believe me; I, like all of us,
have been betrayed and seen that devil’s grin

on the face of one that I loved. Mistress
mouse, my darling horny toad, what is sin

but the conviction that the divine speaks
to you alone? Trace this river of need

spilling over its banks. Sisters, fuck freaks,
brothers all stand and be counted. I bleed

once a month, too, but not like you. In fact,
there is nothing human with this ending.

This start where girl crocodiles are sincere
unlike you, in their love, lovely swaybacked.

What’s faith but knowing that you know nothing
about faith or love or crocodile tears?

all of vice is my hero

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

age difference, anal sex, art, homophobia, poem, poetrys, sonnet, taboo, you are my hero

Like a roller coaster, like a kiddie’s
park, ride me. I’m hard outside but a fag

deep down — as if I caused your furious
hate by just being me — your: punching bag

— you: thug 4 life. Like Pennywise, I will
let you think that you won. It’s your gospel,

bully’s wet dream, hater hating. What thrill
comes from violence? I’m the gay teenage skull

that you kicked and kicked. Did I say fags? Queers?
T-boys? Dykes? I tell you: there is a price

to this, all rides must end, all that straight hate
that you have toward us perverts who appear

as love’s martyrs. If I’m obsessed with vice
that’s your doing. Love calls. I won’t wait.

the goat dreams of puella aeterna

30 Monday Dec 2013

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

≈ Comments Off on the goat dreams of puella aeterna

Tags

age difference, art, erotica, poem, poetrys, puella aeterna, sonnet

Dec 30, 2913 (1)

She passed you on the down stair. Erection.
Each time bullies made you cry she consoled

you, brought you close, held your boyish bottom
closer. The one adult who would not scold

you, loved you in gym shorts cut high, showing
thigh and the hint of cock and balls. Widows

hungry for flesh are either a blessing
or a curse. The way she stripped off your clothes

and took you to the bath. The way she gave
herself to you; you who were far too young

to know why, just how. You must have pleased her,
until you grew up and started to shave.

Even now you recall her hips, her tongue,
her voice crying, “like that! harder! harder!”

][][

notes:

The Peter Pan Syndrome refers to a man’s unwillingness to grow up and take on adult responsibilities. There is an entire trope of man-boy characters in literature and popular culture; in Psychology Jung called it, Puer aeternus, Latin for the eternal boy. I’m curious what the female version of the Peter Pan Syndrome might be. Not Wendy, since she spent her whole time acting as a surrogate mother, but a female archetype that optimizes Pan’s cockiness and corresponding immature behavior. The nearest that I can find is from Jung as well, puella aeterna, the eternal girl, but there aren’t any corresponding female characters that I can find in literature as example. There is such a trope in Japanese popular culture that I thought, at first, might work: the alcoholic, single, lustful office lady who is shown living in a filthy apartment, drinking herself blind every night. However, it is a poor comparison since, unlike Pan who has agency not to take on adult responsibilities if he wants, the Office Lady is the way she is due to the misogynistic atmosphere of the Japanese business industry; regardless of education or background her role in most manga and anime is to fetch coffee, fend off sexual harassment and forever cling to the bottom rung of the office ladder. Perhaps one day I’ll find who I am looking for; until then I will keep on reading.

untitled #32

27 Friday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in haiku, Poetry

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Tags

grief, haiku, poem, Poetry

this strange winter road
a phone call from here to there
please, no, wait for me

][][

reading loss and grief
blizzard closed the airport down
stupid tarot deck

][][

my aunt said that he
screamed and screamed cave of a mouth
last morphine nightmares

][][

holding his scarred hands
warm but thin as onion skin
last days, then … after

][][

those stars I count five
the body aching pulling
but where? my love, where?

][][

the first springtime rain
ending winter, a blessing,
and you won’t be there

cinders and thigh bones

26 Thursday Dec 2013

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

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Tags

Armenian Genocide, Armenienne, art, cinders and thigh bones, guerrilla warfare, haiku, poem, Poetry

Dec 26, 2013 (1)

Dec 26, 2013 (2)

Dec 26, 2013 (3)

staring at the sky
from a desert warm and still
abandoned child’s skull

][][

blank book pages filled with
caravan marching to hell
vultures circling

][][

let all my words burn
beacon fire for child’s soul lost
century ago

][][

simple things: laughter,
kissing, holding hands, all this
that she’ll never know

][][

written on the wind
her laughter, scent even name
has been lost to me

][][

silence before truth
before the question before
this desert’s secrets

][][

rocky hills sparsely
covered with ghosts of female
guerrilla warfare

][][

cinders and thigh bones
all girls who picked up a gun
stood up and fought back

notes:

We decided to play god, create life. When that life turned against us, we comforted ourselves in the knowledge that it really wasn’t our fault, not really. You cannot play god, then wash your hands of the things that you’ve created. Sooner or later, the day comes when you can’t hide from the things that you’ve done anymore.
—Admiral Adama, Battlestar Galactica

cast it out to me

26 Thursday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Poetry

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Tags

art, come find me, hair, land of the dead, poem, Poetry

Dec 26, 2013 (5)

when I was 14 I vowed
never to cut my hair

again I knew all about
driving a wooden picket

pin into the ground
knotting my “never retreat”

braid around it a last
stand final repose hauteur

because it was 1044 weeks,
7305 days, 175316 hours

before chemo and if the gods
hate anything it’s cockiness

and I have no idea where
my braid went how I could

forget about something so primal
to who I thought I was and

if you find my braid cast it
out to me like I said I’d do

for you and pull me out
of the land of the dead

do I do

24 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Tags

not with you, poem, Poetry, poets make lousy lays, your fantasies are obvious

you ask me what do I think about when
I touch myself but you can’t be bothered

with the other three hundred and sixty
four days of the year you ask me what do
I play on the stereo to muffle

my screams but laugh when I tell you about
singing along with the car radio

in traffic jams you ask me what do I
do when my hands tire do I roll onto
my belly to keep going but roll your

eyes when you see me writing with my kid-
like cursive you ask me what do I do

right after orgasm because you want
to get laid and think poetry somehow
will do that, as if just saying “fuck! fuck!

fuck!” enough will make it happen you ask
me but none of your poems are about

me, anyone could respond, which is why
when I say that I collapse onto my
back, mouth agape, panting. damp disheveled

hair clinging across my forehead it has
nothing to do with orgasms but with

me dying horribly on a muddy
battlefield and like my orgasms my
most cherished fantasy won’t include you

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