• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: poem

wrothful

02 Tuesday Jul 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, quid pro quo, quote unquote, sonnet, wrothful

but the anus loves

poetry

& is prolific.

~ Erica Jong

This horned god pierces until your lips numb

and your nipples perk. Call this old school

sex, with lots of smiting and wrothful cum

crusting on your neck. You sigh high, “it’s cool.”

Is it? My knees hurt on concrete. Bound not

gagged. You flip up your flouncy dress, straddle

my tongue and hold on. Pornographic plots

demand a touch of pain. Hints of hurtful

bish, bash, bosh. Rest now on my mouth. “Bite

‘dis,” you slur, all kumquat backwash. The O

of your ass spread wide. Songs of buggery

and the leash. Satyrs rutting in moonlight

while the dead gods sigh. Fucking quid pro quo.

“Rough, rough,” sang the nefarious puppy.

][][

Note.

Quid pro quo is defined as, “a favor granted or expected in return for something” … like mutual masturbation.

orpheus

29 Wednesday May 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

clit, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, lasciviousness that transcends, poem, Poetry, sonnet, stalactite, uvula

The Tomb’s Fruit, the Fuck Doll, the Mystic knows

that the mouth holds endless whims: my wind swims

in these words. My spit. My ire. “Eat me,” flows

out of Alice. Go south. Hold the rough rims

of your grotto askew. Ask any cave-

dwelling recluse to show you and they will:

be it stalactite, uvula or clit. We crave

sunlight but embrace wild darkness. We kill

any end that’s not lonesome, so that, “Find

solace in me,” becomes deceit. This wind

whimpers. I mean, slap me, choke me, fuck me.

Take me like Orpheus: broken and blind.

Now come. If you can’t cum you can’t transcend

this dark south that the Tomb calls, “fuckery.”

blootered

11 Saturday May 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

blootered, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, floozy, poem, Poetry, sonnet, witch's brat

Perverse; taking a witch’s brat to bed.

Blootered upon an unholy teat. “Arf

-‘an’-Arf;” a little jizz, a little djinn,

a touch of squiff, a snip of … foreskin. “Barf

me out! Gag me with a spoon!” Words must change.

Meanings remain. Flitting light. Neither pink

nor pale. Conjure me a lover. A strange

tomboy; both mist and meat. I want to drink

bones; the sodden well below her navel.

Dripping thickets. Ravines swollen by rain.

Spring’s end. Imagine that. “Fuck me gently

with a chainsaw!” Yes, imagine that. Dull

horror bone in the skull. Dull dreams. Dull brain.

Injure. Conjure and crave. I’m your floozy.

grows

08 Wednesday May 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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blithe spirit, Federico Garcia Lorca, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet, Spanish translation

“La una era la otra/ y la muchacha era ninguna” ~ Federico Garcia Lorca

I am petty. Splintered bones, skirt of green

fire, the skulls of all my foes hung around

my neck. I am mean, ravenously mean:

a hog’s head worth. The ribs over my wound

are all bent outwards. That which was dwelling

within woke hungry. Decades go by. Greed?

A glint. A hint. It’s never gone. Growing

the way greed grows without logic or need,

until it wakes. Wakey-wakey, monster.

You mean, pretty cocksucker. Here’s my hog

sticking knife, pretty-pretty. Damnation

of queens. All that can curl closed my finger

opens. Grey greed blue hue greenish fog smog

kiss. Mist’s kiss of flesh. Wet smack of toxin.

][][

Notes.

The Garcia Lorca quote comes from a longer trippy poem, Casida de las Palomas Obscuras (Song of the Dark Doves) where the roots of this poem started, only to head off in a different direction by line 2. Inspiration can be a surreal beast, I suppose.

Por las ramas del laurel
van dos palomas oscuras.
La una era el sol,
la otra la luna.
«Vecinitas» les dije,
«¿dónde está mi sepultura?»
«En mi cola» dijo el sol.
“En mi garganta» dijo la luna.
Y yo que estaba caminando
con la tierra por la cintura
vi dos águilas de nieve
y una muchacha desnuda.
La una era la otra
y la muchacha era ninguna.
«Aguilitas» les dije,
«¿dónde está mi sepultura?»
«”En mi cola» dijo el sol.
«En mi garganta» dijo la luna.
Por las ramas del laurel
vi dos palomas desnudas.
La una era la otra
y las dos eran ninguna.

In the laurel tree’s branches
I saw two dark doves.
One was the Sun,
the other the Moon.
“Little neighbors,” I said,
“Where is my grave?”
“In my tail,” said the Sun.
“In my throat,” said the Moon.
And I, who was walking
with the earth round my waist,
saw two snow-white eagles
and a naked girl.
One was the other
and the girl was neither.
“Little eagles,” I said:
“Where is my grave?”
“In my tail,” said the Sun.
“In my throat,” said the Moon.
In the laurel tree branches
I saw two naked doves.
One was the other
and both were neither.

pupilless

06 Monday May 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

bloody gasps, crones, erotic poetry, junkies, pixies, poem, Poetry, sick menses, sonnet, swains, waiting to exhale

Breathe in the breath that can blacken mirrors,

dust scraped from a Missy Jane Chemistry

Set. The breath I feel on my wet fingers

as I slip in bed. Breath gone all glitzy

and thick in Waiting to Exhale, Whitney’s

last moan. Breath of pixies and junkies. Breath

that tastes like my cum; the one sick menses

that will never flow. You know it from Death

and the Maiden. You know it. “Breathe, damn you!”

you cried, pounding on my chest. Cracking bones.

Punctured lungs. Tell it to my pupilless

eyes. My blue hued flesh. That’s the breath so few

know. So few. Like you. Pity my swains, crones,

bloody gasps. Pity all who answered, “Yes.”

numskull

01 Wednesday May 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

gnawed, gnawing hunger, numskull, poem, Poetry, poor passions, sonnet

To suck. To feed. To gnaw on a deranged

teat. It’s been years since I’ve felt that panic.

Oh dear. I guess it can’t be helped. How strange

just how consent comes in comics. Graphic

grubby, voracious and somehow safe. No

matter the kink. No matter the hunger.

Pity poor passions, the one door I know

that the gods speak through. I still remember

all their voices. What else will dementia

grind down until I’m ravenous? roughshod?

stripped of bliss? A hungry ghost that nothing

will fill? Desires numskulled by trauma?

Numb. Skull. Panic. The urge to be gnawed

to the bone. The urge to do the gnawing.

Q: do you ever find yourself ruminating?

16 Tuesday Apr 2024

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

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Tags

bogus, Dementia, floppy sweat, glitter gun, poem, Poetry, sonnet

I feel sober … delirious … a crass

imperious, like a needless meltdown

or a skirt with buttons sewn down the ass,

leaving queer imprints each time I sit down.

Don’t frown. I have floppy sweat, sweaty flop

and this deeply odd dimple. Here are two

blinkable eyes drowning in my mop top.

High dreams, click bait, a smoking glitter glue

gun. Don’t laugh, this glamour is serious,

like the foundling you’re fondling. Hell’s

bells in the palm of your hand. Don’t question

this fog’s piss. I’ve turned totally bogus,

as the kids say. Fog? Dementia that swells

in me, hot as any glue from a gun.

notes.

As I’ve noted elsewhere my father has dementia and I, being the oldest child in the whole extended family, am perhaps showing early signs of it too. I say, “early signs,” as if I were operating with some sort of money-back-guarantee of reaching a million miles before needing to be sold for scrap in exchange for something slightly better.

This is what I think about, perhaps at times a bit too much. Self-pity is an odd toxic beast. Some folks say that dementia is a blessing since it causes the patient to forget that they’re slowly losing everything about themselves. I don’t spend a lot of time on-line these days, not because I don’t care but because there are times that I’ve forgotten that I have a blog and that revelation is sorta a total bummer.

If, at some point, I stop posting here for good it will probably mean that I’ve lost the path to get back home; midway, as Dante would put it, through those deep dark woods where no search party will ever be able to find me.

plagues

09 Tuesday Apr 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

conversations with imaginary sisters, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, I am a DJ I am what I play, poem, Poetry, sonnet

You say you want to be seduced. I want

that, too. Not me. You. I want to seduce

you: with song, with soul, with the feral haunts

of your thwarted passions. I know the juice

you keep bottled between your legs, DJ.

Let us incantate: Kafé – Kasita –

non Kafela. “All these beats will obey

what these grooves/ demand. Bloody, raw

and in command.” Shall we dance, my spitfire?

Shall I taste all that runs between your legs?

This is my glamour’s glimmer. My coy please.

My pomp’s circumstances and rude desire.

We are what we play. For you lust plagues.

For me one irksome and vexing cock tease.

][][

Notes.

It starts with Bowie’s “I am a D.J., I am what I play.”

bareback

21 Thursday Mar 2024

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

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Tags

age difference, anal sex, black hole, erotic poetry, French translation, poem, Poetry, sonnet, translation

Like this. The abyss yawned wide with jelly

honey smeared around the rim. Such event

horizons spawned from your thirst for nerdy,

fey boys. I’ve never been much except bent,

as in, curious. You called it your black

hole. “Je veux te sentir en moi.” Back when

strange new worlds meant more than just bareback

sex in the backseat. Since I wasn’t, “Men

who Suck,” I was safe, even if you weren’t.

All you adults and your Midlife crises

still faze me ⟺ middle school was spent in moans

⟺ slaphappy moans ⟺ one more pretty thing “learnt”

in singularities ⟺ “Like this” ⟺ how to please

supernovas and erogenous zones.

Note.

“Je veux te sentir en moi” translates into, “I want to feel you inside me.”

tía

26 Monday Feb 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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Tags

Alejandra Pizarnik, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet, Spanish translation, tía

“Surrealism is only shocking to those who are shocked by dreams,” André Breton.

Scads of old wounds, tía. Scads. El viento

muere/ en mi herida. “The wind dies/ in

my wound.” And in the blood, tía, its slow

flow, a queer smear. Horror under the skin.

Horror that keeps itching. Alejandra,

tía, I’ll still be your your fag hag that keeps

you from the night that gnaws and, mendiga,

begs in your blood. Infernal stone that weeps.

Sugar crusts. The crunch and chew of language.

An itch. A witch. I cannot stop, auntie,

I call you all: Necromancer of words

and wounds. This scar? Where I pulled my innards

out. Where I washed my old wound in the sea

and used your name as its heinous bandage.

Notes.

If Federico Garcia Lorca would be my uncle, then please let Alejandra Pizarnik be my aunt. These two poets taught me more about the craft than anyone else. And yes, I use the term Craft as in the dark Dionysian powers of the psyche and soul. Pizarnik wrote in fragments, as the language she used drove her insane. Artistically, she is sister to Paul Celan, who wrote in German and committed suicide by drowning in the Seine. Language as virus. Language as plague. The poem of hers I use is, “El viento muere en mi herida./ La noche mendiga mi sangre.”

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