• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: poem

bleeding without

18 Monday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

blood acid drain-o, cunnilingus, junkies, Nancy Spungen, poem, Poetry, punks, SId and Nancy, sonnet

 

It was the summer that my friends wanted
to be poor Nancy Spungen with track marks

and ripped fishnets we were tripping balls blood
acid drain-o paranoid as if narcs

would bust us as if I could fill my lungs
with your breath your bloodshot eyes a command

urging me begging for tastes bites lips tongues
pressure please I’m bleeding without my hand

on your breast naked under your leather
jacket “never trust a junkie” Nancy

said in the alley skirt pulled to hips blunt
tongue in deep where are you now my lover?

we were kids wanna-be London junkies
without needle marks it was all different

the problem with words

13 Wednesday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Passings and Death Notes, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

death in my family, emptiness into, funeral, my grandmother passed away, poem, Poetry, sonnet, sorrow

img074

img077

img293

late night party

mama after the party

][][

—– —– —- emptiness into emptiness into
this, which did not die. How can I be brave

when all this now stops? All that we once knew
must go … go down into darkness of grave

dirt — words stop, too, they’re heavier than earth;
right now I can’t shape them. I am a nurse.

I know about the science of death, birth
and all that lies in-between. What is worse

than this? needing but being unable
to find words, emptiness into — I know

I need my words about my grandmother
when we all gather at her funeral

but our matriarch is dead, she must go
now, wait for all of us to come to her.

note:

On Monday morning, November 11th, my 92 year old grandmother passed over. I will be off-line for a while, I must fly out to California and help my family prepare for the funeral. Almost everyone on my father’s side died before I was born. Up until now no one on my mother’s side had died, This isn’t the poem I shall read, but it is the poem about not knowing what to say.

I hope everyone is well. Cheers.

grave dirt

10 Sunday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

a ghost in love with the living, bliss stops hurt, grave dirt, poem, Poetry, sonnet

I see you, watch you, you’d be shocked to know
what I think about when you’re near. Can you

feel me watching you? perhaps not. Although,
I am curious, if not you then who

is this for? whose heart do my eyes burn holes
into? Don’t be flattered by attention

from things that you can’t understand. Your soul’s
immense need is what I sense; you who shuns

passion because you don’t want to be hurt.
Beyond pain, you’re my dirty thought today.

Beyond hurt, I love not just your essence.
You’re my bliss. Bliss stops hurt. There is grave dirt

under my broken nails. We are the way
we are: you’re loved despite your ignorance.

mayhem

10 Sunday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

dark love, in love with a ghost, mayhem, metaphor, meth-head, poem, Poetry, sonnet, tweaker

You make me wish that I were dead with long
fingers for unzipping your secret, parts

that can sink into you—-deep enough, strong
enough—-to feel your soft corrosion. Quartz,

wolfbane, vervain and ginger root. What weds
all your opiates that have brought others,

girl-child, to their knees like quaking meth heads?
This is my subtle craft—-hexes, philtres,

potions, incantations—-dark love’s mayhem.
I wish that I were dead like you; tucking

your stray hair behind your ear, making safe
sleeping murmurs. Let the tweaker condemn

and crave what it will; we’re dead and living
as one: one dead urchin, one living waif.

o encanto das bruxas

09 Saturday Nov 2013

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

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Tags

art, female warrior, o encanto das bruxas, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, the charms of witches

o encanto das bruxas

Fale-me sobre o magia, as fadas, o encanto das bruxas.

Fale-me sobre algo mais sutil de mil anos das teu esporra cobrindo a pele das minhas bunda.

Que linguagem você vai usar?

O mundo etérea não funciona em Inglês, linguagem da ciência e da psicologia.

Me sinto mal, mas como posso explicar? O que é machismo?

Sexo sem amor? Esporra? Há mais vida para além teu esporrada.

Se você entendeu, então eu diria que, “Lambe-la feito cachorro.”

Se você entendeu, então eu diria que, “Vou trepar sem beijar.”

Mas você não entende.

Reza para que não vou voltar.

][][

Tell me about magic, fairies, witches’ charm.

Tell me about something more subtle than a thousand years of your cum covering the skin of my ass.

What language will you use?

The ethereal world does not work in English, the language of science and psychology.

I feel bad, but how can I explain? What is machismo?

Sex without love? Cum? There is more to life than your cum-shot.

If you got it, then I would say, “Lick it like a dog.”

If you got it, then I would say, “I’ll fuck without kissing.”

But you do not understand.

Pray that I will not return.

][][

note:

Once again I must apologize for my poor translations skills. If there are any errors the fault is entirely mine. Still, how else can we improve except make mistakes. Thank you.

dominus inferus viscera

09 Saturday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Dominus Inferus Viscera, erotic horror, green scalpel, playing doctor, poem, Poetry, skin game, sonnet

scalpel in hand you start with my left toes
your lips brushing gently over my skin

as you trace that shadowy path that flows
from tip to tibia I tense you grin

as a small shiver disturbs the surface
of my thigh ripples in a pond above

my knee you pause breathe in sharp nervousness
makes your hands sweat perhaps you call this love

I moan softly as your breath rolls off me
you pull at my hips follow the round pout

of my ass I arch my back fingers part
my musk and my taste bubble fear honey

fear each fear scalpelled still as you pull out
between my ribs I can feel you touch heart

in this dim earth

07 Thursday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

girl-goat-god, Greek myth, in this dim earth, poem, Poetry, satyr, sonnet, Sylvan moonshine

And then all sounds stop. Small hoof prints scattered
in sod, like frequent mistakes, deep and fine,

heading off to the remote skyline. Bird
and beast gave pause. The crickets made the sign

of the evil eye. Sylvan moonshine shown;
and you reeled, drunk on dandelion wine.

She could play a tune, unwittingly blown
to us from glen to glen. Sylvan moonshine:

mute in this dim earth; no human vices
slept in her capra face, spreading her blind

bovid thighs and her dispensing plum lips.
Her dew-sodden musk curled all that she does.

Godlike, she makes provisions for mankind.
Frayed, her skirt slips on goat-like hips.

molly peacock’s WHY I’M NOT A BUDDHIST [translated into portuguese]

06 Wednesday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Tags

Molly Peacock, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, translation, Why I'm Not A Buddhist

POR QUE EU NÃO SOU BUDISTA

Eu amo esse desejo — o estado de necessidade e pensando
diga-me como — de construção um reino na alma
requer desejo. Eu amo as coisas que eu busquei–
você em um desamarrado roupão, dinheiro de línguas pendurados
da minha carteira–e eu amo as coisas que eu deseja: roupas,
casas, resgates. É que um novo terno equivalente malva
a Deus? ¡Ay não! o desejo de ter hierarquias. Perder
um lápis amado não é igual a perder a fé. O desejo
persistente de uma gateau de nozes é esquecido por causa da morte,
mas o bolo no prato adquire um sentido,
mesmo quando o amor é nada importa ameaçadas.
Para a minha mãe, a saúde–para a minha irmã, desolado,
completude. Mas porque é que desejo o sofrimento?
¿Porque a desejo deixa o mundo em frangalhos?
¿Que outra maneira senão nos frangalhos deve ser o mundo?
Uma casa com uma porta de entrada cercado por pilares de alta acima de um lago.
Aqui, aqui está o meu dinheiro. Um rosto amado em agonia,
um espírito está faltando. Aqui, usar meus frangalhos de amor.
—-tradução por ZJC

][][

WHY I’M NOT A BUDDHIST

I love desire–the state of want and thought
of how to get–building a kingdom in a soul
requires desire. I love the things I’ve sought–
you in your beltless bathrobe, tongues of cash that loll
from my billfold–and love what I want: clothes,
houses, redemption. Can a new mauve suit
equal God? Oh no, desire is ranked. To lose
a loved pencil is not like losing faith. Acute
desire for nut gateau is driven out by death,
but the cake on its plate has meaning,
even when love is endangered and nothing matters.
For my mother, health–for my sister, bereft,
wholeness. But why is desire suffering?
Because want leaves a world in tatters?
How else but in tatters should a world be?
A columned porch set high above a lake.
Here, take my money. A loved face in agony,
the spirit gone. Here, use my rags of love.
—–Molly Peacock

note:

I love translating things … mainly because I’m terrible at it so it becomes a lovely mind-fuck trying to figure out what goes where and how it should sound in a language I literally have no clue how to speak. In a perfect world I’d have a friend fluent in Armenian and we’d translate every erotic poem we can find (Armenian literature needs more erotica in it) but since I don’t know anyone like that I ended teaching myself Portuguese, since it’s awesome, and have been spending my free time finding new poets I’ve never heard of and translating their work into English. Sometimes, though, I run across a poet in English I adore and have the urge to be the first to translate her or him into Portuguese (other people may have already translated this poem but it’s not on the Internet) because that’s fun too.

I understand that to any native Portuguese reader this translation probably sounds like I took an axe to my translating dictionary, but how can one improve except making a fool of oneself in front of all creation? Por favor, aproveite …

cocksure

06 Wednesday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cocksure, erotic, know your limits, not by you, poem, Poetry, SM/BD, sonnet, woeful bottom

I have never understood the allure
submissively—-meekly—-obediently
of such surrender you can be cocksure
I will not—-yield yet—-to one so wildly
barren—-in visions I’ve been pushed non-stop
beyond all—-my limits yet not by you
I have been taught with the sting of a crop
I’ve been ridden—-far yet not by one who
cannot command armies with a dark glare
it is known that I am a pretty piece
of flesh I—-am yet to need a scourge cum
in my mouth to taste hell if my nightmare
makes you my mistress master uncle niece
know that I’ll make you a woeful bottom

baudelaire’s la géante

05 Tuesday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in French, Translation

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Tags

art, Charles Baudelaire, French translation, la géante, poem, Poetry, The Giantess, translation

giantess 1

giantess 2

giantess 3

giantess 4

giantess 5

giantess 6

][][

La Géante

Du temps que la Nature en sa verve puissante
Concevait chaque jour des enfants monstrueux,
J’eusse aimé vivre auprès d’une jeune géante,
Comme aux pieds d’une reine un chat voluptueux.

J’eusse aimé voir son corps fleurir avec son âme
Et grandir librement dans ses terribles jeux;
Deviner si son coeur couve une sombre flamme
Aux humides brouillards qui nagent dans ses yeux;

Parcourir à loisir ses magnifiques formes;
Ramper sur le versant de ses genoux énormes,
Et parfois en été, quand les soleils malsains,

Lasse, la font s’étendre à travers la campagne,
Dormir nonchalamment à l’ombre de ses seins,
Comme un hameau paisible au pied d’une montagne.

— Charles Baudelaire

][][

The Giantess

In those times when Nature in powerful zest
Conceived each day monstrous children,
I would have loved to live near a young giantess,
A voluptuous cat at the feet of a queen.

I would have loved to see her body flower with her soul,
To grow up freely in her prodigious play;
To find if her heart bred some dark flame
Amongst the humid mists swimming in her eyes;

To run leisurely over her marvelous lines;
To creep along the slopes of her enormous knees,
And sometimes in summer, when impure suns

Made her wearily stretch out across the countryside,
To sleep carelessly in the shadow of her breasts,
Like a peaceful village at the foot of a mountain.

— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974)

][][

The Giantess

In times when Nature, lusty to excess,
Bred monstrous children, would that I had been
Living beside a youthful giantess,
Like a voluptuous cat beside a queen;
To see her soul and body gain full size
Blossoming freely in her fearsome games,
And by the damp mists swimming in her eyes
To watch her heart nursing what somber flames!

To roam her mighty form at my sweet ease,
To crawl along the slopes of her vast knees,
And, summers, when the sun’s unhealthy heats
Made her sprawl, tired, across the countryside
To sleep at leisure, shaded by her teats,
Like a calm hamlet by the mountainside.

— Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)

][][

The Giantess

Of old when Nature, in her verve defiant,
Conceived each day some birth of monstrous mien,
I would have lived near some young female giant
Like a voluptuous cat beside a queen;

To see her body flowering with her soul
Freely develop in her mighty games,
And in the mists that through her gaze would roll
Guess that her heart was hatching sombre flames;

To roam her mighty contours as I please,
Ramp on the cliff of her tremendous knees,
And in the solstice, when the suns that kill

Make her stretch out across the land and rest,
To sleep beneath the shadow of her breast
Like a hushed village underneath a hill.

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

][][

The Giantess

In those days when Nature’s overwhelming Lust
Engendered infant-monsters day by day
I’d love to have lived with a young giantess.
Like a lazy cat at the foot of my queen I’d lay.

I’d watch her grow into her gruesome games,
As I observed her body blossom with her soul.
And in the misty pools of her great eyes I’d try
To spy some secret flame, ominous and cold.

Her magnificent forms, I’d cuddle lazily,
Climbing the slopes of her gigantic knees.
And when she tired of the sick mid-summer suns
And stretched across the land to take her rest,
Like a peaceful hamlet at the foot of the hills,
I’d sleep serenely there in the shadow of her breast.

— James W. Underhill

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