• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Poetry

bakkheia

28 Thursday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Bacchus, bow chicka bow wow, favorite son of Dionysus, floor pie, masculine beauty, poem, Poetry, putting the anal in bacchanal, sonnet, soothsay

Some just loathe Ecstasy; like the Roman

who turned our Gorgeous Boy of Lust and Rage

 

into some frail sot. To fear masculine

beauty is to fear the divine. That age

 

that tried to switch Dion-(bow chicka bow

wow)-ysus with besotted ol’ Bacchus

 

ended bad. This isn’t heresy. My vow

is still to He Who Swaggers With Quenchless

 

Thirst. The one god not appeased by widespread

worship, sacrifice or floor pie. Altars

 

do not sooth him, nor prophets who soothsay.

Only madness in dance, in art, in bed.

 

No priests or holy laws. Only lovers;

we few who obey when we disobey.

lolls

27 Wednesday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

conversations with imaginary sisters, deep throat, erotic poem, fuck fiend, Poetry, randy varmint, sonnet, witch's brew

Slick from a randy varmint, your nipples

swell in your strappy tee as I watch you

 

take the pills that we found on the motel’s

bathroom floor. You taste just like witch’s brew,

 

rancor, a chloroform soaked handkerchief.

Ill pills freeze time then turn our lust heinous.

 

You are the color of storm and I grief.

On your back, your head lolls off the mattress

 

as I grind in. Your throat bulges, jaws twinge

as my balls smother your nose. You gag-retch,

 

spitting cum, bile and ache down your forehead.

Fuck fiend, you called me, words that made you cringe,

 

once … like love, or every time that I stretch

you wide; an act that you both long for and dread.

xenolibido

22 Friday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

conversations with imaginary sisters, drifting through space, erotic poem, fermi's paradox, panspermia, Poetry, queer DNA, sonnet, witchling, xenolibido, xenomorph erotica

Panspermia: Life hidden in drifting

space dust; scatterings of queer DNA

 

awash in the high heavens. Begetting

the ones zealots fear on Earth. Castaway,

 

satyr, witchling; this would explain but not

excuse my lecherous bursts. The drama

 

of throat fucking in public. Your distraught

“¡Oi!” as you wear my cum like mascara.

 

There is no ill will in our tribe. We hunt

all who love their carnal but odd essence.

 

Xenolibido. “Whores of Babylon,”

the saved sneer. No, try Betelgeuse. Try cunt.

 

Try cock. Try us all. But they won’t. Not once;

their junk genes come from dullest of god-spawn.

][][

Notes:

Besides being a great name for a drag queen, panspermia is a theory that life on Earth originated from alien DNA drifting on galactic winds, searching for a suitable environment to call home. The plot of the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers explains that the pod people came to Earth in the form of gelatinous creatures able to survive in the vacuum of outer space. I tend to fall on the side of astrobiology and ask for some actual proof before announcing that something is possible, but I do like playing with the idea in poetry. People who are very very keen on the idea of extraterrestrials tend to point to Fermi’s Paradox (which more or less states, “Empirical evidence is for Sucka MCs/ P-Funk’s Mothership Connection puts/ the xy chromosome in sexy”) and speculative fiction as to why they got a D- in high school science but an B+ in creative writing (naming no names, of course).

barco

18 Monday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in A Girl and Her Submarine, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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mamá roja, narco barco, Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte, poem, Poetry, pretty lady, santa muerte, sonnet, submarino del poeta

Santa Muerte, escúchame. Pretty

Lady, hear me. It’s not alms that I crave

 

but a submarine for my poetry.

Submarino del poeta. With wave

 

and tide, with cat and book, I’ll learn liquid

-rolling verbs, new words for endless motion.

 

Is a boat too much? I’m not craving blood.

Mother mine, mi madre, if your children

 

in FARC have one, might I too? They call theirs,

“Narco barco.” But mine will be your shrine

 

in the brine; a place to write, sail and pray

under a seafaring sky. Hear my prayers,

 

Pretty Lady. Mamá Roja Divine.

Grant me: Templo de la Santa Muerte.

][][

Notes:

We call her Our Lady of the Holy Death (Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte). She is a folk saint, unrecognized by the Catholic church but worshiped by both members of law enforcement and Narco cartels. Outcasts and outlaws are drawn to her for it is said that she answers prayers immediately and protects against violent death. I use several Spanish words and phrases in the poem. “Escúchame,” translates into, “listen to me.” “Narco barco.” is slang for any sort of boat used in drug smuggling. According to the BBC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) once utilized homemade submarines for that purpose, each costing around £1.3 million to build and could hold a crew of five.

bait

10 Sunday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

bait, conversations with imaginary sisters, dullards, gods who love us, no flow crew, poem, poet is priest is pervert, Poetry, sonnet, sucka mc, think mayhem, tribes of scribes

You got us, trolls. We’re the unhappy few

with sub-par brains. We got no savvy. Our

 

tribes of scribes? Dim-witted. Our no flow crew?

Sucka MCs. Our erotic lives? Sour

 

grapes. All that you accuse us of is true.

This is the safe way out. “Poet is Priest,”

 

Ginsberg cried. But trolls got no god. They spew

hate. They laugh when we take the bait. “Artiste,”

 

they sneer. “Poseur.” All that grief, misery

and fear that drives us means nothing to them.

 

Ire we’re seen, dead we’re raised, gods who return

for our love: all proof of our lunacy.

 

We’re fools, drunkards, dullards who think mayhem

is art, who think it means something to burn.

faux

30 Wednesday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

conversations with imaginary sisters, faux, flarf, jean genet, joejob, poem, Poetry, sexy spam-bot, sonnet, spamusement, spoem

“I too Analyze,” the spambot confessed,

“with Safe and Sexy cam models!” “Big Dick

 

Trickle.” “Dajuana Cox.” “Mother Knows Breast.”

So much for my Shakespeare essay. Type, “Schlick,”

 

in by mistake and whole new worlds open

up. It makes research a tad hard, bastards.

 

Still, I’m sure friend Spambot had lots of fun

crafting wretched sex puns from all my words.

 

Kinda respect such asinine zeal

to the Absurd. Genet would’ve been proud.

 

Flarf. Faux Joejobs. Spoems. Ass-‘n-9. None

of it sparks joy … like Dick Trickle. Surreal

 

but not clever. Cold but not kinky. Loud

but not sublime. Zealot but not shaman.

][][

Notes:

Jean Genet is one of my favorite petty criminals and playwrights. Champion of Theatre of the Absurd he wrote The Thief’s Journal and Our Lady of the Flowers (where Divine, of Pink Flamingos fame, got her name). The idea of this poem came from Steven Frank’s Spamusement! which took subject lines from spam emails and turned them into single-panel gags. Flarf, Joejobs and Spoems do the same thing but, as I’ve often found, without the humor and self-awareness that makes Frank’s work a joy to read.

nostalgia

29 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

conversations with imaginary sisters, deathblow, flog the fog, Grace, more than spilled ink, nostalgia, poem, Poetry, praise, sonnet

Around the time when earthly pinks and pearl

had been drained from the sky and the crows rose

 

in their trees to caw gray into the world

I stirred in nightmare, in sodden nightclothes,

 

in that sick sweat I get when pneumonia

curls cute in my lungs. I type in a fog

 

while in bed, one fingered, the nostalgia

of lust both heavy and out of reach. “Flog

 

a dead horse,” you text back. “Lust is all that

you write about.” Perhaps. These new gray days

 

of crow caws and ice match my libido.

Who do I turn to? Even my tomcat

 

retreats. Once I called lust prayer and could praise

pleasure. Now it’s less grace and more deathblow.

études

28 Monday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

études, crassest of sex, fiddle, ippy bullsheet, more than spilled ink, Paganini, poem, Poetry, seducing fugues, sonnet, violin

Climax, crescendo and the Devil’s joy

wrung from her violin in the café.

 

Later she said: “Oui. You’re ah ‘ice fuck toy.

I weehl steahl you.” Soon she turned to risque

 

tunes coaxed from Paganini’s cursed fiddle;

four strings hinting at uncanny glamour.

 

“Oui. Zat despair een ‘is eyes, unable

to speak because, you know, lairynx can’cair,

 

as I slipped eet from ‘is ‘ands.” The dying,

she said, were, “ah ‘oot,” to fuck with. “Love eet

 

with zair, ‘but mon Dieu loves me’, attitudes.

Pourquoi?” Hers was a fugue seducing

 

glamour and the rest just,“’ippy bullsheet.”

Hints of crassest sex from refined études.

][][

NOTES:

Niccolò Paganini (1782-1840) was an Italian violin virtuoso and believed by many to have sold his soul to the Devil for a legendary red violin. I go back and forth as to whether regional accents help a poem or hinder other people from understanding it. The truth is that I have a lot of fun figuring out various accents but there’s no point in writing something no one else can read. Here’s the translation if any of my fake Parisian words confuse:

Climax, crescendo and the Devil’s joy wrung from her violin in the cafe. Later she said: “Yes. You’re a nice fuck toy. I will steal you.” Soon she turned to risque tunes coaxed from Paganini’s cursed fiddle; four strings hinting at uncanny glamour. “Yes. That despair in his eyes, unable to speak because, you know, larynx cancer, as I slipped it from his hands.” The dying, she said, were, “a hoot,” to fuck with. “Love it with their, ‘but my God loves me’, attitudes. But why?” Hers was a fugue seducing glamour and the rest just,“hippy bullshit.” Hints of crassest sex from refined études.

constraints

27 Sunday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

all mine brine, child of lilith, constraints, conversations with imaginary sisters, more than just spilled ink, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Tsovinar, vavashot

Being Lilith’s child the young priest, pervert,

called you Vava, as in the ancient word,

 

Vavashot: Lust. Lilith, though, was desert

born and fell in love with the sea’s mothered

 

magic, naming you Tsovinar: She Strides

Upon Waves. Leave that sucka’ with his psalms

 

and scant faith, cousin. We’ve both heard the tide’s

long call. We’ve both felt that pull. Nothing calms

 

me the way She and tempests do. We’ve shed

all our cotton constraints at the shoreline.

 

Man-made gods have no sway out here. We’ve tread

upon billows and called the brine, “all mine.”

 

Leave dry land to priests who think that they know

something. They mistake lust for undertow.

][][

Notes:

In the pre-Christian Armenian pantheon, Tsovinar (Ծովինար) is the goddess of water and forces the rain to fall with her rage. Lilith (Լիլիթ) gets associated with whatever fears and phobias men have about sex at the time; thus she is described as being everything from night-haunt succubus to feminist bisexual to free-spirit divorcee. This, of course, says nothing about Lilith herself, who came from the deserts of what is now modern day Syria to the shores of the Black Sea. In one ancient translation it says, “Լիլիթը հայտնաբերեց ծովը/ Lilith discovered the sea.” It says nothing of her sexual appetites, her loathing of Abrahamic religions or even her being the, “Mother of the Unholy Folk … a Mixed Multitude,” that she’s suppose to have given birth to up in the mountains. All that is racist and sexist modern fantasy. The only thing I feel comfortable in repeating is, “Լիլիթը հայտնաբերեց ծովը/ Lilith discovered the sea.”

dispel

20 Sunday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

coven's pride, dispel, filthy lucre, hubris, neon fused, poem, Poetry, sea poem, selling my gifts, sonnet, uncanny malform

Dry ground and graveyards pale next to the sea’s

verge when uncanny malforms crawl forth each

 

night and roam. The same infected city’s

haze of lights that drown the stars cannot reach

 

into that dark, cannot dispel horrors

that have only ire toward our neon-fused

 

age and benign witcheries. The breakers

mark me as a false witch, how I’ve abused

 

my gifts for filthy lucre and coinage.

There is no grimoire for sale that’ll let us

 

command the tide. Coven’s pride. Ghasts that feed

on brine-caked bones know this. You can’t sage smudge

 

the sea, they guffaw. They name us hubris

and crawl from the surge at the scent of greed.

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erotica [links]

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  • erotica readers and writers association
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electric mayhem [links]

  • clara smith
  • sandra bernhard
  • Severus & the Deatheaters [myspace]
  • cyndi lauper
  • discos bizarros argentinos
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  • Poetic K [myspace]

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