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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Poetry

sick

10 Friday Sep 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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after a long illness, age of swing, bland pornography, not with these lungs, poem, Poetry, sonnet, speak in tongues

I’ve been chasing the septic, the abscessed,

the wild and purulent. Disease is a grand

stand-in for lustfulness these days. A quest

for what others give away free. Not bland

pornography –– Promises of what might

happen. Let them exhale. Even the most

chaste and vestal can still hack & cough. Light

me up, dead man, with fever. Some still boast

of their prowess; as if the age of swing

might go back as before. Not with these lungs.

Not with this immune system. When I pull

on your hair and say, “you’re sick,” I’m being

literal. When I start to speak in tongues

that just taint I’m spewing, by the soulful.

taint

24 Tuesday Aug 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in Uncategorized

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Memory of broken bones, poem, Poetry, sonnet

How hot? The scabs under these bandages
came loose. Ointments melted. Stench sang sultry,

turning all this loving flesh to itches
and taint. Scratched them so much I pulled out three

stitches; they dangled from the scabs like roots.
Vegas heat made me long for other lips.

This heat is ooze and sulphur that pollutes
and crusts. No bath. No A/C. Just crushed hips

and cracked ribs; just on my back trying not
to move. Even typing this stinks. I dream

of ice, clean bed sheets. A month being prone
unnerves nerves; like sutures pulling on taut

flesh gone green, gassy. So hot my bloodstream
turned sick, lugging taint through each splintered bone.

    fool

    16 Tuesday Mar 2021

    Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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    Tags

    hag with tusks, love of carrion, onibaba, part of something larger, poem, Poetry, sonnet, vagina dentata

    You look sad, Auntie. We’re shadows, azure-

    eyed, made from lust and stardust and despise

     

    blood and afterbirth. Fools fear our power

    to peel off our pelts. Fools fear change, disguise,

     

    the way floods deform and do not deform

    dry earth. But, Auntie, what use are nightmares

     

    if you can wake up? Why try to transform

    when we can slaughter? We don’t need more snares

     

    Fools keep slipping free from. Call Onibaba.

    She’s a friend. She has farseeing vision

     

    and short cruel knives. Fools call her, “Hag with Tusks

    and Fangs Chitter-Chatting in her Vulva.”

     

    Fools fear her carnage; her love of carrion;

    how she sucks both down to their very husks.

    ][][

    Notes:

    In Japanese folklore Onibaba is a female demon.

    chars

    07 Sunday Mar 2021

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

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    Tags

    ars poetica, birthday, chars, grizzle, infected flame, Marquis de Sade, poem, Poetry, sonnet, stitches that ooze

    Next time you’ll count the scars. There will be more.

    Grizzled, you’ll think. Frost burn. It takes time

     

    for me to undress. Stitches hold my gore

    in place for now. This pain isn’t sublime,

     

    the sort that shamans use. It’s not De Sade’s

    doomsday, either. First time I saw someone

     

    tear at their clothes as they transformed gnawed

    at me for weeks. I will be fifty-one

     

    in less than a week. If I come back all

    grizzle gray and limping will you confuse

     

    me for the Moon? I can read all the scars

    on her face. Can you read mine? This queer scrawl

     

    that spells my fate each time these stitches ooze

    fevered flames. Heat that grizzles. Heat that chars.

    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

    ≈ Comments Off on bait

    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.

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