• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Poetry

should’ve

07 Wednesday Aug 2019

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

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ars poetica, bad luck baby, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Three times, before I was one, something tried
to pull me back. When the San Gabriel

fault-line shook. When the firestorm and landslide
consumed the Malibu hills. When I fell

in the deep end at the Lil’ Angels Fun
Pool. Yes. There were other attempts, later,

but those were my failures. For eleven
short months in L.A. earth, fire and water

strove to claim me. Some curses get to hide
from us. Call it misfortune, my mom did.

Before I was her mistake she called me
her bad luck baby; one who should’ve died.

I’ve no memories of being that kid —
just what came after, what taught me to flee.

sprung slow

25 Thursday Jul 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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beyond heaven and hell, maelstrom, night struts, poem, Poetry, reek, sonnet, sprung slow, wheel ruts

This hour. That hour. Staring at six normal
flowers someone brought you. My discipline,

when it comes to waiting in hospital
rooms, needs some work. All I do is listen

to your coughing wheeze while outside night struts,
all sprung slow and rooted with shadows from

the day. Once I thought that love was wheel ruts
in an old road … Or maybe a maelstrom …

Or some other metaphor. All I know
is that I’ll have to let go when you let

go. That’s love, too. I have no one to tell
this to in this room without a window.

Just six flowers and the reek of death-sweat
and a love beyond their heaven or hell.

nix

07 Friday Jun 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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city bones, fate, furies, ghost city of my soul, man made religions, nix, poem, Poetry, praxis, sonnet

I know the picture — this rubble was once
houses of prayer for a ruined city’s

people. Not all loss is the same. Absence
is pure fate for them, born for the Furies

that break city’s bones. You weren’t expecting
that. Fate was. Furies will help hook comely

scars in your flesh, nightmares in your dreaming.
Fate can’t help but love you, dear soon-to-be

survivor. All your talk of abstinence,
praxis and law means nix once Furies gut

man from man-made. Chaos is the virtue
gods call divine; all else is ego. Once

you claimed to be saved but from what?
Not this. Can you sense it coming for you?

fell

05 Wednesday Jun 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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across the street in the cemetery, crossroads, fell, poem, Poetry, prayer candles, sonnet

“Does it help you to have a place to go?”
I had just lit all of the crossroad prayer

candles; just said, “I love you,” in their glow
and dusk fell and I glanced up to find her

walking into their light. “Where should I take
my mom’s ashes?”
I hope that what I said

helped. We are all haunted with raw heartache
but few come to graveyards to ask the dead

for help. I don’t feel cast out in twilight.
It helps. In here owls love me and I burn.

Out there? I’m numb. I didn’t see her leave
or fade. She was just gone. Perhaps tonight

she will return with her ashes, return
to where we’re not forsaken when we grieve.

fleshy ends

30 Thursday May 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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consent, fleshy ends, poem, Poetry, sigh and siren, sonnet, spontaneous sex

Still, my offer stands. Whispered in passing
when your husband gets up to pay the bill.

Followed to the bathroom’s third stall, clicking
the lock as you look up and smile. The thrill

of the glance. Ogled at the meat counter
as you stand with your children, eyeing hind

loins and fleshy ends. Eyes talk. The offer
sounds like a riddle: “well nigh twined” “drain blind”

“the fount of your cunt.” In a gaze, a glance,
a grok: fount and fountain, sigh and siren,

love now, be still, listen. If you’re shameless
you’ll be praised. If you’re bold you’ll get the chance

for bliss. All that in a glance’s question:
this can only progress if you say yes.

][][

note:
In the ancient myths what was Eros’ dark side named? So much of erotica is based around spontaneous, impulsive action, embracing passion wherever it appears. Yet without consent all that we treasure turns toxic and brainsick. There must be a name for that dark wind that flows through certain souls but not others.

smitten

20 Monday May 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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last dance, lust without satisfaction, poem, Poetry, smitten, something too awkward to ask for, sonnet, versed in moppet

At the last school dance I held you closer
than I should. I wasn’t versed in moppet

just then: with shoulders slouching, with moister
on our lips, with each faint but deliberate

brush we made against our hips. Puberty
remains a foreign language but that itch

that you felt is still in me — I’m itchy
like that all the time. Every throb and twitch

when the body wants something too awkward
to ask for. Lust without satisfaction

is still lust and lust is good … even when
songs end, lights come on and shy and flustered

you go to rejoin your friends. I’m smitten,
you think, and I’ll never feel this again.

caper

18 Saturday May 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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boys who love Venus, caper, deeper than scars, girls who love Mars, poem, Poetry, sonnet, this keepsake

I fear this souvenir, this keepsake, this
dismay. I still crave. Growing up, both lewd

and shy, it twisted me; that heft and hiss
of wind at sea, that crudeness. Drunk and nude.

Lovesick and naked. Others made it feel
easy. What I got went deeper than scars,

deeper than flesh unwanted. — Sex appeal
overflowed, but not here. Girls who loved Mars.

Boys who loved Venus. What I took away
was a need for both … or neither. Dunno.

Their gift to me, to you, to us. To all
of us who fall in love alone. Dismay

is still a poor substitute. Where they flow
I still drip. Where they caper I must crawl.

last act

05 Sunday May 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic poem, freakshow, horse cock, last act, New Orleans Centaur Show, Poetry, sonnet, your cunt's soul-gate

Snatches of dream: horse cocks and long grayling
men, scents of blackcurrant and pheromones.

I dreamed that you drove to the Gulf, searching
for the best beast to fuck. I run with Crones,

Maids and Mothers, with smut, skin flicks and sleaze.
I dreamed of a red thread leading to you —

freak thread. Like all beasts, I cum in furies.
I hunt for your cunt. In dreams I pass through

your cunt’s soul-gate, as consorts do. To ache
with you, with ruin, with greed. Obsessed

with need, with how my cum-splatters flow
over your breasts. Come and find me and wake

me and fuck me like a freakshow conquest.
Last act at the New Orleans Centaur Show.

amenamair

30 Tuesday Apr 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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Tags

all-lover, all-mother, all-other, Amenamair, crossroads, Lilith, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Far more nervous for nightfall than I’ve been
for a while. Gloaming, some call it. The time

when paths open. — If I could leave my skin,
walk soft there, I would. I can’t. That sublime

skill is beyond me. The most that I do
is wait down by the crossroads for her guide.

Amenamair: a name the ancients knew.
The All-Mother. In last night’s dusk I spied

in the willow where her queer owl singsonged.
I have never been this close to an owl

before or had such a song burn in me:
“Amenamair. I have longed. I have longed.”

I long to leave my skin. I long to prowl.
I long to be your song in that dark tree.

Note:
Just as Odin, in Norse lore, is called the All-Father, one of the many names of Lilith, in Armenian (the ancient language that I keep going back to), is Amenamair (Ամենամայր), the All-Mother.

translating lorca

14 Sunday Apr 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Potawatomi, Spanish, Translation

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Tags

difficult translating, eshkebok, Federico Garcia Lorca, original spanish, poem, Poetry, Potawatomi, Romance Sonambulo

“VERDE, QUE TE QUIERO, VERDE.”
“Skebgezo, gmenwénmen, skebgezo.”
“Green, I want you, green.”

Potawatomi is an oral language meaning that it has only been until (relatively) recently that a dictionary using English has been made available to people like me who just want to learn the language because it sounds beautiful. To complicate things there are both Southern and Northern dialects that have their own vocabulary. I live in the north but my on-line language classes are from a southern band (Citizen Nation) who, logically, use southern terms. Today I am struggling over how to say green in Potawatomi in the context of the first line of Federico Garcia Lorca’s poem, Romance Sonambulo. “Verde, que te quiero, verde.” In Potawatomi the world is broken up into things that are animate (all that which is living, all which is spiritual, etc.) and inanimate (man-made things, etc.) The green that Lorca addresses (verde) embodies both hopeful and thwarted desire. I’ve always seen it as something otherworldly and alive. Animate green. One Potawatomi word-list I found on-line from Wisconsin says that green is, “eshkebok.” I liked that, since I could rhyme it with sleepwalk which plays nicely with the title of Lorca’s poem (Ballad of the Sleepwalker). However a different word list (this one from Oklahoma) says that green is, “skebgezo.” Perhaps it’s that regional difference I don’t really understand yet? Perhaps one is animate and the other not? I don’t know. The frustration of learning by oneself is that there is no one to correct my errors as I go along. Que te quiero (how I want you) is easier since I could find the actual phrase in Potawatomi in several sources. It is: “gmenwénmen.” I’m not at a place in my studies where I can keep translating the poem but one day I will. One day I will translate all of Lorca’s work and a brand new world will open up, just like that. I am endlessly excited to see a new world.

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