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memories of my ghost sista

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memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Poetry

from, “childe harold’s pilgrimage,” by lord byron

03 Friday Aug 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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childe harold's pilgrimage, Lord Byron, ocean, poem, Poetry, quote unquote

  And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
  Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
  Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
  I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me
  Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
  Made them a terror — ’twas a pleasing fear,
  For I was as it were a child of thee,
  And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.

Quote

“fish food,” by john wheelwright

03 Friday Aug 2018

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fish food, john wheelwright, no evil, poem, Poetry, quote unquote

As you drank deep as Thor, did you think of milk or wine?
Did you drink blood, while you drank the salt deep?
Or see through the film of light, that sharpened your rage with its stare,
a shark, dolphin, turtle ? Did you not see the Cat
who, when Thor lifted her, unbased the cubic ground?
You would drain fathomless flagons to be slaked with vacuum
The sea’s teats have suckled you, and you are sunk far
in bubble-dreams, under swaying translucent vines
of thundering interior wonder. Eagles can never now
carry parts of your body, over cupped mountains
as emblems of their anger, embers to fire self-hate
to other wonders, unfolding white flaming vistas.
Fishes now look upon you, with eyes which do not gossip.
Fishes are never shocked. Fishes will kiss you, each
fish tweak you; every kiss takes bits of you away,
till your bones alone will roll, with the Gulf Stream’s swell.
So has it been already, so have the carpers and puffers
nibbled your carcass of fame, each to his liking. Now
in tides of noon, the bones of your thought-suspended structures
gleam as you intended. Noon pulled your eyes with small
magnetic headaches; the will seeped from your blood. Seeds
of meaning popped from the pods of thought. And you fall. And the unseen
churn of Time changes the pearl-hued ocean;
like a pearl-shaped drop, in a huge water-clock
falling; from came to go, from come to went. And you fell.
Waters received you. Waters of our Birth in Death dissolve you.
Now you have willed it, may the Great Wash take you.
As the Mother-Lover takes your woe away, and cleansing
grief and you away, you sleep, you do not snore.
Lie still. Your rage is gone on a bright flood
away; as, when a bad friend held out his hand
you said, ‘Do not talk any more. I know you meant no harm.’
What was the soil whence your anger sprang, who are deaf
as the stones to the whispering flight of the Mississippi’s rivers?
What did you see as you fell? What did you hear as you sank?
Did it make you drunken with hearing?
I will not ask any more. You saw or heard no evil.

Quote

“they say the sea is loveless,” by d.h. lawrence

03 Friday Aug 2018

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d.h. lawrence, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, they say the sea is loveless

They say the sea is loveless, that in the sea

love cannot live, but only bare, salt splinters

of loveless life.

But from the sea

the dolphins leap round Dionysos’s ship

whose mast have purple vines,

and up they come with the purple dark of rainbows

and flip! they go! with the nose-dive of sheer delight:

and the sea is making love to Dionysos

in the bouncing of these small and happy whales.

shorthair

01 Wednesday Aug 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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cat's pajamas, crap soap, odds bodkins, poem, Poetry, shorthair, sonnet, tickless

This is a prayer. Our kiss hang in the air —

like clocks, it stops. Tickless. I have no more

 

ticks left to give. “By the curly shorthair,”

the kids say, “odds bodkins.” I still deplore

 

just how helpless I’ve become. It was not

love since I stood up and lovers lay down.

 

It was not sundown since I get distraught

at dusk and this was bright. Blood had caked brown

 

around my nostrils. Bruises filled the crook

of my arm. That cough. Easy as despair.

 

Easy as soap. “There are stains that baffle

soap.” That’s some crap soap, bub. Be suds that shook

 

the stain in the cat’s pajamas — this prayer:

it starts as a kiss, it ends as a yowl.

cupid’s malcontents

31 Tuesday Jul 2018

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

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bust a cap, cocksure, cupid's malcontents, drama queen, poem, Poetry, self-portrait, soft boy, sonnet, totally rad

My trash-talk needs work. I want more than gloom’s

muzak, more than these chrome mall mannequins,

 

half-clothed, standing guard near the changing rooms.

Stripped, I abhor what I see. It frightens

 

me how I’ve changed. Once I reveled in loss,

desperate for your tongue. Transfixed with romance

 

halfway down my throat. I loved all chaos;

all of Cupid’s malcontents in hot pants.

 

I was all that I’d take a bullet for

because there will always be some foul dude

 

afraid of the fab, of soft boys, who’d bust

a cap in anything rad and cocksure.

 

Picture this: a queen standing hard and nude

in a changing room — hard and still in lust.

telegraph boy

30 Monday Jul 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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c'est bon, desert mint, haitian balm, Idlewild, poem, Poetry, red dirt, sonnet, telegraph boy

I want to smell the memory of you

passing on the street. Bells of Idlewild,

 

orange groves, nine paper roses, bayou

salt flats, the way you sang, You Wicked Child.

 

Wicked musk. First the cleft where your backbone

merged with your ass and then the sweat. The whine

 

as my hips grind. “Telegraph boy,” you groaned

out the words. “C’est bon!” Yes, it was good. Spine

 

bent, eyes wide, thighs akimbo. I walk bent

in boots but your scent is not here. Red dirt,

 

Haitian balm, incense. None of them were yours.

Or ours. A hint of desert mint, cement,

 

quisling’s room. It was the last scent that hurt.

Hospice’s razors, flu, IVs, bedsores.

slash season

27 Friday Jul 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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damp gristle, euphoric heat, gore's soul, knife wisdom, left toe-cutting knife, poem, Poetry, slash season, sonnet

I want a darling not afraid of knives,

in love with the oil and the stone. Who knows

 

how to hone against bone. My flesh thrives

with pain, with slash seasons, with primrose

 

-hued welts. What do I need with a summer,

bastard dogwood galore? or an autumn

 

with lake storms pitching across the sour

waves? What we have is a fist, the wisdom

 

a fist brings holding a knife. I am yours

for the cleaving, for the euphoric heat

 

carved in. My skin is ornament enough,

and my will shall be done. Darling, let gore’s

 

soul guide you through all this gristle and meat

to my trifle of flesh, slash season’s stuff.

fucktard

11 Wednesday Jul 2018

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

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fucktard, poem, Poetry, queer love, sonnet, stay classy, we love, we rise, words always matter

We are swine, wild boars among the bluegrass

and salt-stained rocks. We are bitches, each teat

 

engorged, each rump distended. We are sass

and rage. Each foul word you use to mistreat

 

others — fucktard, ignoramus, nitwit —

that is us, too. Why does liberation

 

for you crave vile behavior? I’m unfit

to judge, clearly. Still, I love my cousin

 

even if my cousin doesn’t love me.

Today’s rebel is tomorrow’s tyrant

 

without this connection, without these ties

to each other that make us family.

 

We own the words that you use: faggot, cunt,

‘tard. So we defy you. We love. We rise.

britches

09 Monday Jul 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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britches, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Federico Garcia Lorca, fuck-marry-kill, i love the butch in you, i love the femme in you, Poetry, sonnet

“Millay-Lorca-Kerouac,” I announce.

Driving to Flint we play Fuck-Marry-Kill.

 

“Edna?” you doubt. “Look at this ass. I bounce

when I strut” — I show off my tight Goodwill

 

britches, crotch frayed — “and when I’m on all fours.”

I love your truck with its [Off-road Princess]

 

[NDN Grrlz, please] and [My Pussy Roars]

decals. “Edna loved queer boys. She’d hit this.”

 

“Federico?” “Love my bambino.” “Jack?” “Hate

Jack; the white crayon of art.” “A huge sack

 

of limp cocks?” “Yes, literature’s eight dollar

haircut.” You laughed. I like your laugh. Irate

 

raving aside, you’re a blessing: laid-back,

hep, steps beyond she and he, his and her.

prove

28 Thursday Jun 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

little blessing, long sober pain, MaCat, pain proves, poem, Poetry, sonnet, still it moves

It’s not breaking off the tooth, it’s the living

with the exposed root. You are gone. You are

 

gone. I know that the rain is still falling,

that the earth is still sublime, that the star

 

I named you for is still out there, somewhere.

It’s this morbid time, time on my hands, time

 

to think that I can drink away despair,

fuck away all this pain. Time for sublime

 

errors in judgment. Pain will be the death

of me but what does pain prove? They still move:

 

the rain, the earth, the stars, all that must part

must part. I held you. You took your last breath.

 

You are gone. Let this long sober pain prove

that I love you, little blessing, dear heart —

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