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memories of my ghost sista

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memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Poetry

dominus inferus viscera

09 Saturday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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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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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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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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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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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

people like us

05 Tuesday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

bisexuals, people like us, poem, Poetry, sonnet, tryst

grind howl grunt for I’m nothing but your own
unsavory thoughts your muscles—-tighten
against me pressing fingers down deep bone
deep rump deep clutching your hand tight action
above your head—-I understand—-the hurt
inside you I understand—-why you need
this now quick two fingers can make you squirt
three will rob you—-of humanity greed
some say drives you bullshit I won’t deprive
you of this secret—-deception we know
some say people like us shouldn’t do this
but we love—-the illicitness—-we thrive
on fucks because we both know how need goes
need is doing all this—-just for a kiss

who heard you say no

04 Monday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Baron Samedi, Dionysus, Don Juan, double standards, erotic, feminism, Freyja, poem, Poetry, Rati, sonnet, Venus

Baron Samedi, Dionysus, Don Juan,
these be the masks that men can slip into.

Every culture has its sex gods that spawn
the myth of great sex. What that means to you

ain’t my concern. Tell me, who do women
in your land have when lust’s fire burns within?

Venus? Rati? Freyja? Fuck that Virgin
and Whore dogma. You gonna say that Sin

be just another name for girl pleasures?
Absurd. A bee won’t stop being a bee

because you ignored it, lied about it,
tried to shame it, stupid. I love lovers

who break the rules, who laugh, who aren’t sorry,
who heard you say no and don’t give a shit.

][][

a note:

Most of the time when a writer name drops (especially names 90% of the rest of us haven’t heard of) or uses foreign words or phrases without translating them I end up getting turned off as a reader. Being well read shouldn’t be a license to be conceited. I say that because I use six names that probably most people haven’t heard of before. They are all love gods and goddesses from around the world. At first I tried to leave them out but the whole point of the poem was to show that there are more female erotic archetypes than what we have here in this modern world, which still teaches girls sex is bad, celibacy is good and anyone who actually likes pleasure must be a whore (unless you’re a man … men are never criticized for liking pleasure).

In Voodoo Baron Samedi is loa (spirit) of the dead, sex and resurrection.

In Greek myth Dionysus is the god of wine, ritual madness and homoerotic ecstasy.

Don Juan usually refers to a monster-long poem written by Lord Byron, but he based his story on old Spanish legends of the world’s greatest lover.

Venus is the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess Aphrodite.

In Hindu mythology Rati the goddess of passion and lust.

Freyja, in Norse legend, is the goddess associated with love, magic, shamanism, sacrifice, war, death and sexuality.

dead seasons

01 Friday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

dead season, dreaming is not free, green house, insomnia, poem, Poetry, sonnet, winter sucks

Winter is coming—-I’ve hibernated
once, just before, but now I bide my time

in the green houses of this city. Blood
warm hot houses. Others have their bedtime,

bully for them. Let them dream whatever
it is that R-E-M brings—-I seek dull

dank heat, loam and wetness, under amber
bottle glass and ferns and honey suckle

shadows crossed across my shoulders. Pure need
is hard to keep whole in the dead seasons.

Nature knows—-it’s why you fleshy things dream.
But I’m crude—-I’m clay and I cannot feed.

I starve. Under glass I starve for the sun’s
bliss. If dreams are bliss, I can only scream.

new wave

30 Wednesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

doggy-style, Freddie Mercury, hot pants, New Wave, pegging, poem, Poetry, romance, rum sodomy and the lash, sonnet, strap-on

 

bind down your breasts strap this on I’ll dress you
up like Freddie Mercury—-in hot pants

and a cute glue-on mustache why make-do
with rum sodomy and the lash? romance

dictates that we’ll both look fabulous in
all that we wear romance states that we can

that we will doggy-style all night skin sin
and up against the wall so what began

as a lark playing dolls ended like this
all my heroes are sixteen and pregnant

slowly until you’re all the way in deep
then pull let the tip of your strap-on kiss

the O of my ass crying “shan’t won’t can’t”
crying like you’re the first to make me weep

she called him her

29 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

age difference, all that's taboo, cute anal angel, erotic, poem, Poetry, she called him her, sonnet

Mottled tattoo—-a taboo—-beckoning
her to return to—-sip the fine vintage

of his fourteen-year odd—-essence needing
but a single nip from her—-teeth carnage

blood-blood reopened—-her tongue bathing in
his dusk boy—-blood that sticky grin. The curve

of his cock above the sheet’s skin, boy sin
calling to her fingers. Who has the nerve

to go there when lust is neither legal
nor pure? Caught in—-that dim shadow she did

nothing but obey as her cooled flesh warmed
and she called him her—-cute anal angel

he was all—-that’s taboo—-what we forbid.
All that will leave us a monster transformed.

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