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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Poetry

grows

08 Wednesday May 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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blithe spirit, Federico Garcia Lorca, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet, Spanish translation

“La una era la otra/ y la muchacha era ninguna” ~ Federico Garcia Lorca

I am petty. Splintered bones, skirt of green

fire, the skulls of all my foes hung around

my neck. I am mean, ravenously mean:

a hog’s head worth. The ribs over my wound

are all bent outwards. That which was dwelling

within woke hungry. Decades go by. Greed?

A glint. A hint. It’s never gone. Growing

the way greed grows without logic or need,

until it wakes. Wakey-wakey, monster.

You mean, pretty cocksucker. Here’s my hog

sticking knife, pretty-pretty. Damnation

of queens. All that can curl closed my finger

opens. Grey greed blue hue greenish fog smog

kiss. Mist’s kiss of flesh. Wet smack of toxin.

][][

Notes.

The Garcia Lorca quote comes from a longer trippy poem, Casida de las Palomas Obscuras (Song of the Dark Doves) where the roots of this poem started, only to head off in a different direction by line 2. Inspiration can be a surreal beast, I suppose.

Por las ramas del laurel
van dos palomas oscuras.
La una era el sol,
la otra la luna.
«Vecinitas» les dije,
«¿dónde está mi sepultura?»
«En mi cola» dijo el sol.
“En mi garganta» dijo la luna.
Y yo que estaba caminando
con la tierra por la cintura
vi dos águilas de nieve
y una muchacha desnuda.
La una era la otra
y la muchacha era ninguna.
«Aguilitas» les dije,
«¿dónde está mi sepultura?»
«”En mi cola» dijo el sol.
«En mi garganta» dijo la luna.
Por las ramas del laurel
vi dos palomas desnudas.
La una era la otra
y las dos eran ninguna.

In the laurel tree’s branches
I saw two dark doves.
One was the Sun,
the other the Moon.
“Little neighbors,” I said,
“Where is my grave?”
“In my tail,” said the Sun.
“In my throat,” said the Moon.
And I, who was walking
with the earth round my waist,
saw two snow-white eagles
and a naked girl.
One was the other
and the girl was neither.
“Little eagles,” I said:
“Where is my grave?”
“In my tail,” said the Sun.
“In my throat,” said the Moon.
In the laurel tree branches
I saw two naked doves.
One was the other
and both were neither.

pupilless

06 Monday May 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bloody gasps, crones, erotic poetry, junkies, pixies, poem, Poetry, sick menses, sonnet, swains, waiting to exhale

Breathe in the breath that can blacken mirrors,

dust scraped from a Missy Jane Chemistry

Set. The breath I feel on my wet fingers

as I slip in bed. Breath gone all glitzy

and thick in Waiting to Exhale, Whitney’s

last moan. Breath of pixies and junkies. Breath

that tastes like my cum; the one sick menses

that will never flow. You know it from Death

and the Maiden. You know it. “Breathe, damn you!”

you cried, pounding on my chest. Cracking bones.

Punctured lungs. Tell it to my pupilless

eyes. My blue hued flesh. That’s the breath so few

know. So few. Like you. Pity my swains, crones,

bloody gasps. Pity all who answered, “Yes.”

numskull

01 Wednesday May 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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gnawed, gnawing hunger, numskull, poem, Poetry, poor passions, sonnet

To suck. To feed. To gnaw on a deranged

teat. It’s been years since I’ve felt that panic.

Oh dear. I guess it can’t be helped. How strange

just how consent comes in comics. Graphic

grubby, voracious and somehow safe. No

matter the kink. No matter the hunger.

Pity poor passions, the one door I know

that the gods speak through. I still remember

all their voices. What else will dementia

grind down until I’m ravenous? roughshod?

stripped of bliss? A hungry ghost that nothing

will fill? Desires numskulled by trauma?

Numb. Skull. Panic. The urge to be gnawed

to the bone. The urge to do the gnawing.

Q: do you ever find yourself ruminating?

16 Tuesday Apr 2024

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

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bogus, Dementia, floppy sweat, glitter gun, poem, Poetry, sonnet

I feel sober … delirious … a crass

imperious, like a needless meltdown

or a skirt with buttons sewn down the ass,

leaving queer imprints each time I sit down.

Don’t frown. I have floppy sweat, sweaty flop

and this deeply odd dimple. Here are two

blinkable eyes drowning in my mop top.

High dreams, click bait, a smoking glitter glue

gun. Don’t laugh, this glamour is serious,

like the foundling you’re fondling. Hell’s

bells in the palm of your hand. Don’t question

this fog’s piss. I’ve turned totally bogus,

as the kids say. Fog? Dementia that swells

in me, hot as any glue from a gun.

notes.

As I’ve noted elsewhere my father has dementia and I, being the oldest child in the whole extended family, am perhaps showing early signs of it too. I say, “early signs,” as if I were operating with some sort of money-back-guarantee of reaching a million miles before needing to be sold for scrap in exchange for something slightly better.

This is what I think about, perhaps at times a bit too much. Self-pity is an odd toxic beast. Some folks say that dementia is a blessing since it causes the patient to forget that they’re slowly losing everything about themselves. I don’t spend a lot of time on-line these days, not because I don’t care but because there are times that I’ve forgotten that I have a blog and that revelation is sorta a total bummer.

If, at some point, I stop posting here for good it will probably mean that I’ve lost the path to get back home; midway, as Dante would put it, through those deep dark woods where no search party will ever be able to find me.

plagues

09 Tuesday Apr 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, I am a DJ I am what I play, poem, Poetry, sonnet

You say you want to be seduced. I want

that, too. Not me. You. I want to seduce

you: with song, with soul, with the feral haunts

of your thwarted passions. I know the juice

you keep bottled between your legs, DJ.

Let us incantate: Kafé – Kasita –

non Kafela. “All these beats will obey

what these grooves/ demand. Bloody, raw

and in command.” Shall we dance, my spitfire?

Shall I taste all that runs between your legs?

This is my glamour’s glimmer. My coy please.

My pomp’s circumstances and rude desire.

We are what we play. For you lust plagues.

For me one irksome and vexing cock tease.

][][

Notes.

It starts with Bowie’s “I am a D.J., I am what I play.”

bareback

21 Thursday Mar 2024

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

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age difference, anal sex, black hole, erotic poetry, French translation, poem, Poetry, sonnet, translation

Like this. The abyss yawned wide with jelly

honey smeared around the rim. Such event

horizons spawned from your thirst for nerdy,

fey boys. I’ve never been much except bent,

as in, curious. You called it your black

hole. “Je veux te sentir en moi.” Back when

strange new worlds meant more than just bareback

sex in the backseat. Since I wasn’t, “Men

who Suck,” I was safe, even if you weren’t.

All you adults and your Midlife crises

still faze me ⟺ middle school was spent in moans

⟺ slaphappy moans ⟺ one more pretty thing “learnt”

in singularities ⟺ “Like this” ⟺ how to please

supernovas and erogenous zones.

Note.

“Je veux te sentir en moi” translates into, “I want to feel you inside me.”

tía

26 Monday Feb 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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Alejandra Pizarnik, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet, Spanish translation, tía

“Surrealism is only shocking to those who are shocked by dreams,” André Breton.

Scads of old wounds, tía. Scads. El viento

muere/ en mi herida. “The wind dies/ in

my wound.” And in the blood, tía, its slow

flow, a queer smear. Horror under the skin.

Horror that keeps itching. Alejandra,

tía, I’ll still be your your fag hag that keeps

you from the night that gnaws and, mendiga,

begs in your blood. Infernal stone that weeps.

Sugar crusts. The crunch and chew of language.

An itch. A witch. I cannot stop, auntie,

I call you all: Necromancer of words

and wounds. This scar? Where I pulled my innards

out. Where I washed my old wound in the sea

and used your name as its heinous bandage.

Notes.

If Federico Garcia Lorca would be my uncle, then please let Alejandra Pizarnik be my aunt. These two poets taught me more about the craft than anyone else. And yes, I use the term Craft as in the dark Dionysian powers of the psyche and soul. Pizarnik wrote in fragments, as the language she used drove her insane. Artistically, she is sister to Paul Celan, who wrote in German and committed suicide by drowning in the Seine. Language as virus. Language as plague. The poem of hers I use is, “El viento muere en mi herida./ La noche mendiga mi sangre.”

bestial

25 Sunday Feb 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Bugblatter Beast, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, fallacio, hit the high chords, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Shan’t know, I suppose. So I’ll go … I’m gone …

watch me, “went.” To find that blessed spot. Even

that sounds like a joke. Flesh Gordon. Sex Spawn.

Deep throat Nine. Whimsy, chaos & semen.

Even Leia’s, “Into the Garbage Chute,

Fly boy,” made you snicker; though sodomy

remains a tribal language. That & brute

passion, which is also a force. Your knees

around my neck. Your nails digging fjords

down my back. I tongue-fuck that spot & you

groan like the ravenous Bugblatter Beast

that you are. That spot? You hit the high chords

each time. Messy mirth is always taboo;

messy, whimsy, chaos with lips well-greased.

Note.

The Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal is a fictional monstrosity from, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. File it under: Other People’s Pillow Talk.

retch

18 Sunday Feb 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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ars poetica, one day at a time., poem, Poetry, retch, sonnet, spew

The gods had ceased singing. My verse had cooled,

then dried up. Nightmares, livid with love, came

with puke and drool, as if I’d somehow fooled

Temperance. As if self-restraint and shame

only bedeviled others. And today? ¬

Six years have passed. The bloat has left my face.

¬ Scars on my liver. ¬ Scars on my wordplay. ¬

Lifetime of scars, self-loathing and disgrace;

cuz’ who dies clean? Pffft. Thomas? Poe? Sexton?

Saints of excess. ¬ Today? This day. ¬ Call this

a small price to pay. ¬ Of these fifty-four

years six were spent sober. Without swollen,

flushed flesh. Without the gods, “taking the piss.”

¬ Without retch. ¬ Without fucking up hardcore.

note.

Today, 2/18/2024, marks my 6th year anniversary of entering Recovery. As they say, one day at a time.

gall

21 Sunday Jan 2024

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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daemonicus, poem, Poetry, sonnet, winter blues, winter drizzle, winter rubs the nose raw

Tallow in winter. That long-toothed ruin

wrung from drippings. The decay of Eros

dribbling down my wrist. Say it in Latin.

[Demon] [Possession] “Daemonicus.”

Possession. Mine. Flesh rendered so I’m fit

for your gluttony. Yet something fetid

hangs in the frozen air. Frostbit. The bit

that was a nose, two lips, one pale eyelid.

Frostbite leaves the dark pit in my skull

exposed. It takes a certain hungry gall

to snog with just any possessed bastard.

They say if you can’t be a good example

then be a grisly warning. Gouged; I’m all

brittle bone. Now kiss me like a blizzard.

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