• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: queer love

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.

zaptieh

03 Tuesday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Emily Dickinson, General Zaptieh, Lucifer, Milton, poem, Poetry, queer love, sonnet, war in heaven, we the fallen

“Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.”
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

Living and forever and me. Heh. Heh.
Heh. The drums of Hell kept beating —beating
—I fought next to General Zaptieh.
She was given the right rear flank, forcing
us to a stand still. I though my mind once
numb. As if all that heaven were a bell,
and that bastard —But an ear. I, silence,
some strange race born from a queer love, queer hell,
a queer fate —Our orders were to attack.
Instead we made a stand at the bridge. Drown
and drown in waves swept. Again and again
we fell. Rotten fate beaten falling back
through plank fell, faith fell, we dropped down and down
—We hit a world, dying and knowing —then—

thirsty beasts

15 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

cocu geste, crone, maiden, Mina, mother, queer love, sonnet, STD, vampire

thirsty beasts

They were at Mina’s door, with “cocu geste,”
deceived fury; they found the Count, smiling,
sitting on her bed, dazed, tousled, bare chest
pressed to her lips. She, carnivore, drinking,
took her fill. The world is full of unknown,
thirsty beasts; Victorian men were blind
to their own. Ask the maid, mother and crone.
Ask those who love and have been loved. Mankind
with its syphilis and brothels ruins it
for the rest of us. Mina soon declared
she was “unclean” and vowed never to “kiss”
another man. The virus we transmit
might damn us. Yet, as with all blood, love shared
between us, brings such ambrosian bliss.

after reading a poem about how monogamy is “the bourgeois prison”

05 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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homoerotica, monogamy, polyandry, queer love, Rumi, Shams, sonnet

“When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.
Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us.
Like this.”

— Jalal ad-Din Rumi
(tr. Coleman Barks)

* * *

It’s so hard to transform monogamy
into wild verse. It just sits in your mouth
like you have been gargling balls. Prissy
folk are all for it in the same way drought
loves its sunny days. This isn’t to say
polyandry is much better. In fact
it’s just the flip side of the coin; cliche
among radicals. But if you subtract
your damn ego — if you’re doing all this
for your Friends, your Others, your Shams — your verse
will be wild, child; no matter what your bliss
looks like. Do not turn love into a curse,
like those who try to define it. Freedom
looks like nothing I’ve found in your poem.

testify

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

funkadelic, Jah, Mothership Connection, P-Funk, queer love, sonnet, testify

Tonight the bass blares: We’re up for the down
stroke. Your cunt dimly gleams, lighting the room
with wet girl glare, half cinder and half smoke.
I is not I. Jah flies into the air.
What love is this? Our queer love. This affair
of ours let’s us get down for the upstroke.
There is no bad rhythm. We just resume
our mad fucking. Cumming. Drowning. We drown
 
in each others’ cum. I can dig it, star
child. I wanna call this love, testify
funkadelic, CC. Let the guitar
glare. We dig. We’re astral and moon pagan,
waiting for the Mothership Connection.

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erotica [links]

  • erotica readers and writers association
  • armenian erotica and news
  • the pearl (a magazine of facetiae and volupous reading, 1879-1880)
  • poesia erótica (português)
  • nifty stories
  • susie "sexpert" bright
  • mighty jill off
  • nina hartley

electric mayhem [links]

  • Severus & the Deatheaters [myspace]
  • sandra bernhard
  • clara smith
  • Poetic K [myspace]
  • cyndi lauper
  • discos bizarros argentinos
  • ida cox
  • aimee mann

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