• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: quote unquote

laluah

19 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Aquah Laluah, conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, Gladys May Casely Hayford, Krio language, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

Aquah Laluah wrote about her lover’s

rain soaked breasts, about storms within and storms

without, kissing her dusky throat. Thunder’s

note, she called it, which did more than just warm

her flesh. Auntie I never knew, you wrote

about longing and I keep going back

to the source. I, too, crave. Like Qiu Jin’s quote

about music, yours has been the soundtrack

I’ve been dancing to for years. A teacher

at Freetown’s all-girl school [1920]

Auntie, you drank from Frangepani’s proffered

bowl and called it peace: the first faint glimmer

of light. Tɛnki. I love your long, rainy

season, that storm wet craft that you conjured.

][][

Notes.

Gladys May Casely Hayford (1904-1950), who went by the pen name Aquah Laluah, was a schoolteacher at The Girls Vocational School in Sierra Leone. She is credited as the first poet to write in the Krio language, a regional Creole. Tɛnki is the Krio word for thank you. Like Aquah Laluah, Qiu Jin was also a feminist, lesbian poet who taught at an all-girl’s school in Qing-era China, though Qiu Jin was executed after a failed revolutionary uprising. Four of Aquah Laluah’s poems were collected by Countee Cullen in Caroling Dusk: An Anthology of Verse by Black Poets of the 1920s. The quotes of her that I use come from her poem, Rainy Season Love Song, which I share here in its whole:

Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes;

Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of thunder drums

My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain,

As storms within and storms without I meet my love in the rain.

“The rain is in love with you darling; it’s kissing you everywhere,

Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly hair;

Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate mounds they rise,

I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills your eyes.”

Into my hands she cometh, and the lightning of my desire

Flashes and leaps about her, more subtle than Heaven’s fire;

“The lightning’s in love with you darling; it is loving you so much,

That its warm electricity in you pulses wherever I may touch.

When I kiss your lips and your eyes, and your hands like twin flowers apart,

I know there is lightning, Frangepani, deep in the depths of your heart.”

The thunder rumbles about us, and I feel its triumphant note

As your warm arms steal around me; and I kiss your dusky throat;

“The thunder’s in love with you darling. It hides its power in your breast.

And I feel it stealing o’er me as I lie in your arms at rest.

I sometimes wonder, beloved, when I drink from life’s proffered bowl,

Whether there’s thunder hidden in the innermost parts of your soul.”

Out of my arms she stealeth; and I am left alone with the night,

Void of all sounds save peace, the first faint glimmer of light.

Into the quiet, hushed stillness my Frangepani goes.

Is there peace within like the peace without? Only the darkness knows.

shunter

12 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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booty deep, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, putting the anal in bacchanal, quote unquote, shunter, sonnet, spilled ink

Amor fati, it starts like this: She bop

a loo bop a whop bam boom. Not Tutti

Frutti, but buggery none the less. Flop

sweat. The first inkling of pain. Booty

deep and spread wide. No, you say. O hell no.

But to love what Fate brings requires you to

explore. From the bar through the slush and snow

to bed. Batty fang. Caterwauling. Screw

shunter. Slang … as I pause before the O

of your ass. Hell no. Then, by turns, Rome burns

between your cheeks. Tonight we will transgress.

Call me daddy, stranger, your queerest beau;

bent, we say. Soon wild rapture will return.

Soon you’ll claw my flesh, shuddering: fuck, yes.

rude

07 Monday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Kate Warne, Pinkerton Female Detective Bureau, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, rude and smutty with the gods, sonnet

Rude much? We live, rue and die all unasked

for, save Kate Warne, chief of the Pinkerton

Female Detective Bureau, who unmasked

the plot to kidnap Abraham Lincoln.

Unasked, unmasked, pain in the ass. Epochs

divide us. Like Lilith in the moonlight,

in Kate’s far scars: bullet wounds and smallpox.

Lilith everywhere. Born a cenobite,

Kate sez’, “I such sights to show you!” Then

she’s gone, man, real gone. Rude: as in, keeping

secrets from you. You are untrustworthy.

Kate hates you. I’m just indifferent. Your sin

does not thrill. It’s common. Common sinning

when it should have been vast and praiseworthy.

randomize

20 Thursday Mar 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Chrystos, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet, swamp pussy

One for the road. Yes, I placed the barrel

of your pistol in my mouth. You were out

of the room. For the taste. Once. Gunmetal

lime. Fat germ lemon. Tart like sauerkraut.

Tart like the road. Death tastes all taste buds gone

wrong. You said it was like sucking cock, but

no. Life has a taste. This does not. Neon

cherry. Photon peach. My moppet mouth, gut

wound. I placed the barrel of your pistol

in my mouth. To taste defeat, randomize.

Haha, fool. Ha. “Till my Pussy sucks/ Air,”

you wrote. You were out and I put it mull

in my mouth. “Lick the moon between your thighs,”

Chrystos. Make you swamp-wet glut with prayer.

hints

17 Monday Mar 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, hints, past tense squander, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet, sow doubt

They let the Scurrilous Child imagine …

but they’re all ghastly teachers. Not one graced

with the Lore of the Flesh. Ours: a Common

Pornography. I’m down with the Unchaste-

to-be, with Alien tremors. Hints start

like this. Phantom limbs waiting to be bit

away. Scars prenatal, biding time. Tart

horrors of muscle: in spring they’ll commit.

Trust me: your sex life will be the, “dark times,”

that Brecht warned of. Like mine. Like all of ours.

You just don’t feel it, yet. Go dream about

future fucks; go search for wise pastimes

sublime, as wise as your love without scars.

I’m not here to tease, love, just to sow doubt.

whipsawed

01 Saturday Mar 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet, whipsawed

On the subway, splattered, your dastardly

dream-turned-shower, shed as a badge of hard

car-knocks, all keepsakes of nastiness. Tree,

for the taking. Sap queen. I go marred bard

when I whine. O lured god, green ya twee boss

hewed. Pallid. Heed, as in, heed my prayer for

– rancor splotches? – all cooed quivered across

your face? Flushed a canvas like flesh you gore

my cum wryly. My thrust into the ankh

rusk of dusk; dripping down your chin. Such crust

spotting car-knickers; an unclean and odd

godly. Less swank and prank, more filthstank, rank

as in – Indeed. My mussed thrust. My trussed

bonedust gone g’na’d. Roughshod, little god.

][][

note.

As personal puns no one else will get “g’na’d'” is from the Armenian word for go, “g’na,” (գնա/ guh-naw), which I then put in English past tense (‘d) because apparently this is something I do.

unchaste

22 Saturday Feb 2025

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

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erotic poetry, grave's end, Lord Byron, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sea foam and ache, sonnet, unchaste

“Till taught by pain, men know not water’s worth” ~ Lord Byron.

To hear that far-off rumble, that faint praise

mixed in with the boom-dread of the breaking

waves. To half halt in doubt; there shall always

be doubt. Praise, as in lament, rumbling

in the wet sand. Doubt shall be my grave’s end.

Doubt and this throaty and forbidding maw

that you call the surf. To enter. To transcend.

To be sucked away. Blowjobs and lockjaw.

Spasms junoesque. Unchaste. Pungent. Cum

lost on the surge. All the things I’ve done mean

nothing. Stings of indifference. The sea rose

does not care even as I grow hard and numb.

I love laments that are crude and obscene;

like a note found in my abandoned clothes.

gift

21 Friday Feb 2025

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

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aunt in haunt, Eros' virus, hungry ghosts, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

Urban legend says: You can tell which Aunts

are real Hungry Ghosts since they wait for you

after school to walk you home. Such romance,

if that’s the term, boggled me. All I knew

was that her garage smelled of hootch, roach spray

and sage. Sometimes her husband would come home

and shout. She was a Ghost because one day

she was gone. All that summer I would roam

near by, to lure her out with the promise

of boy flesh but such flesh is everywhere.

Urban legend says: the sick kids she takes

become Ghosts themselves: Eros’ virus …

which is why I’ll starve, I answer in prayer,

rather than bequeath you plagues that ache.

thick

27 Monday Jan 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, ire and cum, poem, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

“Venus is kindled by anything, but her greatest heat comes from sodomy, as anyone who has tried it knows” ~ 12th century Italian graffiti.

For a sec those whispers were back, “make it

hurt.” The scars of your anus an old friend

as I sank inside. Back when lust and spit

were the only lube we needed. To rend,

to tear, to walk with a limp. For a sec;

a twitch; concrete grit should’ve been enough;

skewered dog-drip meat; at each sick thrust, “wreck

me.” Back when self-loathing was the thick stuff

that drove my verse; rise and turn bathroom ghouls

sublime. Odd. Without meth Yacht rock remains

vapid. Without booze Venus’ heat cools

and so do I … like sex without blood stains.

For a sec, slick with dawn’s light, ire and cum,

the gods were whispering one last poem.

a pretty piece of flesh, please

26 Sunday Jan 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Kreyòl, Translation

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Blood Wedding, Federico Garcia Lorca, Haitian Creole, Haitian Creole translation, poem, Poetry, quote unquote

This is a scene from Federico Garcia Lorca’s 1933 surreal drama, Bodas de sangre (Blood Wedding). Set in rural Spain, the story concerns a doomed love triangle swirling around the nameless Bride, Groom and Leonardo Felix, who once was in love with the Bride but is now married to another. Driving the tragedy is the Groom’s bitter Mother, who has lost her husband and older son to an ancient feud with the Felix family. It is during the wedding itself that the Bride unexpectedly flees with Leonardo, leaving the Groom with no choice but to follow them. The two men kill each other and the rest of the play deals with the fallout for all the female characters.

Lorca loved his psychedelic Romanticism and this play does not disappoint. During the chase scene all manner of bizarreness happens, from a trio of otherworldly lumberjacks to the Moon making a walk-on appearance. Perhaps the strangest is Death, who takes the appearance of a curvaceous pauper (though, except for some stage directions, she is only referred to as “The Beggar Woman” throughout). As the scene opens, two young women sit, spinning wool, while the Little Girl (who turns up in the play whenever a comedic line is needed) runs about being sassy. Soon Death shows up and asks, Yon bèl moso vyann, tanpri. [A pretty piece of flesh, please.]

LITTLE GIRL. Ale ale! [Go away!]
BEGGAR WOMAN. Poukisa? [Why?]
LITTLE GIRL. Paske w ap plenyen: ale. [Because you’re whining: go away.]
BEGGAR WOMAN. Mwen te kapab mande pou je ou! Yon bann zwazo swiv mwen: ou vle youn? [I could ask for your eyes! A flock of birds is following me: do you want one?]
LITTLE GIRL. Mwen vle ale lwen ou! [I want to get away from you!]
YOUNG WOMAN I. [To the Beggar Woman.] Pa koute l! [Don’t listen to her!]
YOUNG WOMAN II. Eske ou soti nan rivyè a? [Are you from the river?]
BEGGAR WOMAN. Se konsa mwen te vini. [That’s how I got here.]
YOUNG WOMAN I. [Timidly.] Èske mwen ka poze w yon kesyon? [Can I ask you a question?]
BEGGAR WOMAN. Mwen te wè yo; yo pral byento la: de torrent lapè finalman ant gwo wòch yo, de gason nan pye chwal la. Mouri nan bote nan mitan lannwit lan. [Pauses.] Mouri, wi, mouri. [I saw them; they will be there soon: two river torrents at peace at last between the rocks, two men trampled between the horse’s feet. Dying in the beauty of the night. Dying, yes, dying.]
LITTLE GIRL. Fèmen bouch, dam toutouni, fèmen bouch! [Shut up, naked lady, shut up!]
BEGGAR WOMAN. Flè ranpli twou je yo, ak dan yo se de ti ponyen nèj difisil. Yo tou de tonbe, pandan lamarye a te rive, abiye ak cheve tache san. Anba dra san tache yo pral retounen, pote sou zepòl bèl ti gason. Se konsa, pa gen anyen ankò ka fè. Li jis. Tout sa ki rete yo se flè an lò sou sab sal. [Flowers fill their eye sockets, and their teeth are two handfuls of hard snow. They both fall, as the bride arrives, dressed in blood-stained hair. Under the blood-stained sheets they will return, carried on the shoulders of a handsome boy. So there is nothing more to be done. It is fair. All that remains are golden flowers on the dirty sand.][Vanishes.]
YOUNG WOMAN I. Sal se sab la. [The sand is dirty.]
YOUNG WOMAN II. Sou flè an lò. [On the golden flower.]
LITTLE GIRL. Sou flè an lò a mò yo pote tounen soti nan kouran an. Brown se youn, mawon se lòt la. Ki rossinyol ki nan lonbraj vole ak fè jouda sou flè an lò! [Beneath the golden flower they carry them from the river. Dark-haired is one, dark-haired is the other. Let the shadow of the nightingale fly and call to the golden flower!]

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