• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

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night tide

28 Saturday Nov 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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Armenia, Babylon Crashing, erotic poetry, Lake Sevan, night tide, reblog, sonnet

The drowned girl said, “be rougher, I don’t mind.”

In the old tongue — a tongue that I couldn’t

speak well. The lake water had made me blind

so I clung to her wide hips as her cunt

covered my mouth, my chin. In the night tide

the small waves inched over us. I could feel

her bent forward, pressing down, as she tried

to gag me -drown- while her wild mane went eel-

like, all hither and yon. I’ve walked Sevan’s coast,

the drowned outnumbers the living. Thirty

years-old; wild hair rose up, like — dark like, kelp —

a voice that called from the lake. Carmine’s ghost

calling, “Yeranut’yun.” — Bliss. The way she

pulled back and said, “you naughty little welp.”

][][

note:

In Armenian, the word for bliss is, “yer’an’ut’yun,” (երանություն).

— Babylon Crashing

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quote unquote

24 Tuesday Nov 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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ask for, linda hogan, oceans of stars, Poetry, reblog, sheismadeinpoland

This life in the fire, I love it.
I want it,
this life.

Linda Hogan, from “The History of Red,” The Book of Medicines (Coffee House Press, 1993)

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acheflow

20 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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acheflow, Babylon Crashing, erotic poem, reblog, sonnet

Here’s release. You and me, we’re not like them.

They pulled away. You sniffed my open palm

as you touched your lips. My fingers, my thumb,

even my wrist were soaked. The low buzz-bomb

growl of my vibrator filled the backseat

of your mom’s car. The upholstery had crude

scars and new finger-funk stains, while slush-sleet

coated the windows — Acheflow — We pursued

whatever we could do between the breaks.

Your prom was a bust; your college transcripts

denied. You were a ball of stress. All fraught

until a toy made you squirt up earthquakes

into my palm. They blanched while your hips

buckled wide in the Gaspar parking lot.

— Babylon Crashing

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bit salt

06 Friday Nov 2015

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Babylon Crashing, bit salt, erotic poetry, reblog, sonnet

Morning fog. Open window. Her muscled

arms. Spooned in silence. Soft boy flesh waking.

One roll and she mounted, sliding from dulled

sleep into howling wetness. Tightening,

vice-like, a groan, nails marking his shoulder,

husky, low. Fog patches filling the gapes

of the bay. Child of the reef, your lover

caught you out of your drowned-skin. What escapes

lust when a muscle-woman puts her mind

to it? Not even myth. Her thighs buckled,

her heels dug into the mattress. She ground

down. Bit hard. Drew salt. Laughed as she reclined

back; let him breathe while sea-water dribbled

between her thighs dribbled down dribbled down.

— Babylon Crashing

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իմ երկար անձրեւոտ եղանակ

28 Wednesday Oct 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, haiku, Poetry, quote unquote

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Armenian translation, long rainy season, poem, Poetry, reblog, tanka

haykakanerotika:

իմ կրծքեր,

իմ բեռը —

իմ երկար անձրեւոտ եղանակ

im krtsk’yer,

im berry —

im yerkar andzrevot yeghanak

my breasts

my burden —

my long rainy season

ふところに乳房ある憂さ梅雨長き

(Nobuko Katsura, Japan)

Other translations of this poem:

The nuisance

of breasts –

a long rainy season

(Leza Lowitz)

gloom in my bosom

comes about by means of breasts

long monsoon rains

(Kala Ramesh)

Quel ennui,

ces seins!

Longue saison des pluies.

(French translation by Dominique Chipot & Makoto Kemmoku)

Dieser Schmerz, unter dem Kleid

meine Brüste zu spüren –

Regenzeit, so lang!

(German translation Oskar Benl, Géza S. Dombrády and Roland
Schneider)

乳房

的累赘 –

一个漫长的雨季。

(Chinese translation by Chen-ou Liu, 劉鎮歐)

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the children of arba lijoch

19 Monday Oct 2015

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Arba Lijoch, Armenian Genocide, Haile Selassie, jah and armenia, Metz Yeghern, Poetry, reblog, sonnet

gyumriboy:

ghostsista:

— for Kwame Dawes

Crown Prince Ras Tafari brought the children
of Arba Lijoch out of the desert —

Orphans who became Ethiopian,
who sang of the Metz Yeghern, the Great Hurt;

composed, “Marsh Teferi,” the first music
Marcus Garvey heard while in audience.

I, too, have heard of, “Natural mystic
blowing/ through the air,”
Ararat’s fragrance

in each word. I’m told, Babylon crashing.
Where in Kingston is the orchestral sound

of Addis Ababa? — I listen — I
listen, but the dance halls tell me nothing.

The ghosts of Van hang low in the background.
Who will sing their song? Tell their prophesy?

Notes:
Arba Lijoch were a group of forty Armenian orphans who had escaped from the 1915 atrocities in Turkey, and were afterwards adopted by Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia. He had met them while visiting the Armenian monastery in Jerusalem; they impressed him so much that he obtained permission from the head of the Armenian church, the Catholicos, to adopt and bring them to Ethiopia, where he then arranged for them to receive musical instruction. The Arba Lijoch arrived in the capital city, Addis Ababa, in 1924, and along with their conductor, Kevork Nalbandian, became the first official orchestra of the nation. Nalbandian also composed the music for Marsh Teferi (words by Yoftehé Negusé), which was the Imperial National Anthem from 1930 to 1974. Metz Yeghern is the Armenian word for their Great Calamity, their genocide.

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‘Poetry of Memory,’ an Evening in Solidarity with Armenia

17 Thursday Sep 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, quote unquote

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Armenian Weekly, Diana Der-Hovanessian, Krikor Der Hohannesian, Peter Balakian, reblog

I’m unable to attend this but anyone in the Cambridge-area please take lots of photos for me. This is taken from the ArmenianWeekly:

CAMBRIDGE, Mass.—On Sept. 21, an evening of poetry, titled “Poetry of Memory, an Evening in Solidarity with Armenia,” will feature readings by renowned Armenian writers Diana Der-Hovanessian, Peter Balakian, and Krikor Der Hohannesian.

The event is organized by the distinguished Nigerian poet and Professor of Philosophy at Wellesley College, Ifeanyi Menkiti, the owner of the Grolier Poetry Book Shop, the oldest continuing poetry bookstore in the U.S. and a landmark for poets. The event will take place at the Cambridge Public Library (Main Branch), located at 449 Broadway in Cambridge, from 6:30-8:30 p.m.

Der-Hovanessian is a personal hero.

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the peel sessions

15 Tuesday Sep 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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Babylon Crashing, erotic poetry, reblog, sonnet, the peel sessions

Ill kept, bad investment, this aftermath

when we drift off to sleep. Some want two sips

I need a whole damn ocean, a bloodbath.

I know about quenching. How the bullwhip’s

handle, when pressed just so, can stem your whole

deluge. I’ll leave it there. To wet my lips

and then moisten my mouth, rupture your soul.

I run my fingers through you, though what drips.

I call it soul — something that I can touch.

Slake. We all have appetites and there’s bliss

when at last full. It’s what copper suggests

on the tongue from peeling fruit. Insomuch

as my tongue can peel your fruit from this kiss,

this pulp, this sweat pooling between your breasts.

— Babylon Crashing

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at times willingly

11 Tuesday Aug 2015

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at times willingly, Babylon Crashing, erotic poem, reblog, sonnet

“Delight in the video” — I don’t play

too many lover’s games. All that vanity

turned sour some time ago. Yet I obey

simple commands, and at times willingly.

It’s what you do in public. Curious

that you’ll take it far enough to almost

get caught each time, almost. It’s that boldness

that no one else sees in you. Like a ghost

you mark where you’ve been with dripping,

sticky fingerprints — After the vodka

tonics you type, “Hit Play.” The video

starts. Where are you? Pay toilet? Sitting

down, you smile — staring into the camera.

“This is for you,” you say, “watch: nice and slow.”

— Babylon Crashing

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quote unquote

14 Thursday May 2015

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envoi, our lady of ruins, poem, Poetry, reblog, Traci Brimhall

You said abundance would not harm me,
but none of your songs could stop

the god-awful fullness of the moon.
Even the plague ended in feast,

birds chirping fat and happy
in their nests. I tried other oceans,

climbed a volcano to look inside
the earth, walked to the edge

of the sinkhole that swallowed a city.
My freedom only made me more afraid.

I’m not sure there is any world
but this one, and the mango’s sweetness

is terrible to me. Some days the fire is a mirror.
Some days I can bear the stillness of elk

when I surprise them in the alder.
Yesterday I cleaned bones out of the boat

and met a child on the shore. He made a gun
out of his hand. No one taught him this.

He raised his arm, fingers leveled
at my heart. You said I could contain it,

this gift. The boy told me I could keep
the boat. The bones were his.

Traci Brimhall, “envoi”
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