• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: She Who Cannot Be Named

that’s enough for me

15 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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Aladdin Sane, Gravesend, homoerotica, memory, Putney, redheaded witch, self-portrait, She Who Cannot Be Named, sonnet, winter

putney in wintertime.

putney in wintertime.

London and a diet of shrimp curry,
Southern Comfort, hashish; I can recall
my poor hip pressed up against your icy

wall. We spooned all “winta.” Your Gravesend drawl
made me giggle. We loved Aladdin Sane.

I won’t list faults. Complaining kinda blows.

Why should I complain about love? Complain
it did not work? As if no beasts, heroes,
singers or thinkers ever once fucked up.

We don’t talk about redheaded witchcraft
or She Who Cannot Be Named. Talk is cheap.

Betrayal poems cheaper. I’m grown up.
You’re dead … so what? Once you told me you laughed
with joy as I lay in your arms, asleep.

amazonomachy

15 Tuesday Jan 2013

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

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Amazon, amazonomachy, Athena, Greece, Parthenon, She Who Cannot Be Named, sonnet, The Goddess, war, woman warrior

 

Now I hunt for the tomb of Queen Myrine,
was with her when the walls of Cerneh fell.
Myrine, who laid the Greek and Philistine
worlds to ash. Hippolyta, the rebel
Amazon, loved her. And, fey and childlike,
I did, too. Wars come, wars go, but hunger
remains. Once, curious what I tasted like
inside, we fell, clinging to each other
in a berserk haze. Hips grinding, amazed,
hot with blood-sweat until the war-god, Mars,
became enraptured. Now women are praised
for their chastity, not battle scars.
My queen, your tomb is lost, but your cravings
and name live on. Take these, my offerings.

    Note:

Amazonomachy: art portraying battles between Greeks and Amazonian warriors; Pheidias designed an amazonomachy upon the shield of Athena Parthenos, a statue of the goddess found in the Parthenon.

flush blush flame

12 Saturday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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child of many mothers, divine orgasm, hand job, homoerotic, Lazarus, She Who Cannot Be Named, sonnet, the dead, The Goddess

 

You’ve heard this before. Now and then. The soul
springs up alive. Polarized eyes then blink.
Useless limbs quiver. The heart, all charcoal
and ash, resumes. Flies move off and the stink
of your green rot fades and you flush and blush
and flame. Something below your slumbering
belly stirs. Poor Lazarus was all mush-
pulp when he rose. But we are no offspring
of sky gods. Our mothers taught us better.
Insatiable. Orgasms are doorways
to all that’s divine. What sort of sinner
would turn a blind eye on this holy praise?
Lets go together, passing through that door
once more, to see all our mothers once more.

your last orgasm [2]

09 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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faith, orgasm, She Who Cannot Be Named, sonnet, soothsaying, The Goddess, your last orgasm

 

Heaven means little when there are bloated
hands, a skirt undone, blotches of blood caked
across the face. There is nothing splendid
about heaven if any dull, half-baked
prude can get there simply on faith. The pus
oozing from the earth, the pus in my veins,
some say sin, are the same. The Horned Huntress
calls for me. She Who Cannot Be Named reigns
here, a living heaven, a flash, something
divine. Your last orgasm; speak molten
omens dripping down your thigh, soothsaying
your cum for things to come. See what you’ve done.
All for a faith that needs no toil, no vow.
All for a heaven that’s right here, right now.

seu mistério

13 Wednesday Apr 2011

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Tags

céu, Deusa é um mistério, Portuguese, She Who Cannot Be Named, sky, The Goddess

Eu não sei. Você vento verde?
Você ramos verdes? Você
o coruja no bosque? Você
o céu? O teu umbigo
é uma taça arredondada,
que nunca está desprovida
de vinho. Meu amor,
minhas delícias. Lembre-se:
Deusa é um mistério.

dionysus caress

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Astghik, incest, my new mother's foundling, mythology, She Who Cannot Be Named, sonnet, The Goddess, the underworld

On my thirteenth summer Astghik found me.
The cave had become foul. Scraps of blue bear
and dove, dropped, half chewed. She took me, dirty
half-cub, down into the sunlit fields where
I learned all the stories of her silent
mother’s people. There were The Beginnings:
the names of the Goddess and her descent
to the Underworld. There were The Meanings:
all Her trees. All the nameable creatures
and all that was not. I grew. During this
Astghik fed me on goat milk, her nightdress
hanging loose. Caress. Soon my new mother’s
foundling could not wait for each new smell, kiss,
touch. Soon all I wanted was her caress.

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ars poetica: the blogs a-b

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ars poetica: the blogs c-d

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ars poetica: the blogs e-h

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ars poetica: the blogs i-l

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ars poetica: the blogs m-o

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  • sharanya manivannan
  • michelle mc grane
  • january o'neil
  • My Poetic Side

ars poetica: the blogs p-r

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ars poetica: the blogs s-z

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