• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: sonnet

taste

20 Monday Oct 2025

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

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Tags

cunnilingus, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Spanish translation

Now write about yourself. Not witches. Not

lust, but “i” – the gauntest part of myself.

Now write about your childhood – that distraught

grimoire, “vulval witch lore,” lost on the shelf.

Which lore? Exactly. “Witches gummed gristle”?

But of course! “Make a crone moan while sucking

her bone”? Bad rhyme. It must rhyme with “vulval.”

Offal? No. “Something-something … we’re kissing.”

La bruja me agarra,/ me lleva a su casa,/ me sienta en su regazo/ y me besa.

The witch grabs me,/ takes me to her house,/ sits me on her lap/ and kisses me.

Yes! You got it. The clap, I mean … the Witch

Clap. No! You said this would be in good taste.

¡Ay! dígame, dígame/ dígame usted/ ¿cuántas criaturitas/ se ha chupado usted?

Oh! Tell me, tell me,/ Tell me,/ how many babes have you drained the life from?

Cannibal humor slays me. It’s a niche

duffer; like porn for the boring and chaste.

Or this strange folk song you keep quoting from.

Ninguna, ninguna/ ninguna no sé,/ ando en pretenciones/ de chuparme a usted.

None, none,/ none, I don’t know/ but I’m planning to drain you next.

Drain who? You: kid. Me: booty witch like bomb.

Notes.

It’s a sonnet getting interrupted by a folk song. That’s the problem with short term memory loss, I keep forgetting what I wanted to write about. I’m thinking about my childhood and my broken home on the range and suddenly I find this Mexican folk song, “La Bruja,” which apparently was one of Frida Kahlo’s favorites and now I’m trying to work it in as if it’ll magically fit in 14-lines of poetry.

The new Agent Orange: dropping song fragments into crap verse from very far away just to watch it burn.

plum

26 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic poetry, fox-plump, plumeria, poem, Poetry, Romans trumpet, shadow's yin, sonnet, spilled ink

The rain made ghosts all down their shirts that clung.

Sugimoto’s tongue. Nakano’s crop beats

time, too. “Again,” iced through the downpour’s lung-

drowning hoar. “Again.” As Aoki bleats

beneath the lieutenant’s hands— Nakano’s

thumb draws circles where before none lingered

“Ai, but teaching what, strumpet?” Pearl-butt knows

what, could not say— Recruits held their hunkered

breath, now watching their Captain, now watching

this plum ballet. The way the lieutenant’s

lips brushed Aoki’s neck. From: “Shadow’s Yin —

shattered cum cup, plum offered, blood booking.”

From: wet shirts. Downpour. Sodomitic trance.

Crop beats. Teaching what, strumpet? Yes. “Again.”

plight

26 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

chaff and cyst mist, erotic poetry, pearl butt, plight, poem, Poetry, sonnet, touch betrays what lips deny

Gun oil mixed with salt on Nakano’s skin.

Teeth wrote Sugimoto’s sermon in. “Flesh!

You watched!” The accusation, sharp and thin.

“Of course.” The Captain’s fingers knew the fresh,

wretched truth; touch betrayed what lips denied.

Inside the lieutenant’s loose braids; gaping

ropy, womblight. C-scar from the Pearl’s Bride.

Outside, marched raw rude recruits to morning,

mid-plight; the space between snap and then twist

entire. No spider here, just deeply spun

strands, peach-shellfish swallowing each other

down. O serpentine tryst chaff and cyst mist.

As in rise, flesh! Fresh pretty inch. Wet nun

womblight. Bride’s nattered Pearl-butt, now ruder.

willow

26 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic poetry, flat as cold, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spilled ink, twisted sea

Moonlight strips striped her throat where buttons paled,

fluxed and veiled: her Moon Rabbit’s lingerie—

Her glove, Sugimoto’s lips— had prevailed.

Unspooled— Her puckered silk sot on display.

“Discipline, mother!” The lieutenant turned,

fallopian rope with shape. Aoki

burned. Eh? Aoki burned. Aoki burned;

became an altarpiece. Their twisted sea.

Nakano, through ghost breath glass that steamed

with her palms, flat as cold reflection. Mapped

how? Aoki prayed, reeked of sea wolves, still

circling. Twisted sea? Twisted sea? screamed

the piece, altar-wise: her Moon Rabbit rapt—

pussy willow— then whippoorwill’s will.

laluah

19 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

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.

pride

15 Tuesday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in A Girl and Her Submarine, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

dreams of literacy, ocean in motion, poem, Poetry, pride and joy, sea cures all, sonnet

Write about what you know, they say. There’s poverty and poetry and dreaming vast. There’s this crazy world of plenty where resources are constantly getting squandered and misspent. That’s where this poem started …

Dear Spain. You’re trying to sell an old Mistral submarine for scrap. I’m trying to create the first underwater library. I dream of sailing from island to island in the Caribbean, bringing books to those who don’t have them. I don’t have €136,000, and you don’t have a buyer. Perhaps we can make a deal?

…

“Mother I never knew/ Each time I see

the Sea/ Each time,” wrote Issa. I get it.

Tide be runnin’ the great world over. Sea

and me we go back far. Call me poet

of sharks and tides and reading. Let me feed

you books. Let us all dream of libraries.

This could work. This could happen. But I need

help. From Saint Lucia to Buenos Aires,

all those lives hungry for literacy. Books

and a floating library on the quay.

Books to feed us all; this hurricane-size

dreaming. This is what our mother’s pride looks

like. With you. With us. Come, we’ll chart the way

together. Come, we’re all going to rise.

shank

14 Monday Apr 2025

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

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Tags

ghosts that bully, ghosts that maul, poem, Poetry, ribcrack, shank, sonnet, splitback lip

Shankbite, ribcrack, splitback lip; waiting

in ER to get stitched up. Ten years old

and thick with scars. Puberty arriving

early. Special Ed being doom, foretold

by the bullies who knew a fag retard

sissy when they saw one. Adults who preyed

on such flesh said I made them wet and hard

and wild. What soul brings a knife to 5th grade

and then uses it? Children have no use

for a God that allows monsters to breed

monsters. It’s like having no God at all.

Childhood of ghosts, of excuse, of abuse,

needle and thread. Let it bleed. Let it bleed.

Let it bleed with ghosts that bully, that maul.

morsels

13 Sunday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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Tags

hungry ghosts, morsels, poem, Poetry, sin eater, sonnet, translation, tsavd tanem

Tsavd Tanem. Let me take your pain. As in

I’ll eat it. I’ll vomit it. I’ll transform

it. All that horror spewed. Call me Shaman

of Thieves and Sonnets. Call me a Firestorm

that Heals. If not now then when? If not me

then who? This is what a Hungry Ghost dreams

of. You say that you wail like a banshee

during sex. I say nightmares and daydreams

taste the same. Tsavd Tanem. Hymn that stifles.

Song that bleats. This is what a Hungry Ghost

dreams of; such tasty morsels. Tsavd Tanem.

Tsavd Tanem. Tsavd Tanem. All these, “trifles.”

Love, let me take this from you. You almost

gave up. Call me Cursed; my one pseudonym.

][][

Notes.

In Armenian, Tsavd Tanem (Ցավդ տանեմ) is a colloquially phrase used to express sympathy or affection. I, on the other hand, am taking it literally. In Buddhism, Hungry Ghosts (餓鬼) are spirits who are driven by unquenchable emotional needs, often depicted as tormented by grotesque desires that they are unable to ever fulfill. If that doesn’t sum up my entire life in a nutshell I don’t know what would.

shunter

12 Saturday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

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.

without

10 Thursday Apr 2025

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

erotic poetry, masturbating to emily dickinson, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spilled ink, without transgression there can be no wisdom

Venus fly trap. Pheromones and cock. Seed’s

heavy fluid. Stamen’s curve. Stamen’s lure.

Flower hell; as in, fuck, you sigh, your greed’s

drippage. As in, there! a touch of the pure

slipping three fingers in. Buck on the cot,

in the tent, with your parents by the camp

fire’s fire. The tendrils. The roots. The cumshot.

None of that is here. Soon your fingers cramp.

Soon you hear: good night, while the tent’s zipper

unzips. Cocksleeve dreams fade. Nature’s excess

goes on without you. Zero at the bone,

indeed. No tight breathing. No clit trigger.

Just dark. Just something out there in distress.

Something bestial. Something that can moan.

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