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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: sonnet

one hung bull

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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13, daughter, Dionysus, nightmare, sonnet, Zeus

“Myth says Dionysus was sown up in Zeus’ thigh
while Athena burst from his head.”

He lied. Today is your thirteenth birthday.
Today I’ll tell you who you are, Daughter
of the Thigh. Some say you were sea-born. They
claim they saw. But how could they? My nightmare
child, you are not mine. He was a liar.
He came in my sleep, in dream. He pulled you
out of me. Like so, sewed you up, an hour
of work, into his thigh. An old god, who
was one hung bull, this country girl’s lover.
He lied. It’s a lie to believe your birth.
Are you surprised to find out you’re a thigh
born-child? That I am neither your mother
or dead father? It all started with earth
and fire. He cut you out and made a lie.

come quicker

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cum, drunken glory, sonnet, sorrow

Come. Come quicker. All in one exhale. All
in the space of a breathe. So much time with
nothing but hunger. I’m a willow, tall
and lean, but without roots. Without the myth
of roots. Come. Come quickly. I will wait, sprawl
on the bed, drunk with new hunger for you.
Drunk with risk and possibilities, all
that makes life worth the pain. I want some new
risks; give me danger. Come now. Come with speed.
Come with a shout, a whimper. Come with greed,
with want, come to me to feed your loathsome
passions, each rotten wish. Come bare, honeyed,
brilliant. Come in joy, in rage, in frenzied
need, in ecstasy. Come, love. Please, just come.

that’s sin

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Baby Boomers, FUBAR, Led Zeppelin, Mary Oliver, sin, sonnet, The Sonnet as Prayer to God

“The sonnet is best used for deep contemplation
and profound pondering.” — Vivien Lesbertizin-Smith
“The Sonnet as Prayer to God”
“I saw a child/ with a hideous
mouth,/ begging” — Mary Oliver
Ponder on this, asshole — jumpsquiffling
and stop ganking others. No greencollar
respects Flakespeare. Save me from your freakin’
oldfolkals, Save me from one more self-pleased
poet all gwee from seein’ some diseased,
homeless, poor, raped, mad, deadie – no fuckin’
karmageddon fartburn sterile Boomer
pleased as punch opling others’ suffering
 
deserves to ever use that metaphor.
FUBAR others — others/ others — rob them
blind. You are lessless word donor, moremore
vart. Ill wind. Vomitous over your poem.
Robert Johnson loathed how Led Zeppelin
got rich off his songs. “That’s no blues, that’s sin.”

bang-up globs blue as acid

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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acid, blue, sonnet, verved

Blow out, you cocks, over the ill unchaste.
All fire can quench. You get what you deserved.
Bottled, glints in raw indigo liquor.
Let it spurt now, slap silly with lurid
pulsing spray. Bang-up globs blue as acid.
Irksome forms blurring to booted vapor.
Everything coming apart. Verved. Verved. Verved.
I blur. Apart. I cum. As in lay waste.
 
As in bits. Nothing is soften’d by love
only those crappy Troubadours and their
shitty ideas on love. Gimme foxglove.
I love poison bottled. One box’d nightmare
orgasm. Proof of what we shouldn’t wish
for, fire quench’d, and all damp flesh must perish.

ju-ju smut

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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disc go round, Jojo the Dog Faced Boy, ju-ju smut, night life, sex magic, sonnet

Aphrodite cooking “Bamboo Spirit”
in pots, salacious in the pawpaw patch.
I the aye-aye in the lewd cage. Tattoo
Earth God’s drinking dada-cocaine, murmur
hot and heavy Bauhaus. And my vulgar
Mama’s lecherous. Metal-hard taboo.
And my Jojo’s voluptuous, shaved thatch
that is only hinting at ju-ju smut.
 
I the aye-aye, yeah. “I love the nightlife,
I got to boogie on the disco ’round.”
The gods say drop your gat-gun and flick-knife.
The gods make your body their own playground,
little shut box, morning glories fusion
open hard the drip drip of fast motion.

KINKY PIG

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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I is I, kinky pig, sonnet, Spanish fly

Men make the world old, grown cold and weary,
leaving sick whelp hearts that kink cannot change.
Half-men sing half-blues about their half-cocks
and all the little joys, wet as cyclone 

dreaming, sucked deep from yarrow-marrow bone.

My real Spanish fly, you in your dreadlocks
and I is I, a sign not there. Our strange
anthem: him a’hymn, her love drug dirty.
 
Kinky pigs have the blues before sunrise,
up in their tawny tongues. A song that longs.
Leather warthog, gutting out like one sighs
a song, cyclone that blows between the songs:

“Gimme a lovesick call. Blues before swine/

Nothing, no nothing, will ever be mine.”

chemical physics

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cocaine, pass the dutchie on the left hand side, sloe gin fizz, sonnet

Broken mirrors in mudslide of cocaine
in your bathroom on laundered lingerie
folded up in rows. We laugh while neon
energy swarms in our vodka, sloe gin
fizz. As in chemical physics. As in:
“pass the dutchie on the left hand side, mon.”
Blood-shot eyes, I push the neon away.
Clone dead braincase. Rupturing our membrane.

Shatter the sink’s cold edge. Grab your hourglass
hips. Pull you in. Quintesensual skin.
Wober love-in. Doing lines off your ass.
Rubbing twenty fingers across your grin.
Down your neck. Across all that is thick
and plump. Chemicals make us fun and slick.

acid bastards

27 Thursday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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acid bastards, liquid beating drum, LSD, sonnet, wet dirt

I love liquid beating drum. I love spurt
and jets of milk. I love closer, closer.
I love hot. I love acid bastards.
I love lithe blue. I love infernal blood.
“Darling,” you begin. “Picture me naked
before my typewriter searching for words
and the keys to put this down on paper.”
“Darling,” you begin. “There is still wet dirt
 
under my nails from the last time we met.”
I love how the sun lifts up the dill’s long
green stalk. I love how it gets its roots wet.
I love raw. I love how it’s never wrong.
I love breaking. I love swallow and spit.
I love more. I love knowing when to quit.

all the way

27 Thursday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Billie Holiday, fox-plump, Lady Day, last days, radio, sonnet, the blues

Billie Holiday, Lady Day.
April 7, 1915 – July 17, 1959

 

Palm pain calls the body’s fox-plump landscape,
henna to pink noon from stunning pattern.
In the great hour of her face, moods unfold
each in her feud with the darkening air.
Lame bride sings kisses, blows hair-hook affair
in her flaming fastbacks with our fivefold.
Shimmer the pain with the lover’s iron
shavings of firelit airwaves and escape.
 
City country. In the morning Harlem
ginger leaves, bends to the window. Sliding
fold out. “Stop right there.” A mountain, a drum
on the radio, Lady Day singing:
“If you let me love you a fool would say.
It’s for sure that I’m going — all the way.”

bushfire

27 Thursday May 2010

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bushfire, motel sores, purple pubes, sonnet

I make blow dryers envious. Your skirt
pulled up at night glow glory hole. Breakthrough
motel sores. Open this wound, small pockmark
pats and scratches right above your bushfire
and thigh. What words or harder desire
does the night require of me? A birthmark
down your chin carving grins from your hairdo.
Purple pubes make it worth all the effort.
 
A new love. A new face. A new outfit.
This is it, darling. Sunlight pours straight-faced
while I’m buying a hairbrush. This is it.
I love how you look. I love how you taste.
Purple go-go boots and purple bouffant.
Come on over here and do what you want.
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