• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: sonnet

in this dim earth

07 Thursday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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girl-goat-god, Greek myth, in this dim earth, poem, Poetry, satyr, sonnet, Sylvan moonshine

And then all sounds stop. Small hoof prints scattered
in sod, like frequent mistakes, deep and fine,

heading off to the remote skyline. Bird
and beast gave pause. The crickets made the sign

of the evil eye. Sylvan moonshine shown;
and you reeled, drunk on dandelion wine.

She could play a tune, unwittingly blown
to us from glen to glen. Sylvan moonshine:

mute in this dim earth; no human vices
slept in her capra face, spreading her blind

bovid thighs and her dispensing plum lips.
Her dew-sodden musk curled all that she does.

Godlike, she makes provisions for mankind.
Frayed, her skirt slips on goat-like hips.

cocksure

06 Wednesday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cocksure, erotic, know your limits, not by you, poem, Poetry, SM/BD, sonnet, woeful bottom

I have never understood the allure
submissively—-meekly—-obediently
of such surrender you can be cocksure
I will not—-yield yet—-to one so wildly
barren—-in visions I’ve been pushed non-stop
beyond all—-my limits yet not by you
I have been taught with the sting of a crop
I’ve been ridden—-far yet not by one who
cannot command armies with a dark glare
it is known that I am a pretty piece
of flesh I—-am yet to need a scourge cum
in my mouth to taste hell if my nightmare
makes you my mistress master uncle niece
know that I’ll make you a woeful bottom

people like us

05 Tuesday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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bisexuals, people like us, poem, Poetry, sonnet, tryst

grind howl grunt for I’m nothing but your own
unsavory thoughts your muscles—-tighten
against me pressing fingers down deep bone
deep rump deep clutching your hand tight action
above your head—-I understand—-the hurt
inside you I understand—-why you need
this now quick two fingers can make you squirt
three will rob you—-of humanity greed
some say drives you bullshit I won’t deprive
you of this secret—-deception we know
some say people like us shouldn’t do this
but we love—-the illicitness—-we thrive
on fucks because we both know how need goes
need is doing all this—-just for a kiss

who heard you say no

04 Monday Nov 2013

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

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Baron Samedi, Dionysus, Don Juan, double standards, erotic, feminism, Freyja, poem, Poetry, Rati, sonnet, Venus

Baron Samedi, Dionysus, Don Juan,
these be the masks that men can slip into.

Every culture has its sex gods that spawn
the myth of great sex. What that means to you

ain’t my concern. Tell me, who do women
in your land have when lust’s fire burns within?

Venus? Rati? Freyja? Fuck that Virgin
and Whore dogma. You gonna say that Sin

be just another name for girl pleasures?
Absurd. A bee won’t stop being a bee

because you ignored it, lied about it,
tried to shame it, stupid. I love lovers

who break the rules, who laugh, who aren’t sorry,
who heard you say no and don’t give a shit.

][][

a note:

Most of the time when a writer name drops (especially names 90% of the rest of us haven’t heard of) or uses foreign words or phrases without translating them I end up getting turned off as a reader. Being well read shouldn’t be a license to be conceited. I say that because I use six names that probably most people haven’t heard of before. They are all love gods and goddesses from around the world. At first I tried to leave them out but the whole point of the poem was to show that there are more female erotic archetypes than what we have here in this modern world, which still teaches girls sex is bad, celibacy is good and anyone who actually likes pleasure must be a whore (unless you’re a man … men are never criticized for liking pleasure).

In Voodoo Baron Samedi is loa (spirit) of the dead, sex and resurrection.

In Greek myth Dionysus is the god of wine, ritual madness and homoerotic ecstasy.

Don Juan usually refers to a monster-long poem written by Lord Byron, but he based his story on old Spanish legends of the world’s greatest lover.

Venus is the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess Aphrodite.

In Hindu mythology Rati the goddess of passion and lust.

Freyja, in Norse legend, is the goddess associated with love, magic, shamanism, sacrifice, war, death and sexuality.

dead seasons

01 Friday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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dead season, dreaming is not free, green house, insomnia, poem, Poetry, sonnet, winter sucks

Winter is coming—-I’ve hibernated
once, just before, but now I bide my time

in the green houses of this city. Blood
warm hot houses. Others have their bedtime,

bully for them. Let them dream whatever
it is that R-E-M brings—-I seek dull

dank heat, loam and wetness, under amber
bottle glass and ferns and honey suckle

shadows crossed across my shoulders. Pure need
is hard to keep whole in the dead seasons.

Nature knows—-it’s why you fleshy things dream.
But I’m crude—-I’m clay and I cannot feed.

I starve. Under glass I starve for the sun’s
bliss. If dreams are bliss, I can only scream.

new wave

30 Wednesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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doggy-style, Freddie Mercury, hot pants, New Wave, pegging, poem, Poetry, romance, rum sodomy and the lash, sonnet, strap-on

 

bind down your breasts strap this on I’ll dress you
up like Freddie Mercury—-in hot pants

and a cute glue-on mustache why make-do
with rum sodomy and the lash? romance

dictates that we’ll both look fabulous in
all that we wear romance states that we can

that we will doggy-style all night skin sin
and up against the wall so what began

as a lark playing dolls ended like this
all my heroes are sixteen and pregnant

slowly until you’re all the way in deep
then pull let the tip of your strap-on kiss

the O of my ass crying “shan’t won’t can’t”
crying like you’re the first to make me weep

she called him her

29 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, all that's taboo, cute anal angel, erotic, poem, Poetry, she called him her, sonnet

Mottled tattoo—-a taboo—-beckoning
her to return to—-sip the fine vintage

of his fourteen-year odd—-essence needing
but a single nip from her—-teeth carnage

blood-blood reopened—-her tongue bathing in
his dusk boy—-blood that sticky grin. The curve

of his cock above the sheet’s skin, boy sin
calling to her fingers. Who has the nerve

to go there when lust is neither legal
nor pure? Caught in—-that dim shadow she did

nothing but obey as her cooled flesh warmed
and she called him her—-cute anal angel

he was all—-that’s taboo—-what we forbid.
All that will leave us a monster transformed.

crazy cats hootch

29 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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brujas, cats, crazy, hootch, mis hermanas, poem, Poetry, putas locas, sonnet

putas locas—-brujas—-mis hermanas
on one stormy dawn—-making tea in torn

panties—-all my gods dying and her ass
outlined by the window—-ghosts of still-born

nights now—-now spirits of my cats visit
fifteen jealous souls—-some curl up near me

some curl up in me some—-just sulk poet
for the shade shadow dead hello kitty

and who doesn’t love a wild tenderness?
I use to appease you with cigarettes

and rum—-I hate rum—-now I spend my night
without crazy—-or cats or—-hootch—-jealous

little things—-like a fever without sweats
or a love that refuses to ignite

blowjobs to stangers

28 Monday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anonymous sex, blowjob, contralto, erotic rebel, fellatio, gloryhole, homophobia, it is complex, orgasm, poem, Poetry, shiv, sonnet, sucka mc

Strange. There’s a small army of us who give
blowjobs to strangers. Like Sucka MCs

or a ten year old with a homemade shiv,
you can’t tell just by looking as we breeze

by you on the street, in your office, out
on the playground. All our worlds are complex,

and so are we. Maybe on a stakeout
at a gloryhole, bathrooms and blind sex,

then you’ll tell—-when you hit a contralto,
like in movies—-each time you orgasm.

A tad crude, but to the point. Then you’ll tell
who is who. All us boys and girls who know

your taste and laugh at you because you cum
and call yourself an erotic rebel.

keep it real

27 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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domestic violence, escape from hell, keep it real, Oh Sinnerman where you gonna run to, poem, Poetry, sonnet, why I can't even go there

“Come,” you say, “no feelings allowed. Be loud,
Sinnerman, hate me, rape me. Come,”
you say,

“if you’re huge. All cocks must be well-endowed.
All cocks must not droop or sag, for I play

rough. Use me and abuse me, fill me full
of your seed, make me bleed. This is about

my needs, so fuck me. I want a mouthful
of your”
—–just stop. This sinner has grave doubts

about all that comes next. All that violence.
Rape you? Shite, I just met you. Keep it real.

Go work in a Women’s Shelter, then tell
me how sexy rape is. The vast difference

between us is that you need hell to feel,
but I feel because I escaped from hell.

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