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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: sonnet

war’s cure

14 Thursday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Africa, Dada'ab Town, Kenya, mzimu, refugees, sonnet, the dead, war

Dada'ab 1

How to understand? In dreams I’m simply
holding a child together in my arms,
swathed and bloody. Wake up. In Swahili

mzimu means ghost. They come from burnt farms,
poisoned wells, fields where the bodies went down.

Who understands the dead?: ghosts, mzimu,
souls. Go work at Kenya’s Dada’ab Town,

largest refugee camp in the world. “You
need to work,”
we tell ourselves. Understand

words are a start but not an end. Orphans
and ghosts are still looking for us. War’s cure
is hard work; so find us a new grassland,
enough for all. Enough food for millions.
Enough water to let us dream once more.

largest refugee camp in the world

largest refugee camp in the world

Kenya-Dada'ab

grotesque

14 Thursday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Africa, child soldier, daughter of love, ghost girl, grotesque, Joseph Kony, Lord's Resistance Army, sonnet, Swahili, Uganda, Wesesa

We talk about death and war abstractly.
and pray that it happens elsewhere. I pray
for the dead. She came and spoke Swahili,
died with baby fat, mouth parched, her blue-gray
skin cracked like a shell. At the age of ten
she fought with the LRA. She doesn’t
speak of how she died. “At the hands of men,”
I thought. “Grotesquely.” She stood, shy, silent,
waiting to be remembered. When she crawled
in my lap I gathered her up. “Daughter
of love, you are safe here.”
A madman’s war
consumed her, grotesquely. I was appalled
by her wounds. But Wesesa, girl soldier,
doesn’t care; she’s not alone anymore.

][][

Notes:

The LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army) is a militant cult movement operating in Uganda, Sudan, the DRC. It has been accused of widespread human rights violations, including murder, abduction, mutilation, sex slavery and recruiting and forcing children to participate as solders in active combat. It is run by Joseph Kony, a self-proclaimed prophet, who claims the LRA is engaged in a holy war with the aim of establishing an Uganda theocracy based on the Ten Commandments and local tribal laws.

deathblow

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Amy Lowell, deathblow, drowning, gangrene, patterns, sonnet, war

"For the man who should loose me is dead, fighting with the Duke in Flanders, in a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?" -- Amy Lowell

“For the man who should loose me is dead, fighting with the Duke in Flanders, in a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?” — Amy Lowell

* * *

“i too am a rare
pattern. as i wander down
the garden paths …”

— Amy Loewell, Patterns

And you answered, “it shall be as you said.”

And I’m dead and you think of my deathblow

as you walk up and down with brushed forehead
on our garden path, giving way to snow,
in your stiff gown, gorgeously arrayed, boned
and stayed. But not as Amy Lowell wrote down.

You’re no lady and I no colonel, stoned
on cheap morphine, in a French trench. I drowned,

not in Flanders, but at sea. You’ll grow old
walking our path; but I will be nineteen
evermore. If it had been death at war
and not a mistake, would that have consoled
you? As if a bullet wound and gangrene

would make such a difference for evermore.

you oughta know by now—

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry

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Tags

amor mío, bisexual, Federico Garcia Lorca, homoerotica, homophobia, sonnet, The Mamas and The Papas, Words of Love

federico garcia lorca, mi amor

federico garcia lorca, mi amor

* * *

“If your girl likes rhythm and blues, look out
’cause cake’s in the house…”

— Sir Mix-a-lot, Cake Boy

“If you love her” and “then you must send her
somewhere”
and “where she’s never been before.”

Do not mock “words of love, soft and tender.”

All my “worn out phrases” come straight from war.
Lovers still die. I’m “a buttercup boy
from the funny school.”
By definition
I’ve been to places a 60s tomboy

hasn’t, as all children can claim. Semen
running down our chins. Still, I’ll make you glow,
mamas and papas, take you down tonight.

To where they shot Lorca. Because you mocked
everything “soft and tender.” Federico,
mi amor, I’ll burn them down with delight.
It will leave their souls horror-struck and shocked.

* * *

Note:

* The Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, was assassinated in 1936 by General Franco’s fascists for being a liberal and a queer.

* The 1960s group The Mamas and the Papas sang the song Words of Love, which I quote from in the poem. Regardless of what I say elsewhere, bless you, Mama Cass (though Papa John can bite me, jerk)

* I’ve been living with Sir Mix-a-lot’s fake ode (he of the Baby Got Back fame) to the effeminate in men, Cake Boy, for many a year now. It is equally fascinating and frustrating, much like society’s take on the fey. It might not be the very first attempt in mainstream media to talk about gay and transgendered African Americans (see: Honey Honey Miss Thang for a longer discussion) but it was one of the first I came across in hip hop. I am not African American, but I certainly identified with the cake boy motif he describes. I call this a fake ode because at the end of the song Mix-a-lot advocates physical violence against any effeminate man who might be coming on strong to a homeboy’s girlfriend. Homophobia and gay-bashing will always be crimes to send you to the 7th circle of hell in my book.

between morning star and urel

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

homoerotica, martyr's graveyard, Milton, MMF, morning star, sonnet, Urel, war in heaven

I.
Just one more kiss upon your lips causes
the blood to stir. Little light tonging flicks
like so — like so — and your hardness rises

to meet me until, with licks upon licks,
your juice starts to run. Two of my fingers
slip and slide around the edge of your ass.

I warn you: your bum will be a martyr’s
graveyard before I’m done. I will trespass
in deep — to the knuckle — in your anus.

II.
Milton warned us about this. Dictating
to his daughter the sins of male-on-male
flesh. I’m sure she spent many a restless
nightmare sandwiched between Morning
Star and Urel: male-on-male-on-female.

cthulhu’s playthings

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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blood-orange, Cthulhu, eldritch horrors, gore, rudest of playthings, sonnet

art by nekomimi (2010)

art by nekomimi (2010)

“I bite into you but then I get bored
before the second bite,”
Preacher, sighing,
explained. The thing wore a mask and a sword
with a taste for blood. Archangels fucking
demons is perverse but not rare. Preacher
came from such a mating. Our blood, distilled
from the heart, makes a mean food. In horror
films it’s drugs and sex that will get you killed.
In our world it’s ignorance of such things.
Preacher raised its eldritch head from my bones.
I could almost kiss it, except blood loss
made the world blur. We, Cthulhu’s playthings,
do not please. Its tongue, piercing my breastbones,
recoiled, grunting, “what a vile tasting sauce” …

san-shin and kwang-ho at the spa in jangsan

12 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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homoerotic, hot springs, Jangsan, Korea, Kwang-ho, mountain, San-shin, sonnet

He took a stone’s face. He took a rock’s face.
Now when I’m out walking in the mountains
I do not know what he looks like. The grace
I called love has left me. There were thousands
of souls here. His face was not one who passed
me. I first spied San-shin at a hot springs
up near Jangsan. Knobby old man with vast
balls. He laughed at my ignorance of things.
Mountain gods like sex rough. For a whole week
I went around with lockjaw. But he tired
of me, or maybe I wasn’t up to
his hard transcendental standards. His peak
is bare. The cold god I once desired
thought that I was only good for a screw.

* * *

Note: In the Korean peninsula, San Shin is a mountain spirit venerated in both Buddhist temples and by local shamans. To say he is the embodiment of a mountain top fails to capture his true meaning, for all peaks in Korea are considered sacred spots for the gods, which might account for the large number of hot springs and spas that claim to be the personal favorite of San Shin.

lady cixi’s dumb boy toy

12 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Chinese, Cixi, Empress Dowager, ghost lover, sonnet, white boy

“It would be useful,” the ghost then told me,
“to learn Chinese.” “Why?” “Because a kept boy
needs to be able to whisper bawdy
words while making love. English will annoy
mistress to no end.”
Being the consort
to the Empress Dowager’s over-sexed
ghost was not easy. It wasn’t the court
robes or growing out my queue; nothing vexed
her as much as her pet “foreign devil”
being sloppy in obscene pillow talk.
“Wǒ xiǎng jì! I wanna cum!” Regal
cheeks spread wide, taking in all of my cock.
“Wǒ xiǎng jì!” Cixi ordered her dumb
boy toy, “– I wanna cum! — I wanna cum!”

* * *

Note: Empress Dowager Cixi, of the Manchu Yehenara clan, was a powerful and charismatic woman who controlled the Manchu Qing Dynasty in China for 47 years, from 1861 to her death in 1908.

According to Google translator, 我想暨 (wǒ xiǎng jì), translates as “I wanna cum.” I’ve yet to cross check it so if anyone with better Chinese skills than me knows please let me know.

 

sleep on the dissection table

11 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

dissection table, my devils, not even human, Pygmalion, sleep, sonnet

One day when you’re good I’ll show you my Y
shaped scar cutting my chest, my clavicles,
sternum and heart all in half; that which lies
in me is now on display. My devils
make no attempt to be subtle. The art
of the cross stitch hurts but keeps my ugly
bosom together. My guts, pulled apart,
sleep on the dissection table. To be
as anatomically correct as this
is a pain. really. Man’s ideal monster
can’t be built, but we try. My Pygmalion
lover saw to that. Inside me the hiss
and whir of dark science makes me neither
god nor a monster; not even human.

la petite mort is such an odd thing to say

08 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Amsterdam pure, army of lovers, girl tough, kitty in cuffs, la petite mort, orgasm at work, sonnet, strap-on sister, sword-swallower

There is starlight and strobe in my bloodstream.

With my thumb I blend them in. The Red Queen’s
kiss is good to ward off a hex. To dream
about a pound of Amsterdam pure means
you think about the Netherlands a lot,
that and weed. I dream about my fingers
on your ass, in your hair, licking your spot.

When I dream of war my strap-on-sisters
make great generals. My kitties in cuffs
become brutal sword-swallowers. Queenly
soldiers stretched across my bed; these girl toughs
never suffer from post-coital ennui.

Why blue? Orgasms should make us all strong,
wanting more, unless you’re doing it wrong.

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