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memories of my ghost sista

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Rumi, “Some Kiss We Want”

19 Friday Feb 2016

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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Coleman Barks, love poetry, Rumi, Some Kiss We Want

There is some kiss we want

with our whole lives, the touch

of spirit on the body. Seawater

begs the pearl to break its shell.

And the lily, how passionately

it needs some wild darling!

At night, I open the window and ask

the moon to come and press its

face against mine.

Breathe into me. Close

the door of the brain and open 

the window of the heart.

The moon won’t use the door,

only the window.

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Rumi, “This Market”

19 Friday Feb 2016

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Coleman Barks, love poetry, Rumi, This Market

Can you find another market like this?

Where, with your one rose

you can buy hundreds of rose gardens?

Where, for one seed you get

a whole wilderness? For one weak

breath, the divine wind?

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Rumi, “The Price of Kissing”

19 Friday Feb 2016

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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Coleman Barks, let's buy, love poetry, price of kissing, Rumi

I would love to kiss you.

“The price of kissing is your
life
.”

Now my love is running toward my soul shouting,

“What a bargain, let’s buy!”

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Rumi, “Like This”

19 Friday Feb 2016

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Coleman Barks, huuuu is the sound of blowing wind across your palm, Like This, love poetry, Rumi, Shams

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
here to my heart.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?

Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?

Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.

When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us

Like this.

Quote

05 Friday Feb 2016

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote, self-portrait

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quote unquote, those who wait, who I want to see

merseawaves:

If you were dying within three months,
who would you secretly want to see

and why?

“It will be all the people who’ve been waiting for me all this time, the patient ones, the ones I’ll finally get to see again. And I tell you this, when it’s your turn, I’ll be one of the patient ones waiting for you.” — quote unquote

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patchwork

08 Friday Jan 2016

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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Babylon Crashing, erotic, patchwork, quote unquote, reblog, sonnet

You’ve made a fetish doll from me. From spit

and stains, from my hair and nails. When you said:

— “I want the moon on my tongue, now give it

up to me” — You knew that, when pricked, I bled

pale light; that when, hung, suspended, drugged to

my toes, you could taste how to fly on my

skin. You say it’s about conjure, that you

can drain me, just like that. But I defy

that limp rag. You can suck patchwork veins

all day long and you still won’t get it. Moon

light is a distortion of what we want

inside. All the stolen pubes and cum stains

in the world won’t save you, it’s why you’ll soon

come back to me: hungry, hollowed eyed, gaunt.

— Babylon Crashing

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that slapping nuisance

03 Thursday Dec 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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Babylon Crashing, erotic poem, quote unquote, reblog, sonnet, that slapping nuisance

I can’t sleep. I’ve listened to you all night.

Over and over, softly through the floor.

This must be your art, your craft. Sodomite.

Pervert. Poet. And while I could say more

there are a thousand reasons why I should

stop here — I’ve wasted so much whiskey on

myself, I’ve bled, I’ve gnawed on green wormwood.

And you — with your, “Afternoon of a Fawn,”

and your beastly hands and cruel antlers —

You sing low. That noise, that slapping nuisance,

fills the night with voyeuristic heartache.

All art is illicit, it seeks pleasures —

In your pause, in your last note, that silence,

coming from below, keeps the world awake.

— Babylon Crashing

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night tide

28 Saturday Nov 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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Armenia, Babylon Crashing, erotic poetry, Lake Sevan, night tide, reblog, sonnet

The drowned girl said, “be rougher, I don’t mind.”

In the old tongue — a tongue that I couldn’t

speak well. The lake water had made me blind

so I clung to her wide hips as her cunt

covered my mouth, my chin. In the night tide

the small waves inched over us. I could feel

her bent forward, pressing down, as she tried

to gag me -drown- while her wild mane went eel-

like, all hither and yon. I’ve walked Sevan’s coast,

the drowned outnumbers the living. Thirty

years-old; wild hair rose up, like — dark like, kelp —

a voice that called from the lake. Carmine’s ghost

calling, “Yeranut’yun.” — Bliss. The way she

pulled back and said, “you naughty little welp.”

][][

note:

In Armenian, the word for bliss is, “yer’an’ut’yun,” (երանություն).

— Babylon Crashing

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acheflow

20 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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acheflow, Babylon Crashing, erotic poem, reblog, sonnet

Here’s release. You and me, we’re not like them.

They pulled away. You sniffed my open palm

as you touched your lips. My fingers, my thumb,

even my wrist were soaked. The low buzz-bomb

growl of my vibrator filled the backseat

of your mom’s car. The upholstery had crude

scars and new finger-funk stains, while slush-sleet

coated the windows — Acheflow — We pursued

whatever we could do between the breaks.

Your prom was a bust; your college transcripts

denied. You were a ball of stress. All fraught

until a toy made you squirt up earthquakes

into my palm. They blanched while your hips

buckled wide in the Gaspar parking lot.

— Babylon Crashing

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bit salt

06 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet

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Babylon Crashing, bit salt, erotic poetry, reblog, sonnet

Morning fog. Open window. Her muscled

arms. Spooned in silence. Soft boy flesh waking.

One roll and she mounted, sliding from dulled

sleep into howling wetness. Tightening,

vice-like, a groan, nails marking his shoulder,

husky, low. Fog patches filling the gapes

of the bay. Child of the reef, your lover

caught you out of your drowned-skin. What escapes

lust when a muscle-woman puts her mind

to it? Not even myth. Her thighs buckled,

her heels dug into the mattress. She ground

down. Bit hard. Drew salt. Laughed as she reclined

back; let him breathe while sea-water dribbled

between her thighs dribbled down dribbled down.

— Babylon Crashing

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ars poetica: the blogs a-b

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