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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow

fester

27 Sunday Jan 2019

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

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alcoholic, fester, holes in my brain, poem, Poetry, shaman, sonnet, the gods breathe, worlds in my skull

All these displays of drunkenness come on
me at odd moments. At twelve they were droll,

even charming. Now? I know that neurons
misfire in my head, though huffing xylol

didn’t help, up along neural pathways
in my brain so that I seem a sucker,

easy mark, artless fuck. All these displays,
from dazed to frenzy, with fears that fester

here, of damage that won’t heal. They all seethe
here. I rave and reel just like cast-off junk.

Manic. A shaman without her people
is just one more loon who hears the gods breathe.

I’ve no people. I don’t drink but I’m drunk
roaming holes in my brain, worlds in my skull.

inferno

25 Friday Jan 2019

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

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erotic poetry, holy like sin, impaled, Inferno, lilith now and forever, poem, rage fuck, rehab, sonnet, va ao inferno

I note how in rehab you sound drunken
with awe while going on about how sex

was fun back in Nineteen-seventy One.
Fun ain’t a word I use. “Savage.” “Complex.”

“Impaled.” Break me double until you feel
my heart beat under my ribs. Connected,

with cock, with fingers, with mouth, with that squeal
squirting, flesh tethered flesh. “Rage fuck.” “Blood

brutal.” “Holy like sin.” Still, you fear hell
so you got some quick faith, some religion —

that’s not my fate. Sex is the Inferno;
Lilith, the guide. Perhaps, in some motel,

somewhere, sex is fun. I don’t know. Your fun
has brought me only pain, ruin, sorrow.

mercy

27 Thursday Dec 2018

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

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alcoholic, Armenia, Gyumri, lilith now and forever, Nagorno-Karabakh, poem, Poetry, ptsd, recovery, sonnet

Christmas Eve’s “No First Drink” Recovery
Meeting. The reek of Pall Mall in the air.

Don’t talk now. Don’t stand out. Not of Gyumri.
Not of dead orphans. Not of the nightmare

that haunts you from Nagorno-Karabakh.
Everyone here carries their own horrors.

Right now just listen, just be present. Black
humor, Lilith’s mercy, depraved lovers

kept you, if not lucid, at least sober …
but not tonight. You woke. You sit and grieve,

nod and listen. You love these survivors.
You love everyone but yourself. No prayer

will heal what you conceal under your sleeve,
under your burn scar, your broken knuckle.

gristle

15 Saturday Sep 2018

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

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boils, canker, darkness spoils, gristle, May rot, poem, Poetry, sonnet

We are still of use though the gash smells sour,
amethyst rot. We’re twitching devices —

sanded bones and stitches. The worms devour
all that the obsidian knife slices:

meaty scads and sheaves of skin. This butcher’s
love of gristle, of grotesqueness, of boils

that one picks at when they wish the blisters
to burst. The mirror knows how darkness spoils

when cast from its surface. We are of use
because we dream. The stone scalpel cannot.

The hand behind it won’t. Dreams of clabber.
Dreams of grubs in the lesion. We seduce

all that the suture holds dear: curdle, clot,
congeal. Dreams of May rot. Dreams of canker.

bereft

22 Friday Jun 2018

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

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after ecstasy, bereft, disaster, pain, poem, Poetry, sonnet, sorrow

But just then temperance whispers: you are dull

sober. You’re still a shit and self-possessed —

 

the way devils possess the infidel,

the way cancer still lurks in your left breast

 

— possessed and achingly lonely. Restraint

didn’t change that. All mild calm has brought you

 

is new panic, all your old fears, that quaint

dread of future fuck-ups to come. You knew

 

that there’d be hell to pay but why is hell

so worn? forlorn? The last horned god has left

 

the woods, the last great shark fished from the sea.

This is your inheritance. You shall tell

 

of your riches — flat, gray, cut off, bereft

— and all that happens after ecstasy.

Quote

quote unquote

14 Sunday Feb 2016

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, quote unquote

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Absence, Pablo Neruda, quote unquote

Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.

Pablo Neruda

MEDUSA

27 Friday Feb 2015

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

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Atefeh Sahaaleh, Athene, feminism, Greek mythology, Medusa, menopause

“On a planet where for thousands of years, even today, a woman’s worth has been judged exclusively by the productivity of her womb, what the hell is the point of a barren woman?”
― Elissa Stein and Susan Kim

After the change they called you a monster.
Ain’t that the truth, Ruth, Ruelaine and Susan; Pat, Judy and Audre – –
That dying, drying, dissolving inside. Listen.
You had no child so you had no cradle and what woman can dance with ecstasy with no cradle?
Who can sing when they have no tongue?
They hang girls for less, body and mind.
The priestesses banished you to the island of Cisthene in the Red Sea (east of Ethiopia).
What man wouldn’t lose his erection at the sight of you? What woman wouldn’t cast you out?
Somewhere Athene laughed while plotting your murder, “Perseus, bring me her head.”
We love to be fruitful; outside spring rises; we even describe the world in terms of ovulation.
Ai, mama mine, winter time.

][][

No one wants to remember how the goddess of wisdom, courage and womanhood cursed you for getting raped.
You would think that your name alone would shatter a civilization built on pomegranates and sweet wine.
Today apologists say that you were prideful, that you boasted, that the gods moved in mysterious ways.
So do priestesses. So do judges.
Athene didn’t curse Cassandra when she was raped in her temple.
She was young, fertile, still a thing of beauty.
But you, mother mine, became the exception to the rule.
Rules change. Honey and harp strings. Swine and flies.
Here is the head of a woman with snakes in her hair.

][][

Lovely-cheeked and
ironic. Your blood spilled
out vipers, Pegasus
and me.

][][

Hysteria: suffering of the womb, madness of the womb, but still a womb.
That which defines, that which engenders.
“As long as men ejaculate they will try to control what comes out.”
That which they cannot possess turns them to stone.
The change; you were desired once, Poseidon cursed you, Athene cursed you, Perseus cut off your head.
Now you have no more use, you and your sisters on Cisthene.
“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”
“Myself.”
“Doesn’t that fill you with rage? Coil your hair in fury? Make every pleasure into a wasteland? What do you feel looking at yourself being slain?”
“Why are you still talking to me?”

][][

“I looked into her stony eyes and see only myself.”

No, they aren’t stony, that is just what you want to see in them.
I call her mother the way I call all who taught me ancestor.

“Speak earth and bless me with what is richest.”

“Queen/ we claim you.”

“I am here to take/ back my Mother that/ you just Othered.”

I do not look like you, but I keep looking.

][][

We stripped the old woman to prove that her body was once like ours.
A man passing as a woman is a double blasphemy.
Not only is he an oppressor but he has a face like ours.
What is a revolutionist to do when monsters come in so many forms?
That which cannot bear seed must be rubbed out.
How to silence the wailing from the monster?
When it is time to pray at dawn there is the wavering sound of a man singing from the slender phalli of minarets.
Today Iran hung 16 year-old Atefeh Sahaaleh for “crimes against chastity.”
That is to say, Iranian judge Haji Rezai bragged that he raped and tortured Atefeh then had her hung to silence the girl after she removed her hijab and threw her shoe at him.
There are ghosts – – there are ghosts that stay with me that I love
the old man in drag – the daughter with the broken neck – my mother who turned her back
hush now, listen as we sever their tongues.

][][

resistance to
domination is part
of the domination
itself, oppression
adapts, by the time
you’re done reading
this you too are
complicit and
part of the system

][][

What a drag; every time they tell your story it is always the same.
Even the priestesses – holy of holy – do not falter.
They have named your malady, mother: barrenness, death of the womb, a monster with nappy hair.
It’s always the same remedy: a man beheads you and places that which he despises before him.
Because a goddess commanded it.

][][

You’re loved, you’re loved, you are loved.

Once there was an island.
And on it lived three sisters: Stheno, Euryale and Medusa.
And that’s all you need to know.

ash and bone [1]

26 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, drama

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Armenian Genocide, Ash and Bone, Constantinople, drama, play, The Young Turks, tragedy

memory is nothing but ash and bone
hishoghut’yan mokhir yev voskrayin
հիշողության մոխիր եւ ոսկրային
— Armenian proverb

ACT I:

FADE IN:
EXT. YENI BIR KADIN.1 FINISHING SCHOOL FOR YOUNG LADIES — DAY

[It is the age of the NEW WOMAN,2 July, 1914. YENI BIR KADIN SCHOOL is an experiment in Constantinople, the first of its kind, a brief, liberal attempt to dismantle the DHIMMI,3-caste system. The students are mainly from middle-class Turkish, Armenian and Greek families, a combination of Islamic and Christian faiths. Riot of girls cheering loudly, something that has never been seen before; wild-looking girls running at break-neck speed. The athletes wear a curious combination of head scarves, pantaloons and silky knickerbockers. Their classmates, in their official YOUNG TURKS’4 -sponsored school uniforms, cheer enthusiastically as the athletes race around on the immaculately-kept grounds. It is amazing enough to make even SUFFRAGETTE SALLY5 stand up and take note.]

[NARINE DILSIZIAN (27), an Armenian gardener, works on the school’s garden. A few feet away, her daughter, HASMIK (15), leans against a broken and bullet-pocked wall, watching the race.]

[ZELDA KIRKE, a 40-year old American English teacher, wife to a junior member of the American embassy, is enthusiastically cheering on her daughter, MATILDA (15), who, dressed in the same silly Edwardian-era fashion, leads neck-and-neck with another girl in the last lap of the race. The excitement increases as they approach the finish line. ZELDA is beside herself, encouraging her daughter with shouting and jumping up and down. A young Turkish teacher (though not a YOUNG TURK), ASIYE, stands next to ZELDA, shouting, “Bravo, Matilda!” over and over while clapping her hands.]

[MATILDA breasts the tape just ahead of the other girl; her head scarf unraveling, letting her long brown hair shine in the sun. The grounds are invaded by girls running to congratulate MATILDA and her rival. ZELDA hurries towards her happy but exhausted daughter, pushing her way through the mass of school girls.]

ZELDA:
This was your best race!

MATILDA [perspiring]:
I — I beat her, Mama.

ZELDA [proudly]:
You did daughter! [Laughing.] Come to the baths, we will get you cleaned up again.

[Mother and daughter walk happily towards the school buildings; MATILDA getting many kisses from her friends as they pass by. ZELDA stops to talk to NARINE, who jumps to her feet and looks nervous.]

ZELDA:
Narine, my dear, I hope you can make it. There isn’t much to do, you know, only caring for the tulips.

NARINE:
We’ll be there, Madam Zelda, bayan,.6 Hasmik-jan.7 will come to help me.

[ZELDA, who hadn’t realized HASMIK was there, turns to her.]

ZELDA:
How’s the calculus? Still confusing?

HASMIK [with respect]:
A little, Madam Zelda, bayan.

MATILDA [with a very fond look in her eye as she steps forward]:
Me too.

NARINE [straightening herself]:
My daughter works hard, Madam Zelda, bayan. Your money will not be wasted. Varton and I will always thank you.

ZELDA [gaily as she leaves]:
I hope to see you both later, darlings.

[NARINE returns to her work. A group of students, TURKISH GIRLS, laughing and pushing each other boisterously, amble by. As they near HASMIK, two girls nudge each other and giggle. Suddenly one of them trips HASMIK as she passes. The Armenian girl falls to the ground and jumps up aggressively, about to attack the Turkish girl. NARINE shouts “Hasmik-jan!”]

[The headmaster, OSMANOGLU BEY (65), despite his so-called liberal views, observes the incident but simply looks the other way.]

[HASMIK stands, suddenly blind with rage. With a snort she strides away towards the main school’s gate.]

NARINE [shouting angrily in Turkish]:
Nereye gidiyorsun?
(Where are you going?)

HASMIK turns to look at her mother then continues to storm off.


footnotes:

1. Turkish, literally, New Woman.↩

2. The New Woman was a Feminist ideal that emerged in the late 19th century and had a profound influence on Feminism well into the 20th. The term was popularized by writer Henry James, to describe the growth in the number of Feminist, educated, independent career women in Europe and the United States. According to historian Ruth Bordin, the term was, “intended by James to characterize American expatriates living in Europe: women of affluence and sensitivity, who despite or perhaps because of their wealth exhibited an independent spirit and were accustomed to acting on their own.”↩

3. Dhimmi and Dhimmitude are historical terms referring to non-Muslim citizens living in an Islamic state. Depending on the people and time period this “separate but equal” status has led to persecution, purges and, in extreme cases, genocide.↩

4. Officially known as the Committee of Union and Progress, the Young Turks were a Pan-Turkish nationalist reform party in the early 20th century, aligning themselves with Germany during WW1 and seeking to purge non-Turkish Muslims from the country. Originally favoring reformation of the absolute monarchy of the Ottoman Empire, their leadership, what historians have referred to as a “dictatorial triumvirate,” seized power in a coup d’état in 1913. Led by “The Three Pashas” (Enver, Djemal and Talaat), their dogma and policies led directly to humiliating defeat after defeat against Tsarist Russia and the ethnic cleansing of 1.5 million of their own people, the Ottoman-Armenians.↩

5. The title character in a novel by English author Gertrude Colmore (1911), written to help further the cause of the Women’s Movement.↩

6. Bayan is the Turkish word for lady.↩

7. -jan is a suffix in the Armenian language denoting affection.↩

making the bread that the dead call lavash

22 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Illustration and art, Prose

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Armenian fairy tale, Armenian Genocide, art, Der Zor, Medz Yeghern, prose, the dead are always talking

lavash

The dead are always talking; it is the living, in every age of gizmos and thingamabobs, who have forgotten how to listen.

“I died like this …”

Contrary to what you might believe these stories are told to anyone who can hear, regardless of kinship curse, haunting or vague homicidal family blood ties. Why is it that those who worship ancestors the most turn a deaf ear to their own tribe, let alone the tribe of their neighbors? That is a darkening of the soul. That is something the dead will not abide.

“… far out in a desert, a wasteland of salt, in the heat and stink of what the Turks call Der ez Zor …”

If you can hear stars sing you can listen to the dead. It is simple, for the dead are always talking with red adder’s tongue and the blessed silver owl light. A kiss in your mouth that leaves sparks. Sparks. If you can rub amber’s essence between your fingers you can listen to anything.

…“I was a girl, fey-wristed with curly black hair. I will tell you. I will tell you everything …”

You know some things, but never all. Der ez Zor was a place of suffering during the starving times. During the long walks. During the annihilation. The dead can tell you this because they remember the names. Names for everything. Names that you have been taught to ignore, that you’ve forgotten.

“… we called it Medz Yeghern, the Great Calamity. Remember what I tell you. Remember when the first signs of destruction were blown to us in the wind …”

I tell you about the fourteenth year in the new century. I tell you what I’ve heard because I am nothing and nobody. I can’t speak their language or read from their books. But the dead don’t care about grammar or poor translation or how verbs are conjugated. All they need is a willing audience.

“… when the wild horsemen came and burned down our crops, killing our fathers and husbands and son, telling us that we must go south, to the camps, to follow the relocation orders …”

These are not my kith and kin. These are not my blood soaked lands. Still — Medz Yeghern, the Great Calamity — fills my dreams and will not let me rest. Ever since I returned home from Peace Corps. Ever since I first tasted that strange flat bread that the dead call lavash.

onna bugeisha: daughter mine

19 Wednesday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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art, daughter of love, Onna bugeisha, poem, Poetry, sonnet

March 19, 2014 (12)

March 19, 2014 (11)

March 19, 2014 (13)

Around the body, puddled, as you breathe,
I feel your heart beating softer, slower,

drying begins from heated bodies. We
play in puddles, this sweet-scented moisture

that glows, cools, as the friction-induced beads
of sweat evaporates. Sunlight slavers

upon hard muscles, what falls, slashed through, bleeds
through these dappled down drapes —- gypsum lovers,

soft, lithe —- our aftermath. The story we’re
leaving for new generations. Daughter,

learn the sword, battle plans, the dialect
of war, for then you’ll protect the queer,

daft and fabulous. A godling savior
no man has ever been: divine, perfect.

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