Category Archives: Illustration and art

the abyss

15 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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spirit shark of my soul

spirit shark of my soul

1.
Mountains do not amaze the way the gaps
in the earth do. The Marianas calls
for me, those dark bottomless shapes on maps
where our feeble sunlight dies and nightfalls
over and over into the abyss.

2.
To sink, to drift, to dream, a soul crying
in the darkness. I do not know if “bliss”
is the right word, perhaps it’s “fear”? Drowning
is a thing larger than our souls. Union

3.
with these eldritch horrors. Souls can never
find their way home once lost in the ocean.

4.
Pray for this diving bell and its diver.
Pray that pressure does not crush, oxygen
holds out, that all we love comes back again.

phantasmic comforts: asleep in the city of souls

14 Monday Jan 2013

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

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Las Vegas literature has been and continues to be a literature of exiles, written mainly by outsiders who arrived from elsewhere, stayed briefly, lingering along the city’s glittering Strip and never once invest the place with any depth, any soul, any idea of what was going on around them.

Las Vegas literature has been and continues to be a literature of exiles, written mainly by outsiders who arrive from elsewhere, stay briefly, linger along the city’s glittering Strip but never once invest the place with any depth, any soul, any idea of what is going on around them.

I had never witnessed so many ghosts
until I lived in Vegas. The desert’s
potter’s field; for, what other city boasts
such a thin veil? What phantasmic comforts
could such a necropolis offer up
to the living? The Valley of Fire called
and the temple of Sekhmet called. Worship
comes in all forms. Can you hear this? Ribald
pleasures are nothing compared to carnal
worship. The ghosts came in throngs. They hungered
to be witnessed. “Hear me, friend, the frightful
veil is not all so frightful,” they murmured.
There is no Emerald City; Vegas
is a way station, nothing more or less.

sakine cansiz assassinated in paris

10 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Passings and Death Notes

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Cansiz pictured on left

Cansiz pictured on left

The BBC has just released information about the shocking assassination of Sakine Cansiz and two other Kurdish women in Paris.

Three Kurdish women activists – including a co-founder of the militant nationalist PKK – have been found dead with gunshot wounds in a Kurdish information centre in Paris.

The bodies of Sakine Cansiz and two others were found on Thursday.

France and Turkey both condemned the killings.

The motive for the shootings is unclear. Some 40,000 people have died in the 25-year conflict between the Turkish state and the PKK.

However, Turkey has recently begun talks with the jailed PKK leader Abdullah Ocalan, with the aim of persuading the group to disarm.

“Rest assured that French authorities are determined to get to the bottom of these intolerable acts,” he said.

“I condemn this violence,” Turkish government spokesman Bulent Arinc told reporters. “This is utterly wrong. I express my condolences.”

The BBC’s James Reynolds in Turkey says two rival theories have emerged about the killings.

The deputy chairman of the ruling party, Husein Celik, said that the killings appeared to be the result of an internal Kurdish feud.

The theory was later picked up by other officials and commentators in the Turkish media, who suggested that PKK factions opposed to the talks were to blame.

But Kurdish activists said the killings were carried out by forces in the Turkish state itself who wanted to derail the talks.

Our correspondent says that in Turkey many believe that there is a so-called “deep state” – a powerful nationalistic establishment which seeks to undermine the work of democratic governments and activists.

itchy, fevered, ill

15 Saturday Dec 2012

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

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ice and sunfire 01

ice and sunfire 01

ice and sunfire 02

ice and sunfire 02

ice and sunfire 03

ice and sunfire 03

ice and sunfire 04

ice and sunfire 04

ice and sunfire 05

ice and sunfire 05

notes: Yukio Mishima (1925 – 1970) was a Japanese author, poet, playwright and film director. He had been nominated three times for the Nobel Prize in Literature. His visions were avant-garde, displaying a blending of modern and traditional that broke cultural boundaries, with a focus on his own sexuality. He was obsessed with the romanticism of the samurai, as well as that of Bushido, their warrior’s moral code. He once explained in an interview that after WWII Japan was now living in an age where there could never be an “honorable death:” for Mishima that meant dying either on the field of battle or by ritualistically cutting out one’s own intestines with a knife. In 1970, after a failed coup d’état, he committed suicide by doing just that, seppuku.

“got the guts for it?”

Tonight’s ordeal by roses, red poppies,
praying mantises. You left and I came.
You left me and now I am hot with fleas,
regret, none of us can survive the shame
of the morning wind. My love: memory
of things precious keeps me itchy, fevered,
ill. A tower of stone. Rough and lonely.
Darling Mishima: you were a bastard
in life, but god-like in death. I have traced
knife points across my stomach, too, all set
to spill my guts to you. We have debased
any honorable death, and yet — and yet —
Like sex, your love left me sad and obscene,
tending to your grave, clothed in tender green.

the coolest of the seven samurai

[remix]

Tonight’s
ordeal

by roses,
red poppies,

praying
mantises.

You left
and I came.

You left and
now I am hot

with fleas,
regret, who can

survive
the shame

of the morning
wind? My love:

memory of things
precious keeps me

itchy, fevered,
ill.

A tower of stone.
Rough and lonely.

You were a bastard
in life, but god

-like in death.
I have traced

knife points across
my stomach, too,

all set
to spill

my guts
to you.

Have we
debased

any honorable
death? and yet —

and yet —
Like sex,

your love
left me

sad and
obscene,

tending to
your grave,

clothed in
tender green.

desirous appetites

13 Thursday Dec 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry

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desirous appetites [1]

desirous appetites [1]

desirous appetites [2]

desirous appetites [2]

I.
The moon
smiled
on me
last night
as I lay
beneath
the stars hot
and flushed
in the grave
yard winking
as if
to tell me
of more delights
in the time
to come if
I could only
understand.
If I could
only hear
what
they want
to tell me.

II.
Deep down
under
the tombs
the conquering
worms writhe
and twist
with their
desirous
appetites,
hungry for what
remains
of flesh,
now deflated,
long shriveled,
spent. Cocks
and the dead
have much
in common.
Both strut
and fret
and when over
are heard
no more.

III.
Last night
I slept
in the grass
and felt it
tickle
the soft flesh
of my naked
thighs
and dreamed
you were
more than just
a ghost and
I was more
than just
in love
with your
lost,
dead
eyes.