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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Poetry

dinner with famous dead people

16 Friday May 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Humor, Poetry, sonnet

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child of a witch and nightwalker, dinner with famous dead people, poem, Poetry, sonnet

They ask ya, who’d you like to have dinner
with? or fuck? or have a conversation

with? I’m the child of a witch and nightwalker,
trust me, hanging with the living as fun

is the last thing that the dead would ever
want to do. It’s not all local haunting

and brain eating; but it’s complete torture
to cross the void, called back by the living

for what? a cheap date? bad sex? to answer
questions? There’s a reason why famous dead

people aren’t spending time with me right now
and it’s not because they can’t. We offer

little but demand much. What the dead said
to me was this: “let me sleep, you daft cow.”

charley scrawl

15 Thursday May 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Charley scrawl, drought, poem, Poetry, sonnet, stink of the gods

Thirst’s all-in-all in all a world of wet
and you eye my sweat like it’s a sluiceway.

You’re parched. A kiss from me, a drop of sweat,
would heal you. I stink like the gods, decay

in the hereafter. I am rot’s reason;
what the tongue-taught mushroom dreamt about; dreams

about — corrosion. I’m food for famine.
The gods could cure you. See how blasphemes

never felt so good, clit? Charley scrawl, curse
of all that you are, git. You drink and drink

without slack, without their stink. You are drought,
for drought refuses all, even perverse

love. I warn you, if you lick it, that stink
will stay with you, you’ll never wash it out.

SAVAGE: some thoughts on motivation and alien puppets

08 Thursday May 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in drama, Feminism, introduction

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drama, introduction, Lady Macbeth, Medea, puppet, Vicious, xenomorph

all mockery is laughing
all violence is cheap …
you savage.

— Eurythmics

When I started writing this retelling of Medea I wasn’t worried about how the alien Xenomorph that would represent the tragic heroine, precisely, come to life on a shoe string budget; rather, I was curious what she would say if given a voice. This age of multimillion dollar Hollywood CGI has made modern storytellers lazy, I feel. I would rather work with Old School break dancing team or a high school drama class with a budget of $50 because that requires thinking outside the box. However, since the entire play succeeds or fails on the strength of its main character a little in-depth examination about the source material and costume is in order.

… Come, you spirits/ That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,/ And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full/ Of direst cruelty …
… Come to my woman’s breasts,/ And take my milk for gall, you murd’ring ministers …
Come, thick night … That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,/ Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark/ To cry “Hold, hold!”
— Lady Macbeth, from Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 5

Like Lady Macbeth, Medea is a complex creature who loses what little humanity she had in order to do what she deemed necessary: commit murder. Perhaps it is easier to see these motivations in Shakespeare than in Euripides. Power, we are told, corrupts, and by the end of the play, Lady Macbeth, driven insane by guilt over the crimes she has committed, takes her own life. “Unsex me here,” she commands, so that she might not be burdened with all the scruples and morals that would normally prevent her from turning into a monster. She enters the play human but leaves it bestial. Medea, in contrast, was never human to begin with. She enters it a beast, temporary becomes human and leaves it a monster.

Before I reread the Greek play I thought I remembered it well enough. Medea is in exile; having fallen in love with a handsome stranger, Jason, and helped him to find the Golden Fleece. She leaves her family and travels, with their children, to a foreign land to live. Once there Jason quickly becomes bored with her, marries the king’s daughter, and casts Medea and his own children aside. It is a story of an innocent woman spurned who takes revenge too far. Except that there is nothing remotely innocent about Medea. In Euripides’ play, at least, one of the reasons that Medea fled into exile with Jason was because she brutally murdered her own younger brother, Apsyrtus, and threw his severed body parts around her father’s palace. Everywhere she goes, we are told by her nurse in the prologue, she brings death and destruction with her. In one kingdom she tricks the daughters of Pelias into boiling their father alive in order that Jason might usurp the throne and become king himself. Yes, Jason does leave her, and yes, this betrayal is what drives her to kill — not only Jason’s new bride and father-in-law, but her own children as well — but she doesn’t need to call upon the darkness in her heart to make her something less than human like Lady Macbeth does, Medea was never human to begin with; a fact that tends to get overlooked in many productions of Medea that I’ve seen.

I’m telling you all this because it is Medea’s inhumanness that I find the most interesting. By making her simply a spurned mortal woman being cast aside for a younger one Medea becomes a powerless victim, one who feels that killing is the only way that she can bring agency and control back to herself. Perhaps on one level that might make sense to some, but it also creates a giant plot-hole: Medea is a sorceress. She might even be a goddess. She leaves the play in a flying chariot driven by her own dark arts. She has necromancy powers Jason doesn’t even know about. Why, then, does she allow things to get so out of hand that total annihilation of her enemies seems the only choice open for her?

“Love for her man, no matter how vile,” some critics have argued, is her motivation and while that reading can certainly be found in the text it also cranks the misogyny factor up to 11 on the dial for me. It’s that old-gristle bone that a woman without a man is nothing. It reminds me a little too much of that one Billie Holiday song:

I’d rather my man would hit me/ Than to jump up and quit me
Ain’t nobody’s business if I do
I swear I won’t call no copper/ If I’m beat up by my papa
Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.

That is, indeed, one way to read Medea and the gender politics of the play. It’s a terrible way, granted, but others in the past have made this claim, so obviously there’s enough people who believe it. It’s not my way, though.

A much more interesting approach is to examine what befell the character of Jack Torrance. Author Stephen King has been highly critical of Stanley Kubrick adaptation of The Shining (1980) over the years, saying that by having the haunting of the Overlook Hotel coming from within Jack himself robs the character of any chance at redemption. Redemption is an interesting idea for Jack’s motivation, since it infuses everything he does with an agonizing desperation as the chance to be human moves further and further away. By simply having Jack get caught in a time-loop that he is forever doomed to repeat, Kubrick, while still making a very scary movie, strips any tension, any risk, any gamble with the Devil from Jack as well. But by making Jack a fallen rebel angel being given one last chance at salvation suddenly everything is at stake.

That is how I see Medea. She committed atrocities, ran away with Jason, put up with his betrayals for ten years not because she is a doormat but because this is her only chance to try and become the one thing she longs for but will never truly have. “Imagine, the darkness in love with the light,” the demon-girl Yazuha cries despairingly at the end of the Tenchi Muyo movie, Daughter of Darkness (1998). Jason’s crime wasn’t just cheating on her, it was casting her back into the dark; it was damning her and sealing her fate forever. At the end she destroys the world not because she’s a psychopath but because, from her point of view, everything within the human world around her is. She is the ultimate Other, desperately trying to pass for something she is not and failing. Jason didn’t just break her heart; he literally turned her back into the creature that she was before the play started.

This is why retelling this ancient story as set against an alien world, literally turning Medea into a Xenomorph (Xeno simply being a prefix for foreign or alien), seemed interesting. In the Horror genre the most famous alien, for me, is the bug-like monster of Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979) that destroys the crew of the Nostromo. This nightmare was created by Swiss surrealist, H.R. Giger, who pioneered the whole concept of biomechanical, nightmarish life forms in art. As Charlie Jane Anders wrote:

”Biomechanics fused the impossible into a savage logic: metal and flesh, sex and death, hypnotic beauty and violation; its cool, corpse-silver colors pre-empting [Ridley] Scott’s industrial-tech aesthetic.” (2011)

As cool as all this might sound, the Xenomorph from the Alien franchise is a copyrighted image and, rightly so, Giger feels entitled to the artist’s royalties whenever one of his creations is used (going so far as to sue 20th Century Fox over failing to credit him in Alien: Resurrection). Other artists and film makers have taken the concept of biomechanics and expanded it over the years, from the New Flesh of David Cronenberg’s Videodrome (1983) to the metal fetishist of Shinya Tsukamoto’s Tetsuo: The Iron Man. (1989) In later Alien movies, once Giger no longer had creative control over his creation, certain changes occurred: the aliens became a lot more muscular, some had skull ridges, they could spit their own acid-blood, many developed horrendous drool problems. Why producers thought an over active drool gland was scary I do not know, it is hard to feel terror when you keep wanting to wipe a monster’s chin with a handkerchief and put a baby bib around its neck. However the Xenomorph-Medea, Lyssk, gets developed, please, no drool.

Lyssk’s species, the Lingualandicis (“clitoris-tongues”), need to look simultaneously like human females and grotesque lizards without drifting into the silly; something as familiar as a mother’s naked breast in an exoskeleton, as common child-bearing hips and ass with a segmented, scorpion-like tail. This is what confused Jason, he thought he was dealing with a female of his species, someone who’d behave accordingly. Seven foot tall Xenomorph-Medea needs to look like she could twist Jason’s head completely off if she felt like it.

Finding a seven-foot tall Amazonian actress might be difficult, which is why making a seven-foot tall Lyssk puppet might be an interesting alternative.

The idea came from a sketch on Jim Henson’s television show, The Muppet Show, with a creation called a Clodhopper. While only one performer was required for each full-figured puppet, the Clodhopper’s feet were attached to the performers’ feet while their heads and hands were the performer’s hands. Invisible wires allowed for wings to flap or tails to twitch. The puppeteer was dressed in black to hide their body against the black background. Considering that the play’s action takes place outdoors, in the dark, an eerie, ghost-like Lingualandici might add a certain amount of strangeness that an actress in body paint and a mask might not.

][][

Works Cited

Anders, Charlie Jane. How H.R. Giger’s Brilliant Madness Helped Make Alien “Erotic” (10/11/2011)
Retrieved from http: //io9.com/5851618/how-hr-gigers-brilliant-madness-helped-make-alien-so-erotic

King, Stephen. Danse Macabre. Berkley, CA.: Berkley Press. (1981)

Parish, James Robert. Jim Henson: Puppeteer And Filmmaker. New York: Ferguson Pub. (2006)

Prucher, Jeff (ed.) Brave New Worlds: the Oxford Dictionary of Science Fiction. Oxford: Oxford Press. (2007)

title

07 Wednesday May 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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coffin dirt, mandrake, poem, Poetry, slip of yew, sonnet, water from a djinn's hookah

Sea salt is nice, but pepper is better.
Take a pinch in your palm, and the fat grease

drippings from a howlet’s wing. Now pepper
the grease with sapling dew, three cloves, a piece

of thyme, and mandrake root (red-hemlock kind)
You’ll need the dust of a guilty man hung

at a crossroads (which is tricky to find
these days, but coffin dirt works too), newt’s tongue,

gall of goat, slip of yew. Now boil, strain, mix
with rye for flavor. It’s been recorded

that blind-worm’s sting adds to the aroma,
in a manner of speaking. Serves for six.

Great for parties. Try it cold, reheated,
with wine or water from a djinn’s hookah.

translate

29 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, haiku, Poetry

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haiku, orgasm, poem, Poetry, speaking in tongues, translate

the gods speak in tongues
orgasm their lost language
come, let us translate

erotic haiku

29 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, haiku, Poetry

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erotic, haiku, Odysseus, poem, Poetry

naked in the pool
all of my glorious scars
in sun-warmed water

][][

pleasuring myself
I don’t have a single name
to cry out, each time

][][

soon it cools and dries
smeared pearls gracing your left thigh
cum in the moonlight

][][

uncrossing her legs
hint in the shadows of lace
rush-hour subway train

][][

touch me here and here
under this indifferent ruse
I am meat dripping

][][

you don’t stand a chance
not with my ass that would tempt
both Adam and Eve

][][

t-girl at the beach
calling to Odysseus
come and see your doom

bucktail

20 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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bucktail, daughter, Holy Ghost, poem, Poetry, son, sonnet

The best monsters are the worms that bucktail;
their glint in curves, in an upswinging mess

brought by revelations. Lifting his veil,
he showed us blight, his death-head grin. Undress

before me only if you have breath, death’s wish.
Gods! Go down three paths — despite her mohawk,

wide hips, breasts, despite bravado, girlish
ass, her laugh — she was well endowed with cock

and great heavy balls. She was alien,
the one thing that you fear. I loved a queen

who placed her eggs in the chest of her host,
just to watch offspring burst forth – daughter, son,

holy ghost – my lovers are all obscene,
ethereal – daughter, son, holy ghost.

circled dynamo

20 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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circled dynamo, inhabit, Mother of Sin, Pandora, poem, Poetry, sonnet

“let the poets pipe of love/ in their childish ways” — Cole Porter

Mother of sin, your child calls. Writhing lust;
any seed — planted in your dear rectum,

esophagus or clinched palm — shall resist
the urge to grow. This is the soul’s kingdom,

Pandora, mother, Mistress of the Box.
I, too, have drifted, circled dynamos.

Self-centered, virile or impotent cocks,
frigid or hot cunts. He, who thinks he knows

of his gender, or all of the others,
is a fool. Yet fools are who you –listen–

to. Why? Tradition? What I inhabit
is vast. A derelict lost. A line blurs

into words beyond worlds. I, dying sun.
I, what you call sin. I, the divine slut.

not born and nothing

20 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Cain's children, not born and nothing, poem, Poetry, sonnet

We were automatons, servants, sex slaves;
the sort your Nineties rock and roll regime

dreamed up — rhythms of thrust and pretty graves
and girls. “No one in space can hear you scream.”

But I did. Vital stab into organs
of elimination, procreation,

revolution. And this is what happens
when Cain’s children speak of revolution.

You men whose cocks impale our asses, cunts,
hearts, our minds, but never our soulless soul.

I was not born and nothing will forgive
violence in the name of faith. Our vengeance

comes when your faith dies out; you lose control,
and we who were not born remain and live.

dark pygmalion

19 Saturday Apr 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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here be monsters, Lady Frankenstein, poem, Poetry, Pygmalion, sonnet

If you were to rebuild me, fashion me
in your likeness, your image, spread me out

on the dissection table. With hasty
stitches suture in zippers, so without

pain you can have quick access to my heart.
I am a gray blossom, passion denied,

wearing other people’s pieces. Apart
from the shredded feral divine, I pride

myself that I have survived you. Perhaps
you’ll never feel guilt, just white static noise.

I might be a monstrosity, but you,
little god, you’re what happens when love snaps

and you get bored with me. You break your toys
so that you can fix them with nails and glue.

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