do gosto da vida libidinosa

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My skin and the wind
sings your verses
to the moon. Your body
on mine. Your willingness
to taste. Desire
to do crazy things before,
during and after. Your
tongue to know me.
My mouth to suck you.
Under the influence
of the moon
Under the taste of
libidinous life.

][][

Minha pele e o vento
canta teus versos
para a Lua. Teu corpo
no meu. Teu vontade
de sentir o gosto. Desejo
de fazer loucuras antes,
durante e depois. Da tua
língua a me conhecer.
Minha boca a te sugar.
Sob a influência
da Lua.
Sob a do gosto da
vida libidinosa.

the nightmare girl: chapter 1

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March 08, 2014 (1)

A few days after her birth in 1879 in the Cilician town of Tarsus, in what is now considered to be part of southern Turkey, Mariam’s father walked to the local government building to record the event. Her parents wanted everything in order before they moved to the Ottoman city of Kars with their infant daughter. They had decided to leave their small town for there were no opportunities in Tarsus at that time and many of their formally friendly neighbors were grumbling that Armenians were to blame.

Mariam’s father was known to the government official in charge of name keeping and the issuing of birth certificates.

“Ah, it is you, Yeghishe, what can I do for you?” the official asked.

“Help me celebrate my very good news,” her father said. “I wish to report and record the birth of my daughter. She is to be called Mariamna.” Mariamna being the Russian version of the Armenian name, Miriam.

“Mariamna?” asked the official in disbelief. “No, no. Mariamna is no good.”

Her father had not anticipated any objection to the name he and his wife had chosen. It was, though, an old maxim of the Armenians of Tarsus never to question Muslim officials without understanding what was expected of them first. Her father stayed silent and waited.

The official said, “You are going to relocate to Kars, he, Yeghishe?” There were no secrets in their town. Naturally, the Armenians knew everything about each other. It was curious, too, that their Muslims neighbors always seemed to know about the business of the Armenians as well.

“You see? there is no sense in burdening your daughter with a Russian name. What Turk would do that? No, no. Use Meryem instead. That’s a proper Turkish name and she won’t be so despised when she grows. Yes, yes, Meryem. Your daughter will be better off,” the town’s official said, presenting the startled father with a document bearing witness that one Shahani, wife of Yeghishe Zildjian, had given birth to a daughter, Meryem Zildjian, on October 30, 1879.

The story of Mariam’s forced name conversion soon became part of their family lore, and before her first birthday the three of them left Tarsus for Kars. By then, Mariam had evolved into Mare, a nickname that her parents and friends all called her, ignoring the Meryem decreed by the funny little man in a red fez.

Mariam was a good name, it suited her nature well, for it was ancient and meant “the rebellious one” and in a world that was about to be torn apart in war and fire only the rebellious shall survive.

BUT THE MACHINERY OF HALLUCINATION …

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“and ’tis known a pretty piece of flesh am I.”
— Shakespeare

… is just simple brass trapezoids, organs
attached to organs, atoms to atoms.

The thermometer’s quicksilver lengthens.
Wheels whirr. Steam steams. These retrograde systems,

archaic even, concentric streamlined
gadgets, working elements that Dante

called hell, all of this, everything I find
inside myself, this heart beating away

in the dark, will one day melt into air.
Stop. Cease. Listen. Hear it? The cynic’s star

laughs, makes signs of the hobo and the bum.
What a piece of work caught between despair

and joy. I count the beats, play the guitar
and wait. I’m air. I’m song. I am rhythm.

epigrams xi.99

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Feb 23, 2014 (1)

Feb 23, 2014 (2)

 

De cathedra quotiens surgis — jam saepe notavi — pedicant miserae, Lesbia, te tunicae … sic constringuntur gemina Symplegade culi et nimias intrant Cyaneasque natis.

“I’ve noticed when you get up from the couch you’ve been assfucked, Lesbia, by your wretched skirts. Your skirts are caught between your massive cheeks as big as two Gibraltars — it’ll be a tight fit.”

— Martial, «Epigrams XI.99»

root bound

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Midnight sweetly suck soft peaks hard ridges
a cute twitching ear. Clandestine, candle-

less acts each panting partner’s pubic fuzz
old-growth jungle in darkness the cruel

sticky fun things that we who in stillness,
nocturnal fragrance, tongues in the sun, gag

down our dear flora moon’s rootbound tresses.
Holding captive junk, black ink, midnight skag,

eyelids close — our hats tipped forward, low slung
guns, or pecs or whatever you call it.

Just think: I will never sleep with you, you’ll
never know such love, or taste such a tongue.

And yet you go on — thinking all this shit
is good. And it is. It is just awful.

my heroes in the face of disaster, pain and sorrow

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Feb 17, 2014 (1)

Feb 17, 2014 (2)

Feb 17, 2014 (3)

Feb 17, 2014 (4)

Feb 17, 2014 (5)

Let’s put faces on my heroes, the women who have dedicated their lives to making this miserable world better. Cathay Williams (September 1844 – 1892), a soldier, the first African-American woman to enlist in the United States of America. I have been told not to be ashamed of my military, that the My Lai Massacre, and all rapes and mutilations by Americans are a distant part of history …

… but Goddess Damn All Rapists, they are not.

For all my sisters who enlisted, who dedicated themselves to making the American idea better; for all those women and men who’ve been hurt, raped and killed by their fellow soldiers …

… you have been, you are now, and you will ever be my heroes. For now and forever. I can only give my blessings, for what that is worth, because you are braver than I will ever be.