… based on the Anne Sexton poem “Fury of Overshoes” from the CD S3X SCAM 4 ANN3.
FURY OF OV3RSHO3S / BIG B3AV3R BLVD MIX
15 Friday Feb 2013
Posted in video
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a long moan of a word
15 Friday Feb 2013
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
“erica jong, 1971” collage work (2013)
I.
Dear Erica. You said, “woman’s a long
moan of a word with a man in it.” Damn.
Girl, I pronounce girl, “vrouw die.” That strong
Dutch word that ends in murder. Like a gram
of coke, it is how we use it that counts.
II.
Like fire storm whirlwinds. Like The Madonna
of Blood, who serves up slaughter by the ounce.
We’re all guilty of myth-making. Mama
III.
Poet, your daughters wander this dream world.
I’ve seen them (not once with a man inside).
Dreaming is all I’m good at. Demeter
went to hell for her daughter, found her curled
in the pit. I want to wake up. I’ve tried.
I’ve tried. Anything for my big sister.
* * *
Notes:
* Erica Jong is an American author, known for her works, Fear of Flying, Shylock’s Daughter and Seducing the Demon. We all must give praise to our literary matriarchs, as it were. Without her book Fruits & Vegetables paving the way I would not be writing what I write today. It is as simple as that.
* According to Google translate, the word “girl” can be rendered “vrouw die.” So they say.
that’s enough for me
15 Friday Feb 2013
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet
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Tags
Aladdin Sane, Gravesend, homoerotica, memory, Putney, redheaded witch, self-portrait, She Who Cannot Be Named, sonnet, winter
putney in wintertime.
London and a diet of shrimp curry,
Southern Comfort, hashish; I can recall
my poor hip pressed up against your icy
wall. We spooned all “winta.” Your Gravesend drawl
made me giggle. We loved Aladdin Sane.
I won’t list faults. Complaining kinda blows.
Why should I complain about love? Complain
it did not work? As if no beasts, heroes,
singers or thinkers ever once fucked up.
We don’t talk about redheaded witchcraft
or She Who Cannot Be Named. Talk is cheap.
Betrayal poems cheaper. I’m grown up.
You’re dead … so what? Once you told me you laughed
with joy as I lay in your arms, asleep.
thirsty beasts
15 Friday Feb 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
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Tags
cocu geste, crone, maiden, Mina, mother, queer love, sonnet, STD, vampire
They were at Mina’s door, with “cocu geste,”
deceived fury; they found the Count, smiling,
sitting on her bed, dazed, tousled, bare chest
pressed to her lips. She, carnivore, drinking,
took her fill. The world is full of unknown,
thirsty beasts; Victorian men were blind
to their own. Ask the maid, mother and crone.
Ask those who love and have been loved. Mankind
with its syphilis and brothels ruins it
for the rest of us. Mina soon declared
she was “unclean” and vowed never to “kiss”
another man. The virus we transmit
might damn us. Yet, as with all blood, love shared
between us, brings such ambrosian bliss.
war’s cure
14 Thursday Feb 2013
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
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How to understand? In dreams I’m simply
holding a child together in my arms,
swathed and bloody. Wake up. In Swahili
mzimu means ghost. They come from burnt farms,
poisoned wells, fields where the bodies went down.
Who understands the dead?: ghosts, mzimu,
souls. Go work at Kenya’s Dada’ab Town,
largest refugee camp in the world. “You
need to work,” we tell ourselves. Understand
words are a start but not an end. Orphans
and ghosts are still looking for us. War’s cure
is hard work; so find us a new grassland,
enough for all. Enough food for millions.
Enough water to let us dream once more.
largest refugee camp in the world
grotesque
14 Thursday Feb 2013
Tags
Africa, child soldier, daughter of love, ghost girl, grotesque, Joseph Kony, Lord's Resistance Army, sonnet, Swahili, Uganda, Wesesa
We talk about death and war abstractly.
and pray that it happens elsewhere. I pray
for the dead. She came and spoke Swahili,
died with baby fat, mouth parched, her blue-gray
skin cracked like a shell. At the age of ten
she fought with the LRA. She doesn’t
speak of how she died. “At the hands of men,”
I thought. “Grotesquely.” She stood, shy, silent,
waiting to be remembered. When she crawled
in my lap I gathered her up. “Daughter
of love, you are safe here.” A madman’s war
consumed her, grotesquely. I was appalled
by her wounds. But Wesesa, girl soldier,
doesn’t care; she’s not alone anymore.
][][
Notes:
The LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army) is a militant cult movement operating in Uganda, Sudan, the DRC. It has been accused of widespread human rights violations, including murder, abduction, mutilation, sex slavery and recruiting and forcing children to participate as solders in active combat. It is run by Joseph Kony, a self-proclaimed prophet, who claims the LRA is engaged in a holy war with the aim of establishing an Uganda theocracy based on the Ten Commandments and local tribal laws.
deathblow
13 Wednesday Feb 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
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“For the man who should loose me is dead, fighting with the Duke in Flanders, in a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?” — Amy Lowell
* * *
“i too am a rare
pattern. as i wander down
the garden paths …”
— Amy Loewell, Patterns
And you answered, “it shall be as you said.”
And I’m dead and you think of my deathblow
as you walk up and down with brushed forehead
on our garden path, giving way to snow,
in your stiff gown, gorgeously arrayed, boned
and stayed. But not as Amy Lowell wrote down.
You’re no lady and I no colonel, stoned
on cheap morphine, in a French trench. I drowned,
not in Flanders, but at sea. You’ll grow old
walking our path; but I will be nineteen
evermore. If it had been death at war
and not a mistake, would that have consoled
you? As if a bullet wound and gangrene
would make such a difference for evermore.
at first i was …
13 Wednesday Feb 2013
Tags
this sums up so much about life, cheers!
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under .gif, Humor, Illustration and art
you oughta know by now—
13 Wednesday Feb 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry
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Tags
amor mío, bisexual, Federico Garcia Lorca, homoerotica, homophobia, sonnet, The Mamas and The Papas, Words of Love
federico garcia lorca, mi amor
* * *
“If your girl likes rhythm and blues, look out
’cause cake’s in the house…”
— Sir Mix-a-lot, Cake Boy
“If you love her” and “then you must send her
somewhere” and “where she’s never been before.”
Do not mock “words of love, soft and tender.”
All my “worn out phrases” come straight from war.
Lovers still die. I’m “a buttercup boy
from the funny school.” By definition
I’ve been to places a 60s tomboy
hasn’t, as all children can claim. Semen
running down our chins. Still, I’ll make you glow,
mamas and papas, take you down tonight.
To where they shot Lorca. Because you mocked
everything “soft and tender.” Federico,
mi amor, I’ll burn them down with delight.
It will leave their souls horror-struck and shocked.
* * *
Note:
* The Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, was assassinated in 1936 by General Franco’s fascists for being a liberal and a queer.
* The 1960s group The Mamas and the Papas sang the song Words of Love, which I quote from in the poem. Regardless of what I say elsewhere, bless you, Mama Cass (though Papa John can bite me, jerk)
* I’ve been living with Sir Mix-a-lot’s fake ode (he of the Baby Got Back fame) to the effeminate in men, Cake Boy, for many a year now. It is equally fascinating and frustrating, much like society’s take on the fey. It might not be the very first attempt in mainstream media to talk about gay and transgendered African Americans (see: Honey Honey Miss Thang for a longer discussion) but it was one of the first I came across in hip hop. I am not African American, but I certainly identified with the cake boy motif he describes. I call this a fake ode because at the end of the song Mix-a-lot advocates physical violence against any effeminate man who might be coming on strong to a homeboy’s girlfriend. Homophobia and gay-bashing will always be crimes to send you to the 7th circle of hell in my book.
between morning star and urel
13 Wednesday Feb 2013
I.
Just one more kiss upon your lips causes
the blood to stir. Little light tonging flicks
like so — like so — and your hardness rises
to meet me until, with licks upon licks,
your juice starts to run. Two of my fingers
slip and slide around the edge of your ass.
I warn you: your bum will be a martyr’s
graveyard before I’m done. I will trespass
in deep — to the knuckle — in your anus.
II.
Milton warned us about this. Dictating
to his daughter the sins of male-on-male
flesh. I’m sure she spent many a restless
nightmare sandwiched between Morning
Star and Urel: male-on-male-on-female.
memories of my ghost sista 