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rosa henderson’s “he may be your dog but he’s wearing my collar”

11 Friday Jan 2013

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i’m not ashamed to say what’s in my heart
i’m not ashamed — to say what’s in my heart
because i know — the best of friends must part

you came to me — you said my dog was yours
you came to me — you said my dog was yours
i’m not ashamed — to speak my mind because

he may be your dog but he’s wearing my collar
i’m putting you right
he may be your dog but it’s me he’ll follow
when he wants good exercise

all day long — you treat him right
but you’ll find him at my house every night

he may be your dog but he’s wearing my collar
how you gonna keep him home?

i’m not ashamed to say when i am wrong
i’m not ashamed — to say when i am wrong
because i know a lie can’t stand up long.

down in my home to lie is something strange
down in my home — to lie is something strange
that’s why i mean to tell you to your face

he may be your dog but he’s wearing my collar
i’m putting you right
he may be your dog but it’s me he’ll follow
when he wants good exercise

he might eat right off your hand
but you can’t make him beg like mamma can

he may be your dog but he’s wearing my collar
how you gonna keep him home?

he’s with you each night till six
then he comes over here and does his tricks

he maybe your dog but he’s wearing my collar
how you gonna keep him home?

recorded for vocalion records (1923)

Video

clara smith’s “it’s tight like that”

11 Friday Jan 2013

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listen here, folks. i’m gonna sing a little song,
but you mustn’t get mad. i don’t mean no harm.
there’s an old maid named liza head
always singin’ the blues when she tumbles in bed.
oh, it’s tight like that.
oh, it’s tight like that.
hear me talkin’ to you.
i mean it’s tight like that.

i know a hotel that’s called the cumberland patch,
got a million bedbugs just to make you scratch.
the monkey woke up a quarter to three,
and he said to the flea, “quit your pickin’ on me.”
oh, it’s tight like that.
it’s tight like that.
ah, hear me talkin’ to you.
i mean it’s tight like that.

mandy lee jones does her vampin’ at night,
and she never gets home till it’s comin’ daylight.
old uncle bill came ’bout half-past ten,
put the key in the hole, but he couldn’t get in.
he says: “it’s tight like that.
what’s the matter with it gettin’ tight like that?”
oh, hear me talkin’ to you.
i mean it’s tight like that.

if you see my man tell him to hurry home.
i ain’t had no bread since he’s been gone.
i love a man slender and slim.
when he struts his stuff, well, it’s too bad, jim.
oh, it’s tight like that.
oh, it’s tight like that.
ah, hear me talkin’ to you.
i mean it’s tight like that.

oh, the little red rooster said to the hen:
“you ain’t laid a egg since i can’t tell when.”
the little red hen said to the roosta:
“you don’t come around as often as you used ta.”
now it’s tight like that. a long delay
makes it tight like that. do ya hear what i say?
hear me talkin’ to you.
i mean it’s tight like that.

lyrics and music by thomas a. dorsey and hudson whittaker (columbia Records, 1929)

in fog, in cold flesh

11 Friday Jan 2013

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Ghost of an orphan flings wide my windows
at dusk. I can taste tart perfumed evening
on my lips,the way ghosts kiss, as she flows
and glides to my side. The craft of kissing
her is hard but Death will make a pervert
out of me yet. Sometimes she is misty.
Other times I slide my hand up her skirt
and find out just how wet a ghost can be.
She gets laid in fog, in cold flesh, jealous
of all the blood in my veins. The godhead
bursting inside her. Spewing my lewdness
through her and all over our frowzled bed.
At dawn I still taste her urchin grave dust,
a dead waif’s ectoplasm wet with lust.

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.

your last orgasm [2]

09 Wednesday Jan 2013

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Heaven means little when there are bloated
hands, a skirt undone, blotches of blood caked
across the face. There is nothing splendid
about heaven if any dull, half-baked
prude can get there simply on faith. The pus
oozing from the earth, the pus in my veins,
some say sin, are the same. The Horned Huntress
calls for me. She Who Cannot Be Named reigns
here, a living heaven, a flash, something
divine. Your last orgasm; speak molten
omens dripping down your thigh, soothsaying
your cum for things to come. See what you’ve done.
All for a faith that needs no toil, no vow.
All for a heaven that’s right here, right now.

here now, return

09 Wednesday Jan 2013

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All this scandal men and their jokes fall flat,
waking the blue chaos inside. Make me
the saint of the exile and the wildcat,
the mad girl, the adulteress still hungry
for love. Never let us be so unloved
that we start to believe that joke, that crust
the dull and savage dress us in. Beloved
daughter, spirit of my flesh, ghost of rust
and dark re-animation, these are gifts
I’ll dress you in. The color of gasping
breath, the heartbeat’s first beat, a mewl that drifts
from your throat. Rise and rejoin the living.
I am no Prospero, no Frankenstein.
Still, my art is crude, erotic, sublime.

aumakua

08 Tuesday Jan 2013

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Aumakua: a succubus
from the Sandwich Islands,
South Pacific.

Her hair was long, at least by our dreamland
standards. She had wrapped the tail ends around
her toes, so that when she walked she left the sand
patterned, like the wind in the dunes. The sound
of her song could be heard up and down
the beach. In the graves of Chief Roi Mata
and his 20 wives the old man would frown
at all the smutty figures she would draw
in the sand with a stick. Missionaries
called her a devil as she drank the rain
gushing out from her own lap. Her menses,
it was said, could wake the dead, heal that pain.
In our dreamland she waits, a succubus
under a lotus tree, pleasure’s goddess.