sakine cansiz assassinated in paris

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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]

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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

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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

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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.

ayrivank orpheus

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Stèles
bustes
berceaux
les témoins
à l’ombre touffue
du paradis
avoir tant attendu
d’impossibles marées
Sous le vent des arbres
t’enveloppe l’ombre complice
Tous les siècles
silences
gagner la dune

L’enchevêtrement
de pierre
opéra désordonné
signes
trinité de sable
qui t’accueille
ceinte des marches
se rapprocher
boucliers
masques
proclamation
de batailles
secrètes
falaise sombre
découpée d’azur
coupoles
en suspens
blocs arcs
diffraction
de croix
Roche orangée
où courent des ruisseaux
d’herbe

Soudain
plongé
au coeur de la grotte
humide oppressante
gouttelettes d’orage
qui scandent
yeux de Shiva
brasier
délimitant la nuit
S’égarer parmi
la faille
Nul retour
le chemin de cendres

Surgir nu
faune à la flûte
tu envahis l’écran
sans mot dire
bec
incandescent
regard rivé vers
les tréfonds de la terre

Scène urbaine
chaos industriel
improvisation
cathartique
les vertiges
oubliés
basculement
d’outre Erevan

Les angles se tordent
perspectives floues
arcade molle
piliers de convulsion
déplier
chaque prisme
La coupole fuit
se déplace
lunaire
iris de pierre
fixe
duduk
sismographe
dentelle mouvante
casque
de l’orant

Feuillages opiacés
tiare du chaman
les silhouettes
se plient
aux désirs secrets
multipliant
leurs clés
suivre la paroi
telle une peau
scarifications
grotte berbère
tatouages
ors terrestres
nappes
qui serpentent
coagulation de lumière
tu scandes
l’initiation
seul le torse

Revisiter la ville
les places d’oubli
torsion domestique
du plus profond
mage
doigts notes
symétriques
L’incantation
géométrie pétrifiée
kaléidoscope
paroles de la Pythie
vents
fixer le centre
qui se dérobe
Les perspectives
se répondent
fuient
Debout dans tes ténèbres

Ithaque
Sevan
ballet panique
épuiser toutes les formes
aller au delà
danser l’impossible
murailles du jaguar
les volumes conjugués
plaine improbable
bornes floues
Capitales
rompues
rive foisonnante

Message de Circé
L’appel des noyades

Lettres décomposées
losanges ruptures
dédale océanique
qui se multiplie et disparaît
faille bleue

Boutre
en quête
tes Mers Rouges
les horizons se mêlent
boussole nue
tu te laisses guider
par ce qui n’a pas
de nom
saccades d’écume
le lac agite son voile
bref létal
paupières qui se referment
grève muette
calcinée
Les flots roses
aurores
qui brûlent sans cesse
regagner les glaces

Les routes l’île
murs
qui affleurent
tourner le regard
La nuit tombée
reprendre le ballet
bâtir l’éphémère
au centre de la scène
agonie du sens commun
d’évidence

Animal
mystique
regard perdu
dans l’immensité
appel muet
danse d’exorcisme
Libre
de ta nuit

[http://armeniantrends.blogspot.com/2009/06/tsovinar.html]

itchy, fevered, ill

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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.