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Thu

24

Nov

2016

TSUNAMI GANG 2016/2017 ISSUE - WILD ART & POETRY ZINE - TSUNAMI bOOKS PARIS

 

"my ultimate vocation in life is to be an irritant, someone who disrupts the daily drag of life just enough to leave the victim thinking there's maybe more to it all than the mere hum-drum quality of existence."

 

- elvis costello

"i like the slowest poisons, the most bitter drinks, the most powerful drugs, the craziest ideas, the most complex thoughts & the strongest feelings. my appetite is voracious and my hallucinations even crazier. you can even throw me off a cliff, i'll say: -

 so what? i love to fly"

 

- clarice lispector

________________________________________

 

TSUNAMI GANG is edited by Henrik Aeshna/Eros en Feu

General Consultant/Contributor: Cécile Hoogenboom

________________________________________________

* This autumn/winter collection is specially dedicated to

JACQUES NOËL from Parisian bookshop UN REGARD MODERNE

(Ali Baba's cave) & supporter of independent/DIY culture, incl. Tsunami bOOKS Paris - R.I.P.

 

To Kim Kardashian's robbers - great shot, guys - DADA Halleluyah! 

(although this issue is FREE & has NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES, all the money raised will be donated to poor Kim)

 

Thanks to all the artists & friends present in this bubblebomb

- All rights reserved to the artists.

- original Ian Curtis cover photo by ©Kevin Cummins

WILDLOVE FROM PARIS!

November 23 2016

________________________________________

POETRY:

 

-SPECIAL GUEST-

CHARLES PLYMELL:

LIONS DE MER & UN BLUES POUR MISTER JIMMY… /

SEA LIONS & BLUES FOR MISTER JIMMY

(BILINGUAL ENGLISH/FRANÇAIS – TRANSLATED BY JEAN-MARIE FLEMAL

 

JAMIKA AJALON: BLOOD POEM

 

FORK BURKE: LIBATION & ORGASM

 

LOU COUTET: 9 SONGS

 

MALIK CRUMPLER: WRAP US IN RAPS

 

DENNIS FORMENTO: SO WHAT IF YOU’RE EINSTEIN

 

CATFISH MCDARIS: HARDHEADS NEVER MAKE GOOD CANNIBALS

 

CHRISTOPHER MULROONEY: DWELLERS & HARPBOOK

 

UCHE NDUKA: 5 POEMS

 

ESKIMO PIE: THE ELUSIVE WATERFALL

 

YOUNISOS: CARNAL EXPERIMENTAL POETRY

 

VISUAL ART:

 

STEVE DALACHINSKY

 

LARRY DELINGER

 

HELENA ROCIO

 

DEBORAH STEVENSON

 

PHOTOGRAPHY:

 

LILY ZOUMPOULI

 

REPORT (URBAN EXPLORATION):

 

MATT ROSEN

 

SPECIAL:

 

+ DOSSIER DADA 100 or DADA 0

DADA WITHOUT DADAINE?!

 

+ DOSSIER 3 BRAZILIAN WOMEN WRITERS:

 

- HILDA HILST

-ANA CRISTINA CESAR

- CLARICE LISPECTOR

+

- WILD EROTICA

+ BRAZIL: MARINA COLASANTI,

VIRGINIA SCHALL, CLAUDIA MARCZAC, HELGA HOLTZ &

LIZ CHRISTINE

+ PORTUGAL: MANUELA AMARAL &

MARIA TEREZA HORTA

 

BONUS TRACKS:

 

TOSHIKO OKANOUE: SURREALISM IN JAPAN

 

AENNE BIERMANN (1898-1933)

 

ROGER GILBERT-LECOMTE:

BLACK MIRROR – LIFE LOVE DEATH THE VOID AND THE WIND

 

WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS: A « STRANGE » DREAM

 

CLAUDE PELIEU/LU PELIEU: JE SUIS UN CORPS NU…

 

DAVID LERNER: THE FUTURE TASK OF LANGUAGE

 

KENNETH PATCHEN: AN ELECTRIFIABLE INTERCOURSE WITH A FEMALE ALLIGATOR

 

ALEXANDER TROCCHI: THE FEAR OF IMAGINATION WILL DESTROY US

 

CAMERON: CINDERELLA OF THE WASTELANDS (A POEM)

 

GRISELIDIS REAL: ECRIVAIN, PEINTRE, PROSTITUEE

 

ALAIN JOUFFROY: MODIGLIANI, BEATRICE, MONTPARNASSE – VIN WHISKY HACHISCH COCAINE POESIE AMOUR

 

KEN LOACH & SELFISH CUNT: FUCK THE POOR

 

 

Hans Bellmer, Untitled
Hans Bellmer, Untitled

 

"La force mystérieuse de la métamorphose agit dans un nom ; comme un anneau au doigt, il semble de prime abord pur hasard, sans conséquence, mais avant que l’on ait conscience de sa puissance magique il se développe en vous, sous votre peau, et s’unit, sceau du destin, à l’existence spirituelle d’un être."

 

 

 Stefan Zweig, L'ivresse de la métamorphose

 

 

 

 

 

 

15 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

LIONS DE MER & UN BLUES POUR MISTER JIMMY: 5 poèmes & un rêve à San Francisco, par CHARLES PLYMELL - (SEA LIONS & BLUES FOR MISTER JIMMY: 5 poems & a dream in S

"Jazz joy - Bad boy - the party’s over -

unless you wanna scream -

once more in cool time - blues for Mister Jimmy"

Charles Plymell Trip-tych - original picture by © Gerard Malanga
Charles Plymell Trip-tych - original picture by © Gerard Malanga

"Écrivain, poète et éditeur, Charles Plymell est né dans le Kansas en 1935. Il a frayé à San Francisco avec la Beat Generation avant de partir faire le tour du monde. Il habite aujourd’hui Cherry Valley, où il anime les éditions du même nom."  - Editions Lenka Lente

 

Poèmes choisis de Te bouffe pas la tête (EAT NOT THY MIND), par Charles Plymell 

Avant-propos de Mike Watt - Traduit de l’anglais par Jean-Marie Flémal (In Memoriam)

© 2009 Charles Plymell. Tous droits réservés. 

 

Special thanks to PAM PLYMELL

 

 

ELLE JOUE MEMPHIS  

 

 

Cherche dans les étoiles les 

  atmosphériques démons 

              qui ont laissé des dessins sur la vitre 

leur dernière fiesta la nuit  

  où le regard intemporel de la poupée 

              découvrit notre amour         

                           dans la soumission aux 

  derniers orphelins de l’univers. 

 

Au revoir navire élancé tanguant dans les roseaux (*) ; 

les vents tourbillonnants des jours qui déferlent meurent comme une 

apocalypse incrémentielle retombant dans la poussière. 

Pas de prises interdites – 

rassemblements infinis 

distribuant les lots.

 

 

(*) Navire élancé : « slim boat » dans le texte original (NdT).  

 

 

 

SHE PLAYS MEMPHIS  

 

 

Look into the stars 

for  the 

            atmospheric demons  

                                               who traced on the window 

their night’s last party  

            where  the doll’s timeless gaze 

                        found our love 

                                   in bondage to 

            the last orphans of the universe.  

 

Goodbye slim boat nodding in the reeds; 

whirlwinds of passing days die like an 

incremental apocalypse settling in the dust. 

No holds barred — 

infinite collections 

casting lots. 

 

 

 

PEDRO BAY 

              À Mike Watt  

 

 

Sur l’horizon orange les éclats d’étain de la lumière artificielle 

envoient des ailerons pourpres vers les vagues silencieuses 

baignées de lune et qui reviennent sans cesse 

et les danses sur une image sans demeure pour l’éternel 

vœu de pauvreté des numéros de jackpot à rappeler 

la chance dans les vents exaspérés où des mélodies 

jouaient parmi les branches noires et tordues 

comme les transes oubliées d’une langue. 

 

Aujourd’hui les Lions de Mer échangent leurs vœux 

au bord de l’eau près des rivages étrangers 

où des rejets toxiques au-delà des arcs glissants 

mêlent des spores nouveau-nées à ce bourbier qu’est la vie. 

 

Les ailes des goélands 

sont des robes sacrées 

largement déployées 

en long et en travers. 

 

 

PEDRO BAY  

               To Mike Watt

 

 

Pewter slivers of artificial light in horizon orange 

bring purple fins to moonlit silent encore waves 

and dances in a homeless image for poverty’s 

eternal wish of jackpot numbers to recall 

the chance in galled winds where played 

the tunes in twisting black branches 

like a tongue’s forgotten trances. 

 

Now Sea Lions exchange their vows  

in water’s edge near alien shores 

where toxic waste past gliding bows 

mix life’s paddle in newborn spores. 

 

The seagulls’ wings 

are holy robes 

wide berth 

in bow and beam 

 

 

UN PRESSENTIMENT DANS LE VENT 

 

 

Une glace noire recouvre l’asphalte 

et les lumières de la rue la font luire 

L’iris bleu commence à se faner 

et les lumières de la nuit contrefont ses lignes 

Le cœur est toujours le premier à savoir l’avenir 

le dernier à retenir les problèmes d’un esprit sans logis 

Nous travaillions ensemble pour le cœur ancestral 

Ma sœur Betty faisait du stop vers Pocatello 

où ceux qui empruntaient les rails laissaient leurs signes 

au-dessus de leurs camps de braises 

une fois les derniers fayots mitonnés dans les boîtes 

Un siècle plus tard un oiseau savait de toute façon 

que j’étais un pigeon et il me suivit pour avoir des graines 

Ses paupières ne s’étaient pas ouvertes et il finit comme proie 

Je l’appelai Betty au Chant brisé 

Seule la sagesse du bonheur peut suivre les 

nombres infinis et emmêlés du paradis 

qui scintillent et dansent autour des rails vers l’ouest 

Sous les étoiles reposent ses obscurs vacarmes d’argile. 

 

 

PRESENTIMENT IS IN THE WIND   

 

 

Black ice is on the asphalt 

and the street lights make it shine 

Blue Iris is beginning to fall 

and the night lights fakes its lines 

The heart is always first to know the future 

last to hold the problems of a homeless mind 

We used to work together for the ancestral heart 

My sister, Betty hitchhiked into Pocatello 

where those who rode the rails left their signs 

above their camps of embers 

the last beans cooked in the cans 

A century later a bird somehow knew 

I was a soft touch and followed me for seeds 

Its eyelids had not formed open and it fell prey 

I named it Betty Broken Song 

Only the wisdom of luck can follow the 

tangled infinite numbers of paradise 

that glisten and dance along Westbound rails 

under the stars lay its darksome dins of clay. 

 

 

FONDEMENTS 

 

 

Au Kansas, les fondamentalistes 

m’ont enseigné que Dieu créa l’homme 

à Son image et selon Sa ressemblance. 

J’espère qu’il aime Son sale trou de cul ! 

 

 

FUNDAMENTALS 

 

 

In Kansas, the Fundamentalists

taught me that God made man 

in His own image and likeness. 

I hope He likes His dirty asshole! 

 

 

LA ROUTE

 

 

Aujourd’hui, les autoroutes ne sont plus que routes secondaires 

et aucune ne suit ma propre route. 

J’en ai plus qu’assez de ta route 

alors reconduis-nous sur l’autoroute. 

 

Enfant du jazz 

Mauvais garçon 

la fiesta est terminée 

à moins que tu ne veuilles hurler 

une fois encore en un tempo cool 

un blues pour Mister Jimmy 

 

 

THE ROAD 

 

 

Nowadays highways are byways 

and not one going my way 

I’m through with your way 

so get back on the thruway. 

 

Jazz joy 

Bad boy 

the party’s over 

unless you wanna scream 

once more in cool time 

blues for Mister Jimmy 

 

 

Le nom de l’hôtel

  

 

Ça a commencé par une visite à San Francisco, après tant d’années. Nous nous sommes arrêtés à un célèbre hôtel. Je peux me rappeler son nom parce que j’ai eu un rêve typique d’Alzheimer. Et c’est sous la forme d’un rêve que j’ai compris à quel point c’était horrible. 

 

Quoi qu’il en soit, je finis par me retrouver dans un district où ma sœur était morte à la rue. Je ne puis le décrire que comme une combinaison de Portrero Hill et de la Marina, mais cela ressemblait à mes souvenirs du Fillmore voici plus de trente ans : sombre, complètement détruit par les flammes, vide et prêt à s’effondrer.

  

Je me mis à marcher et à marcher, ne voyant que les ombres des vieux rails et voitures Mini. Les rues étaient noires, vraiment black, comme s’il avait plu de nombreuses nuits. Occasionnellement, un personnage flottant passait et je lui demandais où se trouvait l’hôtel, mais je ne pouvais me souvenir de son nom. Je demandais qu’on m’aidât, de grâce, et je passai en revue les noms des célèbres hôtels dont je pouvais me souvenir, mais aucun ne s’avéra être le bon.

  

Je grimpai une colline de toitures en bitume qu’on avait incendiées et le feu était toujours en train de couver et j’entendis une voix dans le lointain dire que c’étaient les mômes qui y avaient bouté le feu. Je trouvai un chemin au bas de la colline et j’étais épuisé quand j’aperçus des personnes se tenant en face de quelques clubs aux néons blafards. Un taxi semblait s’approcher quand une des femmes à l’extérieur du club l’appela en même temps. Je lui demandai, de grâce, de me permettre de le prendre, parce que j’étais si fatigué que je ne pouvais plus aller plus loin et qu’il me fallait rentrer à l’hôtel. Elle dit qu’elles étaient fatiguées elles aussi et qu’elles avaient besoin du taxi. 

 

Je poursuivis mon chemin vers un stand de nourriture et commandai un plat de quelque chose avec une tranche de quelque chose. Retourné, il s’avéra que ça ressemblait à une part de pizza sens dessus dessous. Bien que ce ne fût pas ce que j’avais commandé, je décidai de l’emporter et sortis mon porte-billets pour payer. Des photos dont j’ignorais qu’elles fussent en ma possession se mirent à tomber sur le sol en même temps que mes cartes de crédit. J’essayai de les ramasser afin de les examiner, alors que d’autres continuaient à tomber. Je vis ce qui ressemblait à un portefeuille abandonné sur le coin du comptoir. Une grosse femme passa en face de moi juste comme je parvenais à ramasser le contenu et le replacer au-dessus du portefeuille sur le comptoir, pensant que j’allais attraper toute la pile et le portefeuille abandonné. Alors, quelqu’un s’empara de la pile et s’enfuit. Je demandai à un noir âgé tout près s’il avait vu qui l’avait emporté. Il se déplaça vers une porte de l’autre côté de la rue et dit qu’il pensait que la personne était entrée là. J’allai jusqu’à la porte pour regarder à l’intérieur. C’était un autre club et je demandai au portier noir si quelqu’un venait d’entrer. Il me demanda de le décrire, ce que je fis. Alors, il me dit que personne de cette description n’était entré et qu’il était inutile de supposer que la personne que je décrivais était noire. Je répondis que non, bien sûr, et il me referma la porte au nez. 

 

Une des femmes ne prit pas le taxi, de sorte que je me mis à marcher avec elle en espérant qu’elle irait dans ma direction, parce que je ne pouvais pas continuer sans aide. Je discutai avec elle pour qu’elle me permît de marcher en sa compagnie. Elle me demanda où j’allais et je lui dis que je ne pouvais me rappeler le nom de l’hôtel. Alors, je pensai à l’adresse de Glenn, au 1403, Gough Street, mais je me rendis compte qu’il n’y vivait plus depuis des années. Nous marchâmes vers l’endroit. Je l’étreignis et lui dis que j’avais besoin d’aide. Son corps devint comme un sac vide. Je l’étreignis davantage encore et lui demandai de l’accompagner chez elle et je l’embrassai. Sa bouche était vide.

 

 

 

NAME OF HOTEL 

 

 

It began as a visit to San Francisco after many years. We checked into a famous hotel. I can remember its name because I was having a dream that typified Alzheimer’s. I realized in a dream fashion how horrible it is. 

 

Somehow I ended up in a district where my sister died on the street. I can only describe as a combination of Portrero Hill and the Marina only it resembled how I remembered the Filmore over thirty years ago: Dark, burned out, vacant, and crumbling. 

 

I began walking and walking seeing only shadows of old Mini rails and cars. The streets were black noir as if it had been raining many nights. Occasionally a fleeting figure would pass and I would ask it where the hotel was but I couldn’t remember its name. I would ask to please help and I went through the names of famous hotels I could remember, but none of them sounded right. 

 

I climbed a hill of burned-out tar rooftops still smoldering and heard a voice in the distance comment that it was the kids who set them afire. I found a path down the mound and was exhausted when I saw some figures standing in front of some dim neon clubs. A taxi seemed to be approaching when one of the women outside the club hailed it at the same time. I asked her to please let me take it because I was so tired I could go no farther and I had to get back to the hotel. She said they were tired too and needed the taxi. 

 

I walked farther to a food stand and ordered a dish of something with a side of something. It came out turned over resembling a slice of pizza upside down. Though it wasn’t what I ordered, I decided to take it anyway and got out my billfold to pay. Photos that I didn’t know I had began falling on the ground along with my credit cards. I tried to pick them up to look at them as more fell out. I saw what looked like a wallet lying at the corner of the counter. A heavy woman moved in front of me just as I was able  to recover my pile of contents to place on top of the billfold on the counter, thinking I would cop the whole pile and the left wallet. Then someone copped the whole pile and ran. I asked an old black man standing nearby if he saw who took it. He motioned to a doorway across the street and said he thought the person went in there. I went to the door to look in. It was another club, and I asked the black man at the door if someone just came in. He asked me to describe him, which I did. Then he said no one of that description had come in and that there was no need to assume the person I was describing was black. I said of course not and he shut the door in my face. 

 

One of the women didn’t take the cab, so I started walking with her hoping she was going in my direction because I couldn’t keep going without help. I pleaded with her to let me walk with her. She asked where I was going and I told her I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel. Then I thought of Glenn’s address at 1403 Gough Street but realized he hadn’t lived there in years. We walked toward her place. I hugged her and told he I needed help. Her body became like an empty bag. I hugged her more and asked to go home with her and kissed her. Her mouth was hollow.

 

Avant-propos de MIKE WATT

 

Poète, Charley Plymell rêve avec son cœur, sent avec ses mains, puis travaille avec les deux. Qu’il s’agisse de secouer les mots pour essayer de donner un sens aux idées ou qu’il s’agisse de les élaborer juste comme ça, selon la situation. Quand il utilise ce qui, pour d’aucuns, passerait pour des platitudes sur lesquelles s’appuyer comme sur des béquilles, il ressuscite en fait des expressions en les tirant de l’inertie létale à laquelle les avait vouées une pensée trop nonchalante, il s’envoie une solide bolée d’air avant d’y pénétrer et de les forcer à acquérir une nouvelle vitalité. Sa perspective est celle de l’apprenant obnubilé par «j’y suis allé », mais il est une réflexion qui mérite le détour et c’est celle-ci : « Peut-être n’est-ce pas les années, mais les kilomètres » et vous pourriez envisager d’essayer une bagnole déglinguée, pas vrai ? De faire jaillir et mousser de la joie, de vous plonger dans chacun des mondes que sont les poèmes élaborés par Charley, pour sentir une possibilité… de ces jours-ci, ce jour-ci, même, cet homme, précisément… Me voilà – je vous parle, tout en écrivant sur lui, afin de partager avec lui sa célébration du mot – depuis la poitrine qui pompe et la flamme derrière l’œil et, en face de l’œil, que

doit-il arriver ? Quel esprit a dansé et virevolté et parfois s’est élancé dans

une spirale suffisamment longue pour prendre le temps de penser à cette chose, de réfléchir – mais sans la tête – à ce qui colle ou ne colle pas dans certain détail, vous voyez ? Imaginez donc, pour un éclat de rire venu des tripes et qui fait mouche et vous laisse émerveillé, quel don grandiose que de laisser un compagnon de voyage dans l’émerveillement… Soyez bénis.

 

À la basse, Watt

 

0 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

DADA WITHOUT DADAINE?! OR DADA IS NOT BORN YET - 2016 THE 100th ANNIVERSARY OF DADA

"the only way of tolerating existence is to lose oneself in a perpetual orgy of absurdity"

sebastian horsley (1962-2010) 

 

SchizoPoP Manifesto by Henrik Aeshna (Photomontage with the head of Jemima, the daughter of Arthur Cravan & Mina Loy)
SchizoPoP Manifesto by Henrik Aeshna (Photomontage with the head of Jemima, the daughter of Arthur Cravan & Mina Loy)

SONG



We contain all the passions
and all the vices
and all the suns and stars,
chasms and heights,
trees, animals, forests, streams.
This is what we are.
Our experience lies
in our veins,
in our nerves.
We stagger.
Burning
between grey blocks of houses.
On bridges of steel.
Light from a thousand tubes
flows around us,
and a thousand violet nights
etch sharp wrinkles
in our faces.

 

(George Grosz, c. 1919) 

 

_____________________________________________________ 

 

the digestive system is so smart… 

- ginsberg’s howl 

turned into 

bourgeois fart

(!?)

 

or "that's how the cookie crumbles" said the Crow

 

DADA WITHOUT DADAINE -

LOLLY GOBBLE BLISS BOMBS

by henrik aeshna, perfumed with diOR sauvAGE

Henrik Aeshna DIOR EAU SAUVAGE - Photomontage by Cécile Hoogenboom
Henrik Aeshna DIOR EAU SAUVAGE - Photomontage by Cécile Hoogenboom

  

 

concerning DaDa TODAY: 

 

- DaDA without dadaine - 

 

i prefer newborn's meconium 

 on the white sheets of heaven 

 vesuvius' breast milk & 

 katrina in a teacup 

 bottled batrachotoxin* tsunami-cola

cocaine & cyanide for breakfast   

yves saint-laurent's phantom faces staring at me

                                                                                  wherever i go

like a sublimaze trip of total accomplishment  

 or the good ole 'Orgasmic Toast'* 

 HHHMMMMMMMMMM

 

dada is a heyokha*/goliard* soulcode   like an irezumi tattoo    

                            a scar 

   shared in secret only by feral children &

underground nymphs    the oya-scream* of cicadas in heat

it changes skin & casts off its hip molt whenever its granted an 

                                                                                                     oscar 

dada has no sex color class gender party nationality this or that

dada is androgynous

its genitals are jellyfish-like eyes writing mad odes to the asteroid that exploded over earth wiping out all the dinosaurs 

 

Dada is not born yet 

 

it's just brewing up in that ole dreamcocoon you call MYSTERY     PIGPIG      TAKHAK      or HEY JOE   

               VANYA YUDIN*

                                      lost in Tao-lation 

 

                       now here       nowhere                               

                                           ready to burst

 

while babylon burns 

 i watch the orange-haired fairygirl fly the transparent kite of my heart 

 & share a glass of champagne w/ kim kardashian's robbers 

on top of the highest tower

    gnarling   stoned      laughing out loud   blaspheming 

spitting diamond chips & philosophical pearls into the air 

 

                                vive DaDa fuck dADa ! 

 

 

(*) 'orgasmic toast' - reference to a poem by Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven (1874-1927)

 

(*) Batrachotoxin - (BTX) is an extremely potent cardiotoxic and neurotoxic steroidal alkaloid found in certain species of frogs (poison dart frog), melyrid beetles, and birds (the pitohui, blue-capped ifrit, and little shrikethrush).

The most toxic of poison dart frog species is Phyllobates terribilis. 

Poison dart frog (also known as dart-poison frog, poison frog or formerly known as poison arrow frog) is the common name of a group of frogs in the family Dendrobatidae which are native to tropical Central and South America. These amphibians are often called "dart frogs" due to the Amerindians' indigenous use of their toxic secretions to poison the tips of blowdarts. However, of over 170 species, only four have been documented as being used for this purpose (curare plants are more commonly used), all of which come from the genus Phyllobates, which is characterized by the relatively large size and high levels of toxicity of its members.

It is argued that dart frogs do not synthesize their poisons, but sequester the chemicals from arthropod prey items, such as ants, centipedes and mites.

 

(*) VANYA YUDIN - A Russian boy was found in an apartment filled with caged birds at the age of seven. His mother neglected him and he was raised without any human communication. During this time he embraced his feathered friends around him and learned to communicate with the birds. He picked up a variety of mannerisms and chirping noises even flapping his arms when flustered. In 2008, the State took custody of him and he is currently in rehabilitation.

 

(*) HEYOKHA - The heyoka (heyókȟa, also spelled "haokah," "heyokha") is a kind of sacred clown in the culture of the Lakota people of the Great Plains of North America. The heyoka is a contrarian, jester, and satirist, who speaks, moves and reacts in an opposite fashion to the people around them. Only those having visions of the thunder beings of the west, the Wakíŋyaŋ, and who are recognized as such by the community, can take on the ceremonial role of the heyoka.The Lakota medicine man, Black Elk, described himself as a heyoka, saying he had been visited as a child by the thunder beings. (Thunderbirds).

 

(*) GOLIARD - The goliards were a group of clergy who wrote satirical Latin poetry in the 12th and 13th centuries. They were mainly clerics at or from the universities of France, Germany, Spain, Italy, and England who protested the growing contradictions within the church through song, poetry and performance, often within a structured carnivalesque setting such as the Feast of Fools. One of the largest and most famous collections of goliardic poetry is the Carmina Burana.

The goliards, as scholars, often wrote their poetry in Latin. Travelling entertainers, the goliards composed many of their poems to be sung. These poems, or lyrics, focus on two overarching themes: depictions of the lusty lifestyle of the vagrant and satirical criticisms of society and the church. Portraying their lusty lifestyle, the goliards wrote about the physicality of love, in contrast to the chivalric focus of the troubadours. They wrote drinking songs, and reveled in riotous living.

Their satirical poems directed at the church grew from what they saw around them, including mounting corruption in monasteries and escalating tensions among religious leaders. As a result of their rebellious writings against the church, the goliards were eventually denied privileges of the clergy. Their strained relationship with the church, along with their vagabond lifestyle, also contributed to many poems describing the complaints of such a lifestyle.

The satires were meant to mock and lampoon the church. For example, at St. Remy, the goliards went to mass in procession each trailing a herring on a string along the ground, the game being to step on the herring in front and keep your own herring from being trod upon. In some districts, there was the celebration of the ass, in which a donkey dressed in a silly costume was led to the chancel rail where a cantor chanted a song of praise. When he paused, the audience would respond: "He Haw, Sire Ass, He haw!". The University of Paris complained:

    "Priests and clerks.. dance in the choir dressed as women... they sing wanton songs. They eat black pudding at the altar itself, while the celebrant is saying Mass. They play dice on the altar. They cense with stinking smoke from the soles of old shoes. They run and leap throughout the church, without a blush of their own shame. Finally they drive about the town and its theatres in shabby carriages and carts, and rouse the laughter of their fellows and the bystanders in infamous performances, with indecent gestures and with scurrilous and unchaste words."

The goliards used sacred sources like texts from the Roman Catholic Mass and Latin hymns and warped them to secular and satirical purposes in their poems (such as in the Drinkers Mass). The jargon of scholastic philosophy also frequently appears in their poems, either for satirical purposes, or because these concepts were familiar parts of the writers' working vocabulary. Their satires were almost uniformly directed against the church, attacking even the pope.

 

(*) OYA - Oya (Yoruba: Ọya, also known as Oyá or Oiá; Yansá or Yansã; and Iansá or Iansã in Latin America) is an Orisha of winds, lightening, and violent storms, death and rebirth. In Yoruba, the name Oya literally means "She Tore". She is known as Ọya-Iyansan – the "mother of nine." This is due to the Niger River (known to the Yoruba as the Odo-Ọya) traditionally being known for having nine tributaries.

 

______________________________________________________

 

"We’re having too good a time today. We ain’t thinking about tomorrow."

 

john dillinger (1903-1934)

 

Hannah Höch
Hannah Höch
"il faut chaque jour distiller les yeux d'une femme pour trouver l'ivresse" - Jacques Rigaut ou MON LIVRE DE CHEVET, C'EST UN REVOLVER
"il faut chaque jour distiller les yeux d'une femme pour trouver l'ivresse" - Jacques Rigaut ou MON LIVRE DE CHEVET, C'EST UN REVOLVER

 

 

"One does not sell the land people walk on."

 

Crazy Horse, Oglala Lakota Sioux (circa 1840-1877)

 

 

 

2 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

HILDA HILST: I - OF DESIRE & OTHER POEMS

 "Do you see me as mad?...

Because there is desire within me, everything glimmers"

 

Hilda Hilst - by surrealist photographer Fernando Lemos
Hilda Hilst - by surrealist photographer Fernando Lemos

 

Hilda Hilst was born in 1930 in Jaú, Brazil. A prolific writer whose work spans many different genres, including poetry, fiction, drama and newspaper columns, her eccentric personality — she claimed she would go to a planet called Marduk in her afterlife — attracted more public attention than her work. She was a beautiful woman with an active social life in São Paulo, but at a certain point she decided to retreat to the countryside to dedicate herself entirely to writing. She died in 2004, and while she had already received some public recognition, many of her important books were already out-of-print by then. Her popularity has grown since then, and all of her books have been published in new editions. Some of her work has also been translated into Italian, French, Spanish and German. - Beatriz Bastos

 

OF DESIRE 

 

 

Because there is desire within me, everything glimmers.
Before, daily life was thinking of heights
Seeking Another decanted
Deaf to my human bark.
Sap and sweat, they never came to be.
Today, flesh and bones, laborious, lascivious
You take my body. And what rest you give me
After the readings. I dreamt of cliffs
When there was a garden by my side.
I thought of climbs where there were no signs.
Ecstatic, I fuck you
Instead of yapping at Nothingness.

 

(translated by Lavinia Saad) 

 

I come from ancient times. Long names: 

Vaz Cardoso, Almeida Prado 

Dubayelle Hilst... events. 

I come from your roots, breaths of you, 

And I love you tiredly now, blood, wine 

Unreal cups corroded by time. 

I love you as if there were more and derailings. 

As if we stepped on ferns 

And they screamed, both our victims: 

Otherworldly, vehement. 

I love you small like one who wants MORE 

Like one who guesses everything: 

Wold, moon, fox and ancestors.

 

Say of me: You are mine.

 

(translated by Lavinia Saad)

 

Hilda Hilst - by surrealist photographer Fernando Lemos
Hilda Hilst - by surrealist photographer Fernando Lemos

 

I smile when I wonder

 

Where in your room

 

You keep my verse.

 

Away from your

 

Political books?

 

In the first drawer

 

Close to the window?

 

Do you smile when you read

 

Or are you tired of seeing

 

Such abandon

 

Amorous spark

 

On my ripened face?

 

Do I seem beautiful

 

Or am I to you, perhaps

 

Too much of a poet,

 

And not serious enough?

 

What does the man think

 

Of the poet? That there's no truth

 

In my drunkenness

 

And that you prefer

 

A friend more peaceful

 

And less adventurous?

 

That you simply cannot

 

Keep in your room

 

Worldly traces

 

Of my passionate words?

 

Do you see me as mad?

 

Do you see me as pure?

 

Do you see me as young?

 

 

 

Or is it true

 

That you never knew me?

 

(translated by Beatriz Bastos)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Various poems (translated by Lavinia Saad)

 

 

From cicadas and stones, words want to be born.

But the poet lives

Alone in a corridor of moons, in a water-house.

From world maps, from shortcuts, voyages want to be born.

But the poet inhabits

The field of inns of insanity.

 

From the flesh of women, men want to be born.

And the poet pre-exists, between the light and the nameless.

 

*

 

Do not look for me there

Where the living call upon

The so-called dead.

Look for me

Within the deep waters

In squares

Within a heart fire

Between horses, dogs,

In the ricefields, along the high

bank

Or with the birds

Or mirrored

In someone else,

Climbing a hard path

Rock, seed, salt

Life's paths. Look for me there.

Alive.

 

*

 

While I write a verse, you surely live.

You work your wealth, and I work my blood.

You will say that blood is not having your gold

And the poet tells you: buy your time.

 

Ponder your hurried life, listen to

Your inner gold. I speak of another yellow.

While I write a verse, you who never read me

Smile when someone speaks to you about my verse.

To you, a poet is like an ornament, and you change the subject:

“My precious time cannot be wasted on poets.”

Brother of my moment: when I die

Something infinite also dies. It’s hard to say it:

A POET’S LOVE DIES.

And this is so large that your gold cannot buy it,

And so rare, that that smallest piece is so vast

That it doesn’t fit in my corner.

 

*

 

If I seem to you nocturnal and imperfect

Look at me again. Because tonight

I looked at myself as if you were

looking at me.

And it was as if water

Desired

 

To leave your house that is the

river,

Just slipping by, not even

touching the riverbank.

 

I looked at you. And it has been

so long

That I understand that I am

earth. It has been so long

That I wait

For your brotherly body of water

To stretch over mine. Pastor and

naut

 

Look at me again. From a lesser

height.

And more attentively.

 

*

 

What if I tell you that I saw a bird

Upon your sex, should you believe it?

And if it isn’t true, the Universe will not change at all.

If I say that desire is Eternity

Because the moment burns without end

Should you believe it? And if it’s not true

So many have said it that it could be.

In desire we are touched by sophomania, ornaments

Immodesty, shame. Why can’t I

Dot with innocence and poetry

Bones, blood, flesh, the now

And everything in us that will become misshapen?

 

*

 

The Obscene Madame D

 

 

The hours. Ecstasy. Dryness. Stung before the outdoors, I lapped the

air, colors, nuances, and I stopped breathing before certain ochres, the veins

of certain leaves, before the smallest of leopards, before the gray-white

feathers that fell from the roof, gray of a stony gray, a shimmering

silver-gray, and having seen, having been what I was, am I this one now? How

can I have been Hillé, vast, and plunging fingers into the matter of the world,

how having been, can I have lost she who was, and be today who I am?

 

*

 

 

OF ALCOOLICAS 

 

 

Life is raw. A handle of tripe and metal. 

 I fall into it: a wounded stone embryo. 

 Life is raw and hard. Like a mouthful of viper. 

 I eat it on my pale tongue 

 Ink, I wash your forearms, Life, I wash myself 

 In the scant narrowness 

 Of my body, I wash the bone rafters, my life, 

 Your leaden nail, my rouge coat. 

 And we wander well-heeled the streets, 

 Crimson, gothic, tall bodies and glasses. 

 Life is raw. Ravenous like the crow’s beak. 

 And it can be so giving and mythic: a brook, a tear, 

 An eddy in the water, a drink. Life is liquid. 

 

* 

 

Heights, strips, I climb them, I cut them out 

And the two of us hover, Life and I 

In the red of the tempest. Drunk, 

We dive clear-headed into the croaking wine. 

What stylish jest. What straight-backed 

Seraphins. The two of us in vapors, 

Lyrical and lobotomized, and the ditch 

Becomes peak, and mud is transluscent 

And Nothing is extreme. 

I unpeel mad daily life 

And its pasty rite of paraboles. 

Patient, priestesslike, very well-mannered 

We await the tepid dusk, the glass, the house. 

 

Ah, everything becomes dignified when life is liquid. 

 

* 

 

Also raw and hard are the words and faces 

Before we sit at the table, you and I, Life 

Before the shimmery gold of drink. Slowly 

Stillnesses, water lentils, diamonds appear 

Over past and present insults. Slowly 

We are two ladies, soaking in laughter, rosy 

Like a berry, the one that I glimpsed in your breath, friend 

When you allowed me paradise. The sinister of hours 

Becomes a time of conquest. Languor and suffering 

Become forgetfulness. After we lay down, death 

Is a king who visits and covers us with myrrh. 

You whisper: Ah, life is liquid.

 

 

48 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

ANA CRISTINA CESAR: AMOUR

Ana Cristina Cesar (1952-1983)
Ana Cristina Cesar (1952-1983)

 

extrait...

 

 

 

 

J’opte pour le regard esthétisant, avec épigraphe de femme moderne inconnue. (« Je n’arrive pas à expliquer ma tendresse, ma tendresse, tu comprends ? ») Je ne suis pas un rat de bibliothèque, je comprends à peine le musée de la place, je n’ai pas de transes de production, je n’ai pas la vocation de gitane, et j’ai aussi ce qu’on appelle l’oeil aux péchés. Même pas ici ? Je récite WW (Walt Whitman) pour toi :

 

 

 

« Amour, ce n’est pas un livre, c’est moi, c’est moi que tu tiens comme ça et c’est moi qui te tiens (est-ce la nuit ? étions-nous ensemble et seuls ?), je tombe de ces pages dans tes bras, tes doigts me stupéfient, ton souffle, ton pouls, je plonge des pieds à la tête, délice, et ça suffit —

 

Suffit les regrets, les secrets, l’impromptu, suffit le présent glissant, suffit le passé en video-tape impossiblement véloce, repeat, repeat. Reçois ce baiser seulement pour toi et ne m’oublie plus. J’ai travaillé toute la journée et maintenant je me retire, maintenant je pose mes lettres et traductions d’origines multiples, m’attend une sphère plus réelle que celle rêvée, plus directe, rayons de lumière autour de moi, Adieu !

 

 Rappelle-toi ces mots un à un. Je pourrai revenir. Je t’aime, et je m’en vais, moi incorporel, triomphant, mort. »

 

 

 

Ana Cristina Cesar (1952-1983), Gants de peau & autres poèmes

Traducteur : Michel Riaudel

 

 

 

 

Issue d’une famille protestante, Ana Cristina Cesar naît à Rio de Janeiro en 1952. Après des études de cinéma et de lettres, elle part vivre en Angleterre en 1979.

 

Lectrice d’Emily Dickinson, de George Eliot et de Sylvia Plath, son travail d’études sur la traduction littéraire porte sur un autre grand nom de la littérature féminine : Katherine Mansfield. En effet, en 1980, elle propose une version commentée de la nouvelle Bliss dont le texte a été une grande influence pour la poétesse. On y retrouve même des échos dans l’opuscule Gants de peau, édité en 1981. En 1982, elle réunit cet ouvrage et ses deux autres recueils Cenas de abril et Correspondência completa dans une anthologie intitulée A teus pés.

 

Figure de proue de la poésie dite marginale, Ana Cristina Cesar se suicide en 1983.

 

 

 

0 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

ANA CRISTINA CESAR: RIO NIGHTS & INDEPENDENT YOUTH (2 POEMS)

 

"I introduce  you to the most discrete woman in the world: one who has no secrets."

Ana Cristina Cesar, a Brazilian poet and translator, was born in 1952. She is recognized as a leading experimental poet. Her major work, A Teus Pés, (At Your Feet), a hybrid text features lineated verse and prose. Cesar committed suicide in 1983.

 

 

TWO POEMS FROM Ana Cristina César’s A TEUS PÉS (At your feet) Translated by Brenda Hillman and Helen Hillman


RIO Night  



Dialog of the deaf, no: friendly in the cold. Sudden brakes
on the wrong side of the street. Sighing in the intersection. I introduce
you to the most discrete woman in the world: one who has no
secrets.

 

 

 

independent youth

 

For the first time I broke the golden rule and i flew away and didn’t even
measure the consequences. Why do we refuse to be prophetic? And
what dialect is this for a small evening audience? I flew up and now, heart, in a car on fire through the air, with no grace, crossing the state of São Paulo, at dawn, for you, and furious: and now, against the traffic.

EXTERIOR. DAY. Exchanging my pure indiscretion for your dated story. My breaking in to your conjunction. SEA, BLUE, CAVERNS, CAMPS & THUNDERS. I lean against the walls of the little streetcar and cry. I catch a cab that travels various tunnels of the city. I corner the driver. I dribble my faith. The newspapers don’t call for war. Twist, son, twist, even far away in the distance of the one who loves and knows he’s a traitor. Drink a bitters in the old corner pub, but think of me between flashes of happiness. I love you strangely, slyly, with other scenes mixed with the flavor of your love.

 

 

Ana Cristina Cesar (1952-1983)
Ana Cristina Cesar (1952-1983)

 

TRANSLATORS:

 

Brenda Hillman has published nine collections of poetry with Wesleyan University Press, including Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire. With Garrett Caples and Paul Ebenkamp, she co-edited Richard O. Moore’s Particulars of Place (Omnidawn, 2015). Hillman teaches at St. Mary’s College where she is the Filippi Professor of Poetry.

Helen Hillman was born in
Brazil in 1924 and received her early education in Porto Alegre before coming to the United States for college. For many decades, she lived in Tucson, Arizona, where she was a homemaker, a translator and a naturalist; she currently lives in New Jersey.

 

 

 

 

0 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

ET ALORS? J'ADORE VOLER ! - CLARICE LISPECTOR

 

Il m’est arrivé de cacher un amour par peur de le perdre,

 

Il m’est arrivé de perdre un amour pour l’avoir caché.

 

Il m’est arrivé de serrer les mains de quelqu’un par peur

 

Il m’est arrivé d’avoir peur au point de ne plus sentir mes mains

 

Il m’est arrivé de faire sortir de ma vie des personnes que j’aimais

 

Il m’est arrivé de le regretter

 

Il m’est arrivé de pleurer des nuits durant, jusqu’à trouver le sommeil

 

Il m’est arrivé d’être heureuse au point de pas parvenir à fermer les yeux

 

Il m’est arrivé de croire en des amours parfaites

 

Puis de découvrir qu’elles n’existent pas.

 

Il m’est arrivé d’aimer des personnes qui m’ont déçue.

 

Il m’est arrivé de décevoir des personnes qui m’ont aimée

 

Il m’est arrivé de passer des heures devant le miroir pour tenter de découvrir

 

qui je suis et d’être sure de moi au point de vouloir disparaître

 

Il m’est arrivé de mentir et de m’en vouloir ensuite, de dire la vérité et de

 

m’en vouloir aussi.

 

Il m’est arrivé de faire semblant de me moquer de personnes que j’aimais

 

avant de pleurer plus tard, en silence dans mon coin.

 

Il m’est arrivé de sourire en pleurant des larmes de tristesses et de pleurer

 

tant j’avais ri.

 

Il m’est arrivé de croire en des personnes qui n’en valaient pas la peine,

 

et de cesser de croire en ceux qui pourtant le méritaient.

 

Il m’est arrivé d’avoir des crises de rire quand il ne fallait pas.

 

Il m’est arrivé de casser des assiettes, des verres et des vases, de rage.

 

Il m’est arrivé de ressentir le manque de quelqu’un sans jamais le lui dire.

 

Il m’est arrivé de crier quand j’aurais dû me taire, de me taire quand j’aurais

 

dû crier.

 

De nombreuses fois, je n’ai pas dit ce que je pensais pour plaire à certains,

 

d’autres fois, j’ai dit ce que je ne pensais pas pour en blesser d’autres.

 

 

 

Il m’est arrivé de prétendre être ce que je ne suis pas pour plaire à certains,

 

et de prétendre être ce que je ne suis pas pour déplaire à d’autres.

 

 

 

Il m’est arrivé de raconter des blagues un peu bêtes encore et encore,

 

juste pour voir un ami heureux.

 

Il m’est arrivé d’inventer une fin heureuse à des histoires pour donner

 

de l’espoir à celui qui n’en avait plus.

 

Il m’est arrivé de trop rêver, au point de confondre le rêve et la réalité…

 

Il m’est arrivé d’avoir peur de l’obscurité, aujourd’hui dans l’obscurité

 

“je me trouve, je m’abaisse, je reste là“

 

Je suis déjà tombée un nombre innombrable de fois en pensant que

 

je ne me relèverais pas.

 

Je me suis relevé un nombre innombrable de fois en pensant que

 

je ne tomberais plus.

 

Il m’est arrivé d’appeler quelqu’un pour ne pas appeler celui que

 

je voulais appeler.

 

Il m’est arrivé de courir après une voiture parce qu’elle emmenait

 

celui que j’aimais.

 

Il m’est arrivé d’appeler maman au milieu de la nuit en m’échappant

 

d’un cauchemar.

 

Mais elle n’est pas apparu et le cauchemar fut pire encore.

 

Il m’est arrivé de donner à des proches le nom d’ami et de découvrir

 

qu’ils ne l’étaient pas.

 

D’autres en revanche, que je n’ai jamais eu besoin de nommer m’ont

 

toujours été et me seront toujours chers.

 

 

Ne me donnez pas de vérités, parce que je ne souhaite pas avoir

 

toujours raison.

 

 

Ne me montrez pas ce que vous attendez de moi parce que je vais 

 

suivre mon cœur !

 

 

Ne me demandez pas d’être ce que je ne suis pas, ne m’invitez pas à être

 

conforme, parce que sincèrement je suis différente ! Je ne sais

 

pas aimer à moitié, je ne sais pas vivre de mensonges, je ne sais pas 

 

voler les pieds sur terre. Je suis toujours moi-même mais je ne serais

 

pas toujours la même !

 

 

J’aime les poisons les plus lents, les boissons les plus amères, les

 

drogues les plus puissantes, les idées les plus folles, les pensées les plus

 

complexes, les sentiments les plus forts.

 

Mon appétit est vorace et mes délires sont les plus fous.

 

Vous pouvez même me pousser du haut d’un rocher, je dirai : – et alors ?

 

J’adore voler !

 

 

 

 

Traduit du portugais par Aurélie Tyszblat

 

 

 

 

 

0 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

THE PHOTOGRAPHY OF LILY ZOUMPOULI

"Capturing glances of the moments that passed us by, in times when we were maybe too young to realise that they weren’t there to stay until eternity would have torn us apart. 

But still old enough to know they were worth noticing."

Alter Ego
Alter Ego

Lily Zoumpouli was born in Thessaloniki in 1994. 

She started taking photography seminars with the photographic team Stereosis and got her Certificate in 2012 at the age of 18 (2010-12).

In 2015 she was offered a lifelong membership to exhibit her work on LensCulture professional worldwide photographer’s website.

 

OFFICIAL WEBSITE

 

Devil's Playground
Devil's Playground

 "The need for a way of connecting through a medium with my own feelings and surroundings became the catalyst of this works existence. 

Each photograph has a background story that carries on its shoulders the reason for its own memory. 

The distance that separates us from our subject is the one that needs to be walked, in order to find the reflection of our inner selves and others combined into one image,

forming a mixture of selves." 

The Guys in the Bathtub Before Party
The Guys in the Bathtub Before Party

"A connection being conceived within a captivating atmosphere that was inspired by the desire of transferring into another reality, forming a duality through the final outcome of the photograph.

 

The intense element of nude is depicting the return to an innocent comfort of being bare naked, but mostly of being pure towards yourself and towards the observer- displaying a self and its shadows."

Saved from Hell
Saved from Hell
Smoking, Drinking, Touching
Smoking, Drinking, Touching

 "Every so often there are staged moments representing a personal dive within every part that belongs to a past or a present, trying to be revealed through a newborn subject so to keep on recreating itself."

Exploding
Exploding

 

"An autobiographical documentary combined with allegorical aspects give a sense of spontaneity along with the subconscious, and slowly take over during the process of discovering a world out and within our own individuality." 

 

- words from Lily Z's Bio Note

 

 

 

68 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

Modigliani, Béatrice, Montparnasse + vin whisky hachisch cocaïne poésie amour - La Vie Réinventée de Alain Jouffroy

extrait de La vie réinventée: l'explosion des années 20 à Paris - Alain Jouffroy. Tous droits réservés.
extrait de La vie réinventée: l'explosion des années 20 à Paris - Alain Jouffroy. Tous droits réservés.
extrait de La vie réinventée: l'explosion des années 20 à Paris - Alain Jouffroy. Tous droits réservés.
extrait de La vie réinventée: l'explosion des années 20 à Paris - Alain Jouffroy. Tous droits réservés.
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Wed

23

Nov

2016

ALEXANDER TROCCHI: THE FEAR OF IMAGINATION WILL DESTROY US

From Alexander Trocchi's CAIN'S BOOK, published by Grove Press, 1960. All rights reserved.
From Alexander Trocchi's CAIN'S BOOK, published by Grove Press, 1960. All rights reserved.
0 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

A "STRANGE" DREAM BY WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS

From William Burroughs' My Education: A Book of Dreams (1995), published by Viking Press. All rights reserved.
From William Burroughs' My Education: A Book of Dreams (1995), published by Viking Press. All rights reserved.
0 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

AENNE BIERMANN (1898-1933)

Aenne Biermann (1898-1933). Untitled (photomontage with portrait of Anneliese Schiesser and view of Paris), 1929.
Aenne Biermann (1898-1933). Untitled (photomontage with portrait of Anneliese Schiesser and view of Paris), 1929.
0 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

CLAUDE PELIEU: JE SUIS UN CORPS NU... (Photo by Lu Pélieu)

 

"je suis un corps nu & lourd qui se brise secrètement
je suis cette fatalité de cristal"

Claude Pélieu par Lu Pélieu
Claude Pélieu par Lu Pélieu
1 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

CINDERELLA OF THE WASTELANDS: A POEM BY MARJORIE CAMERON

Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome - The Marjorie Cameron Parsons Foundation
Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome - The Marjorie Cameron Parsons Foundation

Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome is a short 38-minute film by Kenneth Anger, filmed in 1954. Anger created two other versions of this film in 1966 and the late 1970s. According to Anger, the film takes the name "pleasure dome" from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's atmospheric poem Kubla Khan. Anger was inspired to make the film after attending a Halloween party called "Come as your Madness."

 

Seven times I rap upon the mighty door of the subterranean vault - open - open
I stand without in the drafty and bent corridor that approaches thy lair.
Seven times resound my summons on the stony door and the dead stern caves and cursed the midnight hour
come thou forth,I bear a lamp for this terrible darkness, thou shall behold the face known in dreams.

Mine eyes are terrible and strange, but thou knowest me, behold my garments are of a rich cloth 
and i bear the air of a land of bounty beyond the sea, come forth.

Thou are in the shadow of the light i bear, and thy garments reek of the dead and the sun misplaced.

We shall ascend the stair which is fraught with unwholesome things, the stone rolls before me
and into the blazing vault of the night of nights, we go forth as light.
Dark star i seek you in all the endless rooms of the universe.

i have entered the maze of chaos and searched the promises, no end and no fulfillment,
but i have seen your helmeted head flashing gold from all the bloody triumphs and sunsets of the world.

I have heard your voice singing lonely songs of desire in the wild wind, i remember the artistry of fingers that held the rose in wonder
your musical throat sounding the hymn of love, seeking since the birth and the crashing star nebula.

Kingdoms of muscle and star foam, pursued and pursuing, radiant warrior, how long my beloved god, how long, how long, how long

 

 

MARJORIE CAMERON (1922-1995)

 

 

 

 

 

66 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

TOSHIKO OKANOUE: SURREALISM IN JAPAN

Toshiko Okanoue
Toshiko Okanoue
Born in 1928, in Kochi, Japan, Toshiko Okanoue grew up in Tokyo. She began to make photo collages while she was studying fashion design and drawing in Bunka Gakuin in the early 1950s. When she first began working, she had very little art historical knowledge, and knew nothing of the Surrealist movement.

In post-war Japan, a shortage of goods and materials meant the country was flooded with commodities from foreign countries. Okanoue used fragments from Western fashion magazines such as Life, Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue, to create radical compositions combining body parts, animals and inanimate objects in dynamic arrangements. Although the component parts of her collages originated from Western sources, Okanoue herself regarded her technique of image making as deeply rooted in Japanese tradition. She thought of her works as a form of hari-e (‘hari’ meaning pasting and ‘e’ meaning a picture in Japanese), a traditional Japanese technique of making pictures by pasting small pieces of coloured paper onto pasteboard.

It was only in 1952, upon meeting the poet and artist Shuzo Takiguchi, that Okanoue found her own place in art history. Takiguchi was a leading figure of the Surrealist movement in Japan, and introduced Okanoue to the works of the famous Surrealist, Max Ernst, whose style had a decisive influence on her. During the subsequent six years, Okanoue produced over 100 works. Her collages remained idiosyncratic and dreamlike in their juxtaposition of contradictory imagery. In 1953 and 1956, she held solo exhibitions at Takemiya Gallery, Tokyo. However, as with many Japanese women of this era, her marriage in 1957 ended her artistic career.

Okanoue returned to her hometown of Kochi, where she now lives. She is married to the painter Fujino Kazutomo. Her work faded into obscurity and was overlooked for almost 40 years. However, it was rediscovered by the curator of the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Photography in the mid 1990s, and has since gained recognition for its contribution to the Japanese avant-garde. In 1996 her works was shown in Meguro Museum of Art, and has subsequently been collected by the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, and the Museum of Modern Art, New York.

 

VIEW MORE: http://www.beetlesandhuxley.com/

 

Toshiko Okanoue
Toshiko Okanoue
Toshiko Okanoue
Toshiko Okanoue
24 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

DAVID LERNER: THE FUTURE TASK OF LANGUAGE

 

The Future Task of Language

 

 

 

Who are the new theorists of poetry? How many rules might be broken – how many newmade up? What are the future tasks of language? Questions and answers.

— ad for a recent event called »Syntax as Intellect: Language Poets.«

 

 

 

the future task of language
is to
drive a cherry-red Mercedes Benz
into the heart of hell
and place a bet on God

the future task of language
is to
burn itself down in prayer and
invent a new code for beauty

the future task of language
will be to invent a way of
dealing with loneliness

the future task of language
is more like a guess written in fire
than a new coat of ideas and a
real close shave

the future task of language
is more like something erupting
than something figuring itself out
over and over again

the future task of language
will be to do whatever the fuck it wants

the future task of language
is unknowable, impossible, grief-struck, mad,
endless, touching,
wired, wild and weary,
broken-down, dragged up, smashed, floating
in the wind

 

- from WHY RIMBAUD WENT TO AFRICA

special thanx to Zeitgeist Press & Alan Kaufman for mailing Lerner's The Last Five Miles to Grace

 

David Lerner (November 23, 1951 – July 1, 1997?) was an American renegade poet born in New York City. Lerner came from a family of Russian-Jewish renegades, and grew up as a so-called "red-diaper baby". Lerner published numerous articles as a journalist, including material on the Russian singer and poet Vladimir Vysotsky. Lerner pursued a bohemian life and became involved in the notorious Cafe Babar in San Francisco about 1986, a group dubbed as the Babarians. Lerner and Bruce Isaacson co-founded Zeitgeist Press and have been referred to as 'the Ezra Pound and T.S. Elliot of the underground.' Lerner's common-law wife, Maura O'Connor also published poetry.

One of Lerner's most celebrated poems, "Mein Kampf", is a seminal statement of underground poetics in response to the weight of the mainstream. In it he says:

 

I'd rather
sell arms to the Martians
than wait sullenly for a
letter from a diseased clown with a
three-piece mind
telling me that I've won a
bullet-proof pair of rose-colored glasses
for my poem "Autumn in the Spring"

 

Lerner was associated with the Lyman Family a.k.a. Fort Hill Construction, who have preserved his literary memory. Lerner's work has not yet been fully collected in an available edition. A considerable amount of Lerner's work is still unpublished, including poems, prose, and a large volume of letters.

Lerner died of a heroin overdose in 1997 and Zeitgeist published 'The Last Five Miles to Grace' posthumously. Bucky Sinister of the San Francisco Bay Guardian wrote: "Lerner was a broken-down saint if there ever was one. He was an eloquent screamer, a soft-spoken rageoholic, a madman with a great manuscript. His poetry will always be a reminder of a time when poetry in the Mission was spontaneous, magical, and more than a little bit dangerous." - Wikipedia

 

 

 

 

5 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

BUSY WITH HER CRIME - AND THE INVISIBLE BIRD: THE DREAMY WORLD OF LARRY DELINGER

THE DREAMY WORLD OF LARRY DELINGER

click image to view full size

 

 

 

 

LARRY DELINGER BY HIMSELF: 

 

I was born in a very small town, in the Sandhills of Nebraska, near where Crazy Horse had his vision quest. I studied piano from the railway station master’s wife and later from an alcoholic pianist who moved to our town, to live with her sister and dry out. She was Sioux Indian, from Los Angeles and her husband, a bop Viola player with a club foot had recently died of an overdose of Heroin. She knew all the Jazz greats: Ellington, Ella, Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Lester Young etc. She started a band and I played trumpet and her nephew the trombone. She taught me all the Jam keys and the etiquette on the stand. I was a teenager and I hid her half pint of whiskey in my suit coat and she gave me piano lessons where I learned how to analyze Debussy but with jazz chords. I grew up, went to college, got married had four beautiful children and moved to California. I found my first composition teacher in Los Angeles CA, Earnest Kanitz, and later, my best teacher, Edward Applebaum, in Santa Barbara CA. Through no fault of my own, I started writing music for the theatre. This took me to the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles CA, the American Conservatory Theatre in San Francisco CA, The Denver Theatre Company in Denver CO and the Oregon Shakespeare Festival In Ashland OR, plus the Oslo Nye Theater in Oslo Norway. Also Broadway. Through my work in recording studios, I met many fine musicians who asked me to write pieces for them and, Along the way, I started making Art as well, Collages mostly and I’ve never stopped. My first influences in Art were Robert Rauschenberg and Joseph Cornell and my Art teachers, Mike Monahan and Juan Manuel Perez Salazar have taught me how to see. Music and Art, Art and Music: MAGIC (Smaller on the outside, Bigger on the inside).

 

 

1 Comments

Wed

23

Nov

2016

STEVE DALACHINSKY: EMILY'S WORD

EMILY'S WORD -A COLLAGE BY STEVE DALACHINSKY

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Emily's Word, by Steve Dalachinsky
Emily's Word, by Steve Dalachinsky

 

 

Poet/collagist STEVE DALACHINSKY was born in Brooklyn after the last big war and has managed to survive lots of little wars. His book The Final Nite (Ugly Duckling Presse) won the PEN Oakland National Book Award. His most recent books are Fools Gold (2014 feral press), a superintendent's eyes (revised and expanded 2013/14 - unbearable/autonomedia) and flying home, a collaboration with German visual artist Sig Bang Schmidt (Paris Lit Up Press 2015). His latest cds are The Fallout of Dreams with Dave Liebman and Richie Beirach (Roguart 2014) and ec(H)o-system with the French art-rock group, the Snobs (Bambalam 2015). He has received both the Kafka and Acker Awards and is a 2014 recipient of a Chevalier D’ le Ordre des Artes et Lettres. His poem “Particle Fever” was nominated for a 2015 Pushcart Prize. Forthcoming from Overpass Press “The Invisible Ray” with artwork by Shalom Neuman.

 

MORE ON STEVE DALACHINSKY : COLLAGE TEMPÊTE & FREE JAZZ

 

 

15 Comments

Tue

22

Nov

2016

GRISÉLIDIS RÉAL: ÉCRIVAIN, PEINTRE, PROSTITUÉE

 

La liberté n’a pas de prix. Nous le savons, c’est notre force et notre espoir.À pas de louves, à pas de tigresses et d’oiseaux, nous marcherons sur la lune s’il le faut, nous gagnerons l’espace qui nous revient, à nous qui sommes le baume sur les blessures, et l’eau dans le désert, parfumées, étincelantes, offertes et blessées, douces et violentes, femmes et magiciennes, princesses de nos sens et du désir des hommes.

 

Grisélidis Réal

 

0 Comments

Tue

22

Nov

2016

FUCK THE POOR: KEN LOACH & SELFISH CUNT

 

 

“Punishing the poor is part of the State's project; it is knowingly inefficient or cruel, and its goal is to drive people to frustration, despair, hunger and suicide.

 

 It is not an accident that the poor are punished for their unemployment. That’s their project, that’s the point, that’s what has to happen because their model of society produces unemployment and if people question that model then they are lost ...

 

 "(...) The present system is one of conscious cruelty,” “It bears down on those least able to bear it. The bureaucratic inefficiency is vindictive and hunger is being used as a weapon. People are being forced to look for work that doesn’t exist.

 

 "(...) the current criteria for claiming benefits in the UK is "a Kafka-esque, Catch 22 situation designed to frustrate and humiliate the claimant to such an extent that they drop out of the system and stop pursuing their right to ask for support if necessary - The state's attitude is not an accident. The poverty, the indignity, the humiliation people go through is consciously done. " 

 

Ken LOACH (1936-)

 

FUCK THE POOR - SELFISH CUNT

ENGLAND MADE ME II - SELFISH CUNT

4 Comments

Tue

22

Nov

2016

ROGER GILBERT-LECOMTE: BLACK MIRROR - LIFE LOVE DEATH THE VOID AND THE WIND

 

The Borders of Love

 

 

Between two mouths in a kiss

Windowglass of solitude

Selection from Black Mirror: The Selected Poems of Roger Gilbert-lecomte, translated from the French by David Rattray, published by Station Hill Press, 1991. All rights reserved.

 

Testament

 

 

I come from afar

in the marches of night

Much farther than one might imagine

My story is slight in the city of light

Well known in the deserts of famine

With her teeth and her nails she’s everywhere

I let her mangle me

But her eyes say I’m a piece of slime

And she will strangle me

And if my berth tonight I choose

In the havens of misery since

I never knew how to refuse

Misery’s blandishments

To the bottom of the heap I slide

With neither pisspot nor candle

But oblivion’s obscene solicitudes

To me alone a lovely

scandal 

 

Image du film "Roger Gilbert-Lecomte, phrérange irrémédiable" de Georges Sammut et Daniel Cassini (art cote d'azur)
Image du film "Roger Gilbert-Lecomte, phrérange irrémédiable" de Georges Sammut et Daniel Cassini (art cote d'azur)

 

Into the Eyes of Night

 

 

 

 

 

A woman dozes on a roof her name is night

 

Ancient abandoned to the perils of intoxication

 

To sleep’s fumbling treasons

 

Dreamer in an avalanche of slips

 

Ditched on a high glassy place to eyeball outer space

 

Over the corroded zinc where old man sun the killer

 

And his old lady that tearful poisoner the moon tend bar

 

Our big sleepwalker’s nails screech all at once

 

Her fingers sprout insanely squealing diamonds

 

Drops of blood singing in midair

 

Dance like beads of mercury

 

Up to this woman curled in the monster’s lap of nothingness

 

A chimney fumes a cloud in tatters

 

In sooty black silk the night wind

 

Pitches a nomad tent

 

Lining heaven a celestial floater

 

In the sleeper’s huge adoring

 

Eyes their lids stirring as

 

Long long lashes flutter and

 

Shrinking stars explode

 

The name is night she sleeps with one eye open

 

And all the world at stake on what she does

 

 

The Perpetual Incantation

 

 

 

 

 

That awful mask a snapshot

 

Amazed solitude

 

Transfixes on the surface

 

Of a perennial torrent flesh

 

Casual flesh

 

The awful mask a mugshot

 

Of drugged solitude

 

Your face

 

May the rainburst erase it replace it

 

With a vacuity that shines

 

A dazzle of nonentity a

 

Sightless clairvoyant of white shadows

 

One forever eaten by wind

 

 

The Four Elements

 

To Rolland de Reneville

 

 

 

 

 

If I say Fire I am ringed in flames

 

When I say Water Ocean expires at

 

My feet an empty hull floating in solid

 

Crystal a mummy on ice is Air

 

In Earth the castaway takes root sleeping

 

Under the leafy tree of his own body

 

The dream’s golden branch shoots out his mouth

 

A dirt-caked mouth exhaling to the sky

 

From lungs inside out like booming treetops

 

Red harvest in the mortal midnight sun

 

 

I Want to be Damned

 

Or

 

Where the Prophet Stopped

 

To Claude Sernet

 

 

 

 

 

You’re wrong

 

I’m not the one that went up I’m

 

Still the other guy the man no man looks for

 

My face behind the red mask glory shame

 

Faces the wind wind is my only guide

 

I’ll stand there like a statue even as

 

Some crazy gust knocks down a ruined house

 

Leaving me upright forget about night

 

What do you want of me the only one

 

Standing yet cold numb restless not all there

 

To reach the persons long dead go for the crack Black light from the other sun filters through

 

And if ere evening I happen to fall

 

Flat on my face in the road arms outstretched

 

A jolt of the old juice my ultimate

 

Will bring me to my feet for the defeat

 

Night will hasten as I howl in a voice like

 

Great waters growling in the vault of night

 

Until the coming of that sign that hour

 

Leave me alone go on deny a prophet’s

 

Power to turn life inside out transmuting

 

All sense to an immortal flash of pain

 

Leave me to the horrors inside my empty

 

Head and they are damning damned damned damning.

 

 

Coronation and Massacre of Love

 

 

 

I

 

 

 

To the pale east in the agony of ether

 

To the west in the night of great waters

 

To the septentrion in back of the north wind

 

To the south blest by the ashes of the dead

 

To the four animal faces of the cardinal points

 

To the face of the bull

 

To the lion’s face

 

To the eagle’s face

 

To the forever unfinished and ever agonized

 

Human face.

 

At the heart of a dove

 

In a snake’s coil

 

From the honey of heaven to the salt of the ocean sea

 

Of the icons meaning femal space only one lives

 

It is a woman’s body made up of stars

 

A shape and vessel holding universe

 

A blue skinned body formed like the sky

 

 

 

II

 

 

 

A home to ghosts and to the children of night

 

A place of absence stillness gloom

 

The whole of space and what it holds

 

In a field all white a black hole

 

Like the cave of the sky

 

The whole body of woman is a vacuum to be filled

 

 

 

III

 

 

 

In a cloak of pale shadow

 

Cold dawn

 

Floods sky and living flesh

 

From pole to pole

 

From the occult currents common to flesh and stars

 

To the bottom of each earthy body

 

Earthquake

 

And fault through which a volcano of madness

 

Roars

 

Nail that screaming woman

 

To the tripod

 

Her mouth consumed

 

In the flaming

 

Glory of the bitter laurel

 

Foams

 

Like a raging sea

 

Her hair is a

 

Hurricane

 

Her eyes an eclipse

 

Stars are streaming out of her fingertips

 

Her tragic flesh draped in a silk of tremors

 

Her face carved in the marble of fright

 

Her feet the sun and moon

 

She strides along like an ocean

 

Rolling her hips

 

In a long ample pulsing swell

 

 

 

Her body embodying the night

 

Black flame the double mystery

 

Of an inverse identity

 

Shimmering in the mirror of great waters

 

 

 

IV

 

 

 

In the desert of love a glimmering visitation

 

Blind prophetess your eye has the clarity of cut glass

 

Let the ear of your heart

 

Hear the lion growl

 

WithinVeiled in a red fog and buzz

 

Of blood seared by the venomous spells

 

And prestigia of desire

 

Exciting in the bend of your nocturnal throat

 

The voracity of vampires

 

Vast dance of nuptial gravitations whole

 

Worlds and seas pulsing

 

To the heartbeat of a weeping sun

 

Down into the temple lost in the forgotten deep

 

Down into the medusa hole that first spawned

 

A panic shadow on the first night of the creation

 

Hear the trumpet blast and the scattered seed

 

Blasting all the way to bedrock at the bottom of the deepest cave

 

She dances to connect night and mother sea

 

A plant connecting earth and blood of heaven

 

 

 

V

 

 

 

As Antaeus revives by touching earth

 

To revive empty space by touching skins

 

In your bosom I lie in order to perform the rite

 

Of homecoming to where I came from when not yet born

 

The animal sign of the archaic ecstasy

 

 

 

In your bosom I lay the offering

 

Of balm and venom mixed

 

Blind as I am

 

In the caves of being that are the antechambers of annihilation

 

 

 

VI

 

 

 

Yet who could peel the mask off your face

 

And the skin’s opaque frontier

 

To reach the quivering fulcrum of the self That point at dead center of the eye

 

Of an endlessly expanding series of rings

 

Itself perfectly motionless at the bottom of the heart star of the absolute

 

Empty point foundation of all life and of the forms

 

Which according to the circle of torments

 

Become the secret of blind change

 

Whence the desperation

 

Of a love canceled in a double absence

 

At the thunderstruck peak of delirium

 

An act of androgynous unity

 

The man had forgotten forever already

 

Before the universe had even begun to exist

 

Before hemorrhage

 

Before head

 

 

 

VII

 

 

 

In the Tibetan story

 

Lost in chaos unkempt and

 

Darkness like a

 

Mouthful of dirt

 

A dead person’s fatless shade

 

Whirls in black oblivion shivering

 

 

 

For the icy slithering of ghosts is all there is out there

 

When suddenly it finds itself Drawn to a distant glimmer then

 

Looking into an enchanted cave

 

A light-filled paradise of warm jewels

 

A little kingdom of splendors and beatitudes

 

In the region known as essence of desire

 

Which though never sated is forever satisfied

 

Lured by the exhilarating smell

 

The shadeEnters

 

And sleeps

 

Only to awake riveted

 

Rooted in uterus

 

A ghastly fetus doomed to one more round

 

Of procreative desperation

 

Spinning on the wheel of the horror of existence

 

All the way back from the eldest fetal ancestor

 

To the putrid mother of us all

 

Our first ancestor rot

 

In her robber of foxfire

 

The demented queen

 

Who makes and unmakes

 

Forms and fortunes

 

And by committing the eternal feminine

 

Star-studded bones and all

 

To the honor of ash

 

Imposes on skin’s

 

Statuesque and pride inclination

 

Water’s dread horizontality

 

2 Comments

Tue

22

Nov

2016

KENNETH PATCHEN: AN ELECTRIFIABLE INTERCOURSE WITH A FEMALE ALLIGATOR...

San Francisco poet Kenneth Patchen in 1957 with a collection of his painted books. The photograph was taken by the late photographer Harry Redl on the rooftop of his apartment house in San Francisco.
San Francisco poet Kenneth Patchen in 1957 with a collection of his painted books. The photograph was taken by the late photographer Harry Redl on the rooftop of his apartment house in San Francisco.

 

 

SO it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shame

 

 To extend all boundaries

 

 To fog them in right over the plate

 

 To kill only what is ridiculous

 

 To establish problem

 

 To ignore solutions

 

 To listen to no one

 

 To omit nothing

 

 To contradict everything

 

 To generate the free brain

 

 To bear no cross

 

 To take part in no crucifixion

 

 To tinkle a warning when mankind strays

 

 To explode upon all parties

 

 To wound deeper than the soldier

 

 To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all

 

 

 

To verify the irrational

 

 To exaggerate all things

 

 To inhibit everyone

 

 To lubricate each proportion

 

 To experience only experience

 

 

 

To set a flame in the high air

 

 To exclaim at the commonplace alone

 

 To cause the unseen eyes to open

 

 

 

To admire only the absurd

 

 To be concerned with every profession save his own

 

 To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty

 

 To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator

 

 To lift the flesh above the suffering

 

 To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit

 

 

 

To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss

 

 

 

To HAPPEN

 

 

 

It is the artist’s duty to be alive

 

 To drag people into glittering occupations

 

 

 

To blush perpetually in gaping innocence

 

 To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence

 

 To burrow beneath the subconscious

 

 To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason

 

 To obey each outrageous inpulse

 

 To commit his company to all enchantments.

 

 

 

 

Kenneth Patchen, The Journal of Albion Moonlight, 1941

 

 

 

 

0 Comments

Mon

21

Nov

2016

HELENA ROCIO

 

HELENA ROCIO JANEIRO is a portuguese artist.

0 Comments

Sat

19

Nov

2016

FORK BURKE: LIBATION & ORGASM

 

Libation

 

 

I will say nothing 

no soft paragraphs – automatic agreements – no democracy 

resonate weapon speak               be devastated be free 

 

I will say nothing 

a sentence can be stretched out over generations 

the listener is speaking 

 

I will never sing the memorized song 

 

Some days never end – the laundromat – counting 10 quarters – I am fond of watching the fading 

and the yellow – black plastic garbage bags – finger promises over the hole – my arms sweat 

keep walking – words reduced to first letter recognition I remember – there is 

no history  

 

Soak the silver   you will need aluminium baking powder boiling water and a bowl 

 

Stop celebrating Christmas 

honor your dead   be clear about their immortality and yours 

duplication fields nourish no message     no instructions 

got no leg room   memory 

How do you destroy a people     one generation at a time 

Food is what 

It looks like permission     cut 

Food is ancestor     plant speak 

A body can get use to it`s soul in all forms 

I don`t find it poetic 

The forest needs a good laugh – I say it is only a vending machine 

There is no overload      information 

 

Doris Stauffer cut in half is still Doris Stauffer 

What interests me – these interruptions that I allow to shift how a word is chosen – He asked me 

What do you collect – I told him street cleaning sticks and metal circles – I asked him 

What do you collect – he said little paper notes discarded by his students – Choose one and 

It shall be the last line of this poem – Days later he sent me the name Doris Stauffer- He asked 

Can you use that 

 

 

OrGasm

  

 

Dreams slip Tell everything – Expect it 

 

I tried hard – I went to Freud – A drive is no pleasure 

outburst angry genitals fought language wounded – fought connection 

healing 10 generations past and   10 generations future Healed now 

you have to know how – and you must do this work 

 

Realize the implications 

 

Present authority addiction – leave me out of it – World View rooted in laughable separation 

Connection this freedom – How deeply human is possible – I believe he aligned himself with 

Divine timing – He said Yes and gained access – He said Yes and the others said No – discovered 

is a word that blocks our understanding of Spirit – our ancient greatness – there is no object – 

Therefore I am – no object no object no over there 

 

We are Orgasm 

 

function – How do you travel – All healing is sexual healing all creation communication is orgasm 

energy – there are worlds in your sex – there are points and locations – I correspond to earth 

Reich an infinity ongoing narrative – the beginning middle and end are simultaneous and therefore 

need not exist – This confidence without need – He identified the NO people – He said their Blood wouldn`t stretch out – a poetic way to say something very deep and certain – Violence is this NO 

Something disturbing has locked in place – Their blood won`t stretch out – Their Blood won`t 

stretch out – Start with this – Everything you were ever taught is rooted in separation – they will 

Insist you refer to it as reality – OrGanism OrGasm OrGone 

 

I wrote down Republics – How much time does need require to create out of us 

I`m training Dream to be – eliminating No at the source

 

Fork Burke is a poet currently living and writing in Switzerland - She received her BA in Creative Writing from The New School, New York, NY. Her poems have appeared in Hoezo Lepels?, PRAXILLA, Lyre Lyre, Unshod Quills, Caucasus ArtMag and Three Rooms Press publication Maintenant, as well as Le désir Live Radio Show for Art Basel 2012 – Basel Kunstmuseum Radio 2012 – 2012 Lyrics for BLOOD by Nick Porsche. Contributing poet at The First Brussels International Underground Poetry Festival – Her book Licking Glass is a book of poems, poetic essays and other images. Licking Glass is also included in the permanent collection of Poets House Library, NY, NY. Recordings include Fork Remixed – Which was among the winners of the Australian International Song Competition. Her latest Spoken Word recording is Durch die Blumen.

 

 

 

 

0 Comments

Sat

19

Nov

2016

DEBORAH STEVENSON: WOMAN ASCENDING STAIRS, WORDS UNSPOKEN & OTHER SURREAL COLLAGES

 

Deborah Stevenson was born in Washington, DC. She grew up in Tokyo, went to high school in Baltimore, and got her BA from Sarah Lawrence College in New York. She lived for many years on the West Coast, and returned to the East Coast, where she lived in Brooklyn, NYC until 2015, when she relocated to the coastal town of Belfast, Maine.

 

OFFICIAL WEBSITE

 

 

click image to view full size

0 Comments

Thu

17

Nov

2016

UCHE NDUKA: 5 POEMS

 "A heart 

that writes. There is nothing to lose"

 

Uche Nduka by Fiona Gardner
Uche Nduka by Fiona Gardner

 

 

 

With Waves 

 

 

Eros would never leave 

Poetry would never leave 

Neither would serenity 

                             and wildness- 

 

The grass is conclusively grinning.

 

 

Architecture 

 

 

In emptiness 

or wounds/tales/outrage 

a touch of depravity 

 

A jar filled with memory 

slowrollingit through a cliff 

while belligerence takes your mind 

 

As if birth is not a death sentence 

each dawn harvests shrapnel 

what the violin did not tell the flute 

as if yesterday's massacres weren't enough

 

were we not targets on sidewalks 

sadder than all the winds found in translation 

what a sapling said to a hater

don't aim your void at me

 

 

 

Penchant 

 

 

as you teach i grow 

into the part i strum 

your clitoris 

 

aria & patio i split 

a mask apart i 

split a myth apart 

 

you go on pulling down 

your stockings 

 

a wineglass appears in your hand 

there are worse things 

than having a leg fetish 

 

 

 

On an envelope 

 

 

Writing on a blackboard 

there's a bookbag i've got 

to retrieve. 

 

If you sucker yourself 

into becoming a nostalgia act 

If you sucker yourself 

into becoming a novelty act 

don't blame me. 

 

Damn the middle class mentality! 

My guilt is the penalty for not 

being a mediocre. Where to begin 

is with a league of one. 

So effing sorry 

                   for blustery fuckery.

  

 

From a document 

 

 

He doesn't just stop 

at the animality of humanity. 

  

Every disappearance 

leads to another appearance. 

 

Were you there when 

Negritude became a tourist 

attraction? Awfully so? 

 

Call it dismay. How good it 

is to rage again. Leave 

the sandbox. Stay on the lam. 

 

Passing down the crown. A heart 

that writes. There is nothing to lose 

if you wait for the tide to answer your questions. 

 

At the height of it 

60 thousand souls took 

to the streets in Paris 

for your liberty in 1971. 

 

Either way you kept your options open. 

Move it. Now.

 

 

 

0 Comments

Thu

17

Nov

2016

MALIK CRUMPLER: WRAP US IN RAPS (2 POEMS)

"Our attention is 

Expensive 

Our blood is cheap


   Our poverty keeps 

the engine oiled"

Photo by Scott Benedict
Photo by Scott Benedict

 

Our story is 

irrelevant 

no ink for us 

Our story is 

always the same 

no change for us 

Our story is 

lit only after blood 

no fame for us 

until then 

Our loss is 

our only gain 

only then attention 

 

Our attention is 

Expensive 

Our blood is cheap


   Our poverty keeps 

the engine oiled 

 

Our power is our 

reason for being 

slaughtered

   Wrap us in plastic then 

Let us lay on styrophone

    Wrap us in raps 

Let us disappear 

through microphones

   Wrap us in melinated uniforms 

arm us with laughs

   Wrap us in slogans 

brand us with ads 

Wrap us in tobacco leaves 

arm us with questions never asked 

 

Wrap us in patent leather 

arm us with peach cobbler 

 

Wrap us in raps 

Let us bless microphones 

And when it all falls nanoscopic 

 

Wrap us in chromosones 

Or just wrap us in ideas and topics

 

 

* 

 

 

Her father disappeared when the trains whistle blew, 

Her mothered heard and strapped her to the wall with Guerilla glue 

 

Her brother disappeared when the plane roared overhead 

Her mother heard and hid her in the shed 

 

Her sister vanished when the kettle hollered 

Her mother heard and drowned her in the bottle 

 

Momma finally disappeared when she looked round and saw, 

The ground bubbling 

and up from it coming a rose Sphinx's paw

 

 

Photo by Scott Benedict
Photo by Scott Benedict

 

Malik Ameer Crumpler is a poet, rapper and music producer that’s released a multitude of albums, short films and five books of poetry. He founded Satori Ideas Media and co-founded the literary journals: Madmens Calling,  Visceral Brooklyn and Those That This. He is the new curator of Poets Live, has an MFA in Creative Writing from LIU Brooklyn and performs regularly in Paris and New York. Crumpler also wrote several musicals, ballets and arias commissioned by Harvest Works, Liberation Dance Theater, Firehouse Space, Panoply Lab, B’AM Paris, B’AM Vancouver, and

Double Wei Factory.

 

 

 

6 Comments

Thu

17

Nov

2016

MATT ROSEN: THE SUBURBS THEREOF

 

The Suburbs thereof

text and images by Matt Rosen, London

 

Nicholas Hawksmoor was a radical English Baroque architect that designed six of London’s most striking and misunderstood churches. 

Together, these buildings trace a sacred and hidden geography of London. Whilst some view the placement of his buildings and their architectural symbols as occult and folkloric, I see London’s Hawksmoor churches as sketching out a future map of religious dissent and inter-cultural harmony. Their placement echoes the growth of bohemian and immigrant communities that began in his time with Huguenot refugees and carries on to this day. 

From east to west, the route is as follows: 

Start. St Alfege's, Greenwich, underneath the Thames through the Greenwich Foot Tunnel to St Anne's Limehouse, through Shadwell to St George in the East, north through Whitechapel towards Christ Church, Spitalfields, back down towards the river to St Mary Woolnoth, past St Paul’s and Holborn, into Soho and finally to St George's, Bloomsbury. End, approximately 11km walked in all. 

These images come from an ongoing project, all captured along the route that joins up these six sites, tramped again and again with camera in hand in a bid to understand the latent contours of my city of birth.

 

CLICK IMAGE TO VIEW FULL SIZE & CAPTION

0 Comments

Thu

17

Nov

2016

YOUNISOS: CARNAL EXPERIMENTAL POETRY

"six hundred cold knives standing up in lunatic sheaves through the fiery dawn"

 

Carnal flux

 

 

 

hordes

 

of flayed oxen

 

glowing in broken sensory flows

 

 

streams of beheaded redheads

 

pouring in the gray sluice of my torn skull

 

 

six hundred cold knives standing up in lunatic sheaves through the fiery dawn

 

 

flood of tender thighs

 

milky blindness around morning light

 

 

and my brains

 

unctuous atrocious brains

 

licking the blade of tenderness

 

 

 

 

 

Anal azure

 

 

 

 

When a giant blade rises in the sky,

 

 yelling at the sky :

 

 YES ! and fuck you ! sky,

 

 

 

the river of desire

 

 in silence, may vomit

 

 its convulsed scum

 

 its slaughtered melons

 

 young velvety vulvas

 

 and amputated nymphs

 

 

 

and monstrous anal-dildos

 

 dreamed

 

 in

 

 Salò.

 

 

 

Younisos writes what he calls "carnal experimental poetry". He's the author of Carnage Sensitif, in French ; and his upcoming book is in English : Carnal Flux and Sensory Slaughters. He lives in Tangier.

 

 

2 Comments

Thu

17

Nov

2016

ESKIMO PIE: THE ELUSIVE WATERFALL

The Elusive Waterfall

 

 

In 100-degree heat
We wandered far past Main Street,  Downieville
In search of the waterfall.

 

Beyond the cemetery of sweet peas
Climbing the steep rock ravines in July
While the skinny-legged  bikers rolled by.

 

All of us destined for
The double-creamed cones
Served by red-headed nubiles.

 

Later we slept on the redwood deck
Outside of the unbearable warmth
Of the wood cabin.

 

Clinging to each other at 11 p.m.
No longer afraid of cinnamon bears
Or striped skunks.

 

Like the feral cat
We rolled on the road of the moment
As we fucked goodbye

 

In all the languages
As we locked tongues
Under the silent cedars

 

And carved our names
Into the nite--
I/We wuz here.

 

 

Rebecca Morrison or Eskimo Pie is a poet living in the French countryside where she is refurbishing an art gallery. She has published 6 books of poetry and is currently working on a novel.  She has edited eskimopie.net since 2002 publishing poetry, art and fiction. She has a new website in France at illuminationsgalerie.wordpress.com (after Rimbaud).

 

 

3 Comments