i had a broken mind when i started this. it's been here during each of the forest fires that burned in my trust apparati. when i'm satisfied i don't really want to write- and so of course here i am prepared to offer up a sour gift to the gods, a depressed, nauseated virgin who would love nothing more than to bake and wretch in a metaphorical island volcano... i must be a virgin, i turned 100 but have the emotional resiliency of a 13 year old...
i can taste weeks ago as if it were only a handful of days... but i can't invoke it. the calender wrote me a letter, it says "make new. make new. make new." and of course i'm fully exasperated at the calender, but i understand.
some writing for those aches
incorect vs. Pat Califia
[two lips opening,
simple-minded as a blooming flower,
wanting nothing but the wetness
inside someone else's body
in return
why is it i can never enjoy
this kind of kiss?]
Its a Sunday morning in my city.
In my city, lovers are content to share cliches over coffee; tenderness on toast.
In my city, it seems Ive long since missed the celibacy-rules-ok bandwagon and the god-fearing women aboard, saving themselves for that special night: of missionary lovemaking and other palatable euphemisms.
In my citys second hand book stores, sex is romanticised, dysphemised or delicately avoided.
In my citys oh-so-hip galleries, sex is propped on a stark white plinth and pseudo intellectual chinstrokers spout phrases like bold and cutting edge.
[women are not enough for me.
passivity and meekness make me cringe.
i want heroes, amazons who make love
within reach of their weapons.
warriors who would never destroy
a lover's honour
by coming between her and her enemies.
women who know how to take a prisoner.
women who know how to serve their betters.
women who laugh at the sight of their own blood.
women who kill with their eyes wide open.]
In my city, my babys sweat-slick jugular writhes under my steelcaps;
No, women are not enough for me.
Nor is the kind of passion advocated by the new agethat self indulgent im-a-goddess shit.
No, the kind that quakes at its epicenter with throat-crushing bloodlust; the kind that is delivered by fist then sealed with a kiss. The kind that has pocked my learning curve with more right angles than a Cubist masterpiece and still sent mean over-analyser, born with one eyebrow raisedskittering mindlessly back for more.
[the parts of my body are not candy for babies
to coo over or slobber on.
if you cannot talk to me
as if you have bought and paid for your pleasure,
go home.
write feminist poetry.
you don't want passion,
you want flattery.
you don't need a lover,
you need an electric blanket.]
My woman doesnt make love. In the morning she doesnt want to talk about feelings, either.
Instead, she sits there picking her teeth with her house keys, wearing nothing but her poker face. Only her slate grey irisesglistening like jizz on a bedpostbetray a lethal hand.
[eat me the way hungry animals eat.
climb me like a fire licking up a dry log.
cling to me as if i were the edge of a cliff
and you were about to lose you grip
and fall into the sea.
grapple with me as if
you were about to lose your championship.
taste me as if it were your last request.
handle me as if you had heard i was dead or i will gnaw my way out of your arms
with the desperation of a fox
who chews off her own paw
to escape the steel teeth
of a trap.]
Passivity and meekness make me cringe.
Spit and steelcaps make me wet.
No, women are not enough for me;
but, her fistful of my hair might do.
[parenthesis text is by Pat Califia]
today's history lesson: ear-fucking and Jesus.
i have this book on the worship of the Virgin Mary through history--Alone of All Her Sex by Marina Warner--that has a mind-blowing chapter on how early medical ideas about birth & pregnancy (maggots are spontaneously generated from rotten meat...kittens give birth through their mouths...that kind of thing) influenced the ways Christianity explained the nitty-gritty of Jesus' conception:
"The question was therefore raised: how did Mary conceive Jesus? Origen...suggested that Mary had conceived Jesus the Word at the words of the angel. He intended perhaps to make a characteristic Alexandrian point, about the conception of wisdom in the soul by the power of the spirit...but Origen's idea quickly acquired a literal stamp."
Then she quotes this thirteenth-century folk song:
Glad us maiden, mother mild
Through thine ear thou were with child...
et cetera, and there's another song that's even more blunt, but it's in Latin, sadly. Anyway, i'm just really fascinated by the idea that Mary got knocked up with God Junior via an angel doing her in the ear.
(Insert feeble joke about screwing someone's brains out.)
this art will calm your jealous nerves
Maboroshi
i can taste weeks ago as if it were only a handful of days... but i can't invoke it. the calender wrote me a letter, it says "make new. make new. make new." and of course i'm fully exasperated at the calender, but i understand.
some writing for those aches
incorect vs. Pat Califia
[two lips opening,
simple-minded as a blooming flower,
wanting nothing but the wetness
inside someone else's body
in return
why is it i can never enjoy
this kind of kiss?]
Its a Sunday morning in my city.
In my city, lovers are content to share cliches over coffee; tenderness on toast.
In my city, it seems Ive long since missed the celibacy-rules-ok bandwagon and the god-fearing women aboard, saving themselves for that special night: of missionary lovemaking and other palatable euphemisms.
In my citys second hand book stores, sex is romanticised, dysphemised or delicately avoided.
In my citys oh-so-hip galleries, sex is propped on a stark white plinth and pseudo intellectual chinstrokers spout phrases like bold and cutting edge.
[women are not enough for me.
passivity and meekness make me cringe.
i want heroes, amazons who make love
within reach of their weapons.
warriors who would never destroy
a lover's honour
by coming between her and her enemies.
women who know how to take a prisoner.
women who know how to serve their betters.
women who laugh at the sight of their own blood.
women who kill with their eyes wide open.]
In my city, my babys sweat-slick jugular writhes under my steelcaps;
No, women are not enough for me.
Nor is the kind of passion advocated by the new agethat self indulgent im-a-goddess shit.
No, the kind that quakes at its epicenter with throat-crushing bloodlust; the kind that is delivered by fist then sealed with a kiss. The kind that has pocked my learning curve with more right angles than a Cubist masterpiece and still sent mean over-analyser, born with one eyebrow raisedskittering mindlessly back for more.
[the parts of my body are not candy for babies
to coo over or slobber on.
if you cannot talk to me
as if you have bought and paid for your pleasure,
go home.
write feminist poetry.
you don't want passion,
you want flattery.
you don't need a lover,
you need an electric blanket.]
My woman doesnt make love. In the morning she doesnt want to talk about feelings, either.
Instead, she sits there picking her teeth with her house keys, wearing nothing but her poker face. Only her slate grey irisesglistening like jizz on a bedpostbetray a lethal hand.
[eat me the way hungry animals eat.
climb me like a fire licking up a dry log.
cling to me as if i were the edge of a cliff
and you were about to lose you grip
and fall into the sea.
grapple with me as if
you were about to lose your championship.
taste me as if it were your last request.
handle me as if you had heard i was dead or i will gnaw my way out of your arms
with the desperation of a fox
who chews off her own paw
to escape the steel teeth
of a trap.]
Passivity and meekness make me cringe.
Spit and steelcaps make me wet.
No, women are not enough for me;
but, her fistful of my hair might do.
[parenthesis text is by Pat Califia]
today's history lesson: ear-fucking and Jesus.
i have this book on the worship of the Virgin Mary through history--Alone of All Her Sex by Marina Warner--that has a mind-blowing chapter on how early medical ideas about birth & pregnancy (maggots are spontaneously generated from rotten meat...kittens give birth through their mouths...that kind of thing) influenced the ways Christianity explained the nitty-gritty of Jesus' conception:
"The question was therefore raised: how did Mary conceive Jesus? Origen...suggested that Mary had conceived Jesus the Word at the words of the angel. He intended perhaps to make a characteristic Alexandrian point, about the conception of wisdom in the soul by the power of the spirit...but Origen's idea quickly acquired a literal stamp."
Then she quotes this thirteenth-century folk song:
Glad us maiden, mother mild
Through thine ear thou were with child...
et cetera, and there's another song that's even more blunt, but it's in Latin, sadly. Anyway, i'm just really fascinated by the idea that Mary got knocked up with God Junior via an angel doing her in the ear.
(Insert feeble joke about screwing someone's brains out.)
this art will calm your jealous nerves
Maboroshi