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Artistic Poets and French Sex Bitches: Poèts artistiques et chiennes françaises de sexe
from recent posts - blip.tv (beta)
July 25, 2008

"She kept lifting handfuls of fine sand and letting it pour through her fingers. Our brains were turned the way those of intelligent European preadolescents were in our day and set, and I doubt if much individual genius should be assigned to our interest in the plurality of inhabited worlds, competitive tennis, infinity, solipsism and so on. The softness and fragility of baby animals caused us the same intense pain. She wanted to be a nurse in some famished Asiatic country; I wanted to be a famous spy." Vladimir Nabokov, LOLITA i have thrown caution to the wind again/ we are going to break the laws of distance now/ they referred to him as an artist/ that fucking word again/ my first reaction is to usually run/ like i needed another artist in my life/ my eyes to the sky/ another artist alive and well and living in paris/ like i didn't know what that meant/ it can imply a particular kind of desperation/ i have always come and gone from paris like a scarecrow/ paris with her black lace and stars and the midnight graves of gods/ i am five/ i am scattered pieces thrown to canine scavengers/ i make all this shit up, you know/ the things i write about could never happen/ the world is a nice place filled with nice people and nice suburbs where all the nice people live and everyone loves everyone/ in the suburbs/ having been kicked out of america, i was living and teaching art to adolescent boys in paris/ some who could be meaner than a razor in a shoe/ i am seven/ i play in the woods down by the river/ we boys have forts/ i am fifty-six/ i am in paris again/ bags/ how do they find you/ how do you explain a current of voices -- an electric grapevine -- that only speaks to others of its kind in the forbidden languages only the voices and tongues who live here know/ the ones at risk/ for everything/ it doesn't really matter where you go/ they're like the leaves that don't get raked up and tumbling/ you end up chasing them on a rainy day when the moisture holds them down/ it's sort of what i do/ you don't believe it/ people don't believe my life/ and i usually stand there wondering why it's important to pay some kind of homage to what people believe/ people can believe whatever they want/ life goes on anyway/ i am nine/ a man has pulled his car to the curb/ i had been summarily exiled/ kicked my ass righteously out of the literary neighborhood/ i am fifteen/ next year, paris/ with my backpack and guitar/ canadian flag sewn to the backpack/ i am supposed to follow the rules that govern the making the poems/ i am twenty-three/ no one will publish poetry/ there's no money in it/ i am forty/ no one will publish poetry/ there's no money in it/ i am ten/ men in cars will give you a dollar/ there's money in it/ i am thirty/ the stuff i write doesn't disturb me/ it's already happened/ i am only remembering/ poetry is only a murmuring/ i am thirty-one/ i do not understand why people find my work to be disturbing/ the new york times accuses me of writing books that are disturbing/ the new york times does not know disturbing/ i am eleven/ i will swallow their cum but it will cost them/ i hate it when the few who push you out of their cars push you out of their cars and take off/ i always get the twenty bucks before i put the cock in my mouth/ i am twelve/ they can go inside my hole now but i don't like to do it in cars/ i am thirty-two/ this poem will disturb you/ even now you are thinking: no, it won't/ i'm a big girl/ i can take it/ nothing shocks me/ this poem will disturb you/ because we are the dog beasts and the digging up of roots who would expose all our many ribs/ it never happened/ none of this is true/ i made it up/ it's fiction/ it's art/ it's poetry/ it's not real/ this needs to be stated unequivocally right upfront/ none of this ever really happened/ it has no basis in reality/ any relationship my fictional characters might appear to have to anyone alive or dead or not born quite yet is entirely coincidental/ is there anything more you need to hear/ this is a very sick and twisted corner of a horrific imagination/ it is a lie/ i am thirteen/ i will not let older teenage boys fuck me/ unless they can pay and usually they cannot pay/ i am fourteen/ i can tell a twenty in the dark with my fingers/ moan/ deep sigh/ they make sounds i think are ridiculous/ i do not moan/ i do not make sounds/ i am silent/ i am usually thinking about something else/ my notebooks of poetry are filled with rage/ but no one will publish poetry/ no one wants rage/ they want nice poems by women whose lovers have left them and it's always raining/ i am sixteen and i do not save my rejection slips/ the ones from the new yorker are printed on expensive paper with a masthead/ i am eighteen/ sometimes quaaludes help/ i would make simple things of landings where the gods themselves could not and would not break like china/ often, when they arrive here/ the gods/ they smell of either bones or milk/ i am their teacher/ their lover/ their whip/ their demons/ their tongues/ their destiny/ their mouth/ their bowels/ i am the river styx/ i am the boatman/ i am the food that goes into them and the shit that pours out of them/ they walk under a sky of fists/ the ones who smell of bones are tough/ the ones who smell of milk are dangerous/ families who have washed their hands of them are ordinary/ family fails/ and one is free of claims of ownership/ family as an idea is highly overrated/ his parents have erased him from their fragile house/ they tell me he has the crazy arrogance of laughing (they imply hysterically) at his own crimes/ they begged/ me to take him/ on/ i am many things/ cheap is not one of those things/ i am nineteen/ i will take quaaludes in lieu of cash/ why is it that rich people will create either a train wreck or a mess and then expect someone else to clean it up for them/ do i look like a janitor to you/ do i look like a dish rag to you/ i did it for the money/ i spend a lot of money doing what i do/ i am a cat lashing its tail against a sea of agony/ none of it is my money/ i have no money/ i spend other people's money/ i tend to make them pay and pay/ i made these particular parents get down on their knees and beg me to do it/ to take him/ in/ on/ beg me/ beg me/ even as they sit there talking about their son i can tell his house is always dark/ he had caused them some amount of trouble/ embarrassed them/ had humiliated them/ there were crimes/ why would a rich expat boy need to steal anything/ the other state department employees feel badly for the father/ is there anyone who doesn't know/ there have been bad behaviors in front of company/ there has been masturbation/ what would the neighbors think/ his teachers had complained/ sent notes home/ he had been kicked out of a few schools/ and there were the hated notebooks/ notebooks and notebooks and notebooks/ he's lost inside those notebooks/ they said/ they hated the notebooks/ why do parents hate the notebooks/ almost always/ the notebooks are power/ your crimes are one thing/ but the presence of the notebook insinuates a record-keeping of the parental crimes/ i am ten/ i come armed with notebooks/ i write in them when the men are done with me/ i do not know why/ what is he saying about us now/ apparently what he wrote in the notebooks was somewhat aberrant/ whatever that meant/ i had seen this a zillion times/ you are thinking what could possibly be embarrassing about a few notebooks created by an adolescent/ well/ more than a few/ notebooks/ it was a library of them/ it was alexandria/ he was an art bitch/ he was a poet bitch/ he was a junkie bitch/ he was a leather bitch/ he was a boy bitch/ he was transcendent/ he takes his stupid notebooks everywhere/ writes in them furiously/ grinds his writing in/ stabbing at the paper as if his pen were but a knife and this was dismemberment/ this would mean while he was supposed to be doing other things/ like being socially acceptable/ a nice boy/ he was not a nice boy/ he was/ i could tell/ perhaps a poet who wrote perhaps terrible and awful poetry/ but then again perhaps/ it was the truth/ he wrote furiously in notebooks/ dozens and dozens of demented notebooks/ poetry his invisible instrument/ a poet is his memory -- sometimes of crimes -- and a poet is the weight of that memory in the dark where age and time are irrelevant even as the stars have blurred/ down on your knees/ mommy, daddy/ you have failed him/ yes/ tongues/ demons/ destiny/ i don't take checks/ just cash/ euros only/ they didn't hesitate to get down on their knees for a solitary second/ and did so rather immediately/ i am if nothing else a church/ a temple/ and they prayed hard to apollo which was a red flag if there ever was one/ informing me that this one would be a poet handful/ i also explained that once i took him on as a student at my studio they -- the parents -- would be out of the picture and the only thing i wanted from them was the cash (euros) and i wanted it in advance/ upfront/ every month and on time/ preferably before and on time/ other than that i never wanted to see them or hear from them ever again/ pay me and then go away/ and i wanted a nonrefundable deposit from them then and there or forget it/ and then i made them sign a ton of paperwork absolving me from any liability whatsoever/ on that dotted line/ they couldn't sign their names fast enough/ learning to make art will be good for him/ they say/ right/ then/ the next day/ standing under that sky of fists/ he appeared/ i hate you were the first words that came out of his cocksucker's dirty little mouth/ i am ten/ the man wants me to shit on him/ standing there at the bottom of the stairs/ with his bags/ the laws of distance dictate that i not read those poems in those notebooks/ he had a few/ notebooks/ they were all ragged and chewed on and he had drawn pictures/ dense dark pictures/ i am twelve/ i never draw pictures/ no one would believe it/ he arrived with his attitude/ and his needle marks/ and his addictions/ and his bruises/ and his veins/ and his eyes of knives/ and all his complicated evil shit/ and his pens/ fucking little punk junkie/ calls himself a poet/ to me/ all of this is a dime a dozen/ at his age/ never mind his age/ this kid can't even spell/ i am fifteen/ the other boys like touching me in secret but none of them will be my friend/ the laws of distance dictate that disconnects only are and you either live with them or you don't/ he was of legal age/ the age of consent/ whatever that might be/ he has one thing that might/ i said might/ save him/ curiosity/ the other boys are going to wonder about the notebooks/ i hope he's ready to have them stolen and read out fucking loud/ but i ignore him mainly/ i try to pretend he isn't really there/ he is inconsequential/ with his eternal questions/ and when he receives no response he writes furiously in a notebook/ and when he does receive a response he writes furiously in a notebook/ most of the time what i need from him is to please/ please/ please/ just shut the fuck up/ i debated what to call him/ for a name/ his real name was too recognizable and wealthy/ everyone would know who he was/ where he came from/ and while everyone who would know him would know where he came from, the people who did not know him would not have to know where he came from/ it just wasn't going to impress any of us who were going to have to suffer knowing him/ and his notebooks/ we knew who he was/ and for someone who had rejected his family (this is understatement) the disconnect was that he was pissed off we cannot be/ were not/ and never will be/ impressed/ with any of it/ they did get their hands on those notebooks/ he was mortified/ what did he think/ i do not know that he thinks/ he asks a lot of stupid questions and he writes somewhat furiously/ in notebooks/ that is just about all he does/ outside of drugs which do not count/ as accomplishments/ he was either going to try to be one of us or he wasn't/ it was either or/ and then there was sex/ or/ i am nine/ the car pulls to the curb/ it is a big car/ the man behind the wheel has leaned over and opened the passenger side's door/ do i need a ride/ i am fourteen/ i know how to walk down the street and make the eyes follow me/ my own eyes are like a hawk's/ i do not call teasing sex/ it's teasing/ and when they did fuck him into the uncharted territory of a neurological stupor/ he would ask them to beat him up/ which they did/ until they started seeing it as sick/ they complained/ i watch this drama unfold and walk away/ do i look like mother superior to you/ no/ the lord is flies and bugs and pigs roasted on a spit/ and great fires of distress/ i have thrown caution to the wind again/ we are going to break the laws of distance now/ what is wrong with him/ they asked/ nothing/ i said/ i suspect he really is a poet/ he does have the notebooks for it/ but what does it mean/ tim/ it means that if you really hurt him you will probably wish you hadn't/ poets are like that/ the real ones/ anyway/ it means he's still controlling you/ even when it appears otherwise/ he was a mystery to them/ but not to me/ i hate you/ he said/ yeah yeah yeah/ that and fifty cents and the fucking bus, baby/ the laws of distance dictate that he has to hate me/ until he falls in love with me/ i have thrown caution to the wind again/ you're only letting me be here because my dad is paying you and it's for the money/ like this is news/ he was outraged/ is there some other reason i should have buzzed you through the door/ he was clearly a little bitch and that is what we call him/ what i needed was a gopher/ what i got was little bitch/ i grabbed him tight by the front of his punky t-shirt and put my face into his face/ eyeball-to-eyeball/ this scares him some/ i am bigger than he is/ i don't think he weighs a hundred pounds dripping wet/ and i made him come with me/ marching him down/ to the hiv clinic/ but i don't want to/ he whined all the way/ my eyes to the sky/ what you want or what you don't want is totally irrelevant/ let me put it this way, little bitch/ i don't give a fuck what you want/ what you are fucking with is fire/ and do not test me/ he cried/ in fact, he bawled his baby eyes out/ i am soooooo unmoved/ i knew the other boys were going to have this love, hate thing with little bitch/ in fact, they would line up to have at him/ maybe they were thinking this might define his place within the pack of animals they are/ this was faulty thinking/ if you are assuming that i would never allow little bitch to get fucked in the ass you are assuming wrong/ i am just not interested in supervising anyone and do i look like the moral police to you/ they fucked the shit out of him/ you are fighting over the little bitch/ i pointed out/ this did give them some pause/ you do realize that he's very good at getting what he wants/ this gave them even more pause/ you mean he's manipulating us/ duuuhhhh/ i don't tell them what to do/ i don't tell them how to make the film and video projects they are here to learn to make/ i suggest/ the rest is up to them/ i am nine/ getting in the car or not getting in the car/ i could run/ i suggest you stop buying him drugs/ i shake my head a lot/ often, i just shrug/ and then i walk away which i am very good at/ escaping all of them/ momentarily/ the streets of paris are a conduit through desecrated places/ journeys/ endings/ disturbances/ silences/ the afterlife/ centuries/ like a canvas/ risen from a history of blood and dust/ broken and smothered/ blurring at a million windows; the boy was following me spinning all his primal dreams/ slow down, will you/ no/ i said/ no slowing down/ you always knew when he was there because his leather jacket smelled like sex/ i want to be alone/ i want to walk with you/ where are you going/ out/ out where/ out nowhere/ i point out the places where they used to cut the handsome heads off/ i saw that once on the internet/ the internet was his squat/ he didn't walk through paris as much as he sprawled everywhere/ i am seven and the lighthouse has a dangerous and winding set of stairs/ i don't know how i got locked in the darkroom with him/ i suppose i was not paying attention/ i am eight and playing down by the river where we have built our forts/ why does everyone hate me/ little bitch wondered/ no one hates you/ it seems to me you're getting fucked in the ass regularly/ do you want to read my poems/ no/ can i suck you/ no/ i need a new computer/ whatever/ i don't know why they fall in love with him/ maybe it's his motorcycle boots/ or the vulnerability/ or the soft smell of milk that lingers on him/ on his sweat/ in his hair/ around his baby balls/ in his hole where he shits/ all of this is milk/ the kid has no talent whatsoever/ even his poetry is awful/ but he has great drugs/ his ecstasy was sharp and juxtaposed against paralysis/ 3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine/ e, x, or xtc/ call it whatever you want/ empathogenic-entactogens/ whose experiential effects are more consistent than those produced by most psychedelics, and its euphoria appears to be distinct from most stimulants/ it is also considered unusual for its tendency to produce a sense of intimacy with others and diminished feelings of fear and anxiety/ intimacy with others being punishable and may result in criminal prosecution/ neurotoxic damage/ the presence, reversibility, extent and significance of which are yet to be determined/ his x and his tokyo hotel and his tommy kaulitz and his raver's high and his brain on x is glowing like a harley flies serene and grotesque and incandescent and ominously downstream in a shower of sparks and moondrenched eyes and desire who dances quickly with remorse and soaked in rivers of his piss and sweat/ i do not want him to run away/ he grows on you/ and i like the money/ and then the strangest thing/ i sleep on a mattress on the floor/ i'm poor/ he crawls into bed with me/ i am totally asleep/ numb even/ me yawning/ get the fuck out of my bed/ i love you/ he says/ anyone who gives him the slightest attention/ so little bitch/ you started coming around and cuming around/ all over me/ all over the floor/ ruining my sheets/ cuming in the shower/ on the toilet seat/ in my underpants/ and if i have to sit in your pool of sperm one more time/ fucking little cunt / i'm going to push your face in it and make you lick it up/ got it/ alas, poor junkieboy/ what infantile mess is this/ I knew him/ horatio/ our loft/studio's court jester/ a fellow of infinite jest/ of most excellent fancy/ he hath borne me on his back a thousand times/ his little cherry hole/ shitting all over me/ weeping/ and now/ how abhorred in my imagination it is/ my gorge rises at it/ here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft/ where be your gibes now/ you skull/ he buys me things/ go slowly, tim/ caution/ wind/ distance/ he bought two cameras/ one for him and one for me/ i'm thinking: i should tell him to return this camera i could never afford to buy/ we can do photography together/ he says/ like i need him/ at first glance, one notices the rebel xsi's large, 3-inch lcd monitor, enhanced from the 2.5-inch screen on the digital rebel xti model/ the larger 230,000 pixel screen makes it easier for users to review images and scroll through the rebel xsi camera's menus/ the larger-sized display provides the ability to use a larger font size for menu text, making it easier than ever to read settings and options/ the new screen also features a broadened color gamut, seven brightness settings for easy viewing under a variety of shooting conditions and a wide viewing perspective in all directions/ with little bitch one needs a wide viewing perspective in all directions/ the pictures he wants me to take -- of him -- are not pictures i could remotely consider taking/ click/ where did you learn to pout like that/ i ask/ he puts his thumb in his mouth/ say cheese you cunt/ the eos rebel xsi camera features a substantial yet streamlined profile, with curved edges, contoured surfaces, conveniently placed controls and comfortably constructed rubber grip and thumb rest that all contribute to fatigue-reducing hand fit/ the camera body is constructed of a rugged yet lightweight combination of stainless steel and polycarbonate embedded with glass fiber/ the chassis exterior is enrobed in a durable abs and polycarbonate resin and offered in a choice of silver or black finishes/ i keep thinking: i am finished with him/ i am eight and running through the fields/ seduced by suicide, abduction, and strange miracles/ at the heart of the new eos rebel xsi is its newly designed 12.2 megapixel aps-c size canon cmos sensor/ this new sensor employs large microlenses over each pixel to reduce noise and enhance sensitivity up to iso 1600, which is ideal for high-quality images in low light/ the aps-c size sensor retains a 1.6x focal length conversion factor compared to full-frame digital image sensors or 35mm film format cameras/ another image quality enhancement is the upgrade of the analog-to-digital (a/d) conversion process to a 14-bit a/s processor. The inclusion of the 14-bit a/d process means the rebel xsi camera records up to 16,384 colors per channel and allows the camera to produce images with finer and more accurate gradations of tones and colors/ this is ideal for shooting outdoors where subtle hue changes in sky, water or foliage can really add to an image/ the canon eos rebel xsi dslr also incorporates the optional highlight tone priority and high-iso noise reduction functions first introduced in 2007 with the eos-1d mark III professional digital slr and now available for the first time in an entry level canon digital slr camera. additionally, the new camera is equipped with canon's autol lighting optimizer technology, which corrects image brightness and contrast automatically/ introduced last year in the eos 40d camera, this valuable optional feature now works in all exposure modes and utilizes face detection technology to prevent underexposure with backlit faces/ look/ i can't get involved with you/ you're already involved with me/ click/ you love me/ he says/ i don't love you/ i say/ you love me/ he says/ i sleep/ is ideal in low light/ he's up writing furiously in notebooks/ i do not read them/ i take him to poetry readings/ shakespeare and company/ we even have a few poetry readings ourselves/ hip hop slams/ he does not have the courage or the balls to walk onto the stage/ let alone read from his plethora of notebooks/ late one night/ i want you to whip me/ he says/ i've rather had my fill of him/ and so i do/ yes, the inside of his house is dark/ this isn't sleep/ the laws of distance dictate blood and only blood measures the increments that are the equivalent of light that evolves and bends as time/ they say paris is a place of light/ i say paris is a place of time/ i am fifty now/ settled at the well's bottom here with the foreign tongues that speak in heavy languages to the stranger who is longevity/ what womb of clocks binds in bondage any strain of boy to a surrender to what he -- rightly or wrong -- interprets as a pestilence of discord/ even when his own wreck of music is a pounding nail/ his savagery will have him/ i am seventeen/ and the mirage of what could be desire has not stirred the prudence of indifference/ whip him/ i am twenty-five/ they are paying for my poems in copies now/ i throw these away/ i should probably try to get off heroin/ he says/ he brings heroin and his works to bed/ i only want to hold him/ but he is ambitious/ wearing his leather to my bed/ the squirmy fuck/ it is not about eroticism/ nothing here is being created in the telling of this to get you off/ i don't give a flying fuck what you get off on/ this was about power/ period/ i had it/ he wanted it/ i want us to do this together/ he says/ it isn't sex/ it's/ a ruin that lives within him even as you're fucking him and he's holding perfectly still/ still as a soft warm wind silent through the trees/ his muscled curves/ sheer unadulterated downward pain electric to his baby toes/ the knotted lymph glands/ the nerves torn as thorns/ the way he dissolves fallow in the soil/ i would put him in an iron mask/ and love him and his veins/ blue as the aegean on a clear cold day at noon/ until his eyes were dead/ while he suckled his ravenous stealing and dreamed of his own slaughtering landscapes and how they ran so bright with blood/ doing drugs with him is not unlike allowing betrayal to tip some tenuous balance/ that has been sustained by blindfolds/ he wears/ blindfolds/ me fucking him in the mouth/ and the approximation of innocence/ enduring his prearrangements for sedation/ i am the one who must be going blind/ power slips/ it's fluid/ his tongue in my ass/ the clothes on the floor/ existence is a heap of laundry/ all lies/ it never happened/ and i am making this up/ to amuse you/ to distress you/ to cause you to wonder some/ perhaps about the truth/ perhaps about how death with its staring is the nightwatch/ which makes this fictional poetry/ art is everything/ i kissed his bruises tenderly/ and he licked up the drop of blood that trickled down my forearm/ then he wrote about it/ only slowly this time/ i want an even bigger and better camera/ i could feel his wet shit inside his guts as my fist sunk deeper and deeper into his depravity and mine/ down on my knees/ i have failed him/ click/ i have always come and gone from paris holding weightless secrets uneasily for they could snap in what can be a subterranean, interstellar cold/ the inner and the outer shells/ the laws of distance are another comet's tail/ speeding through the darkness of his house and all this barely holding on/ my lolita/ in the end she owned him/ i am fifty-seven/ the laws of distance dictate that you will throw caution to the cosmic wind again/ the god beasts all around us digging for their roots/ i would expose all their many ribs/ make simple things of landings/ why do you think i sleep on this mattress on the floor/ notwithstanding poverty to my very lips/ the ones he would stand on his tip toes to kiss if i would but give him such consequential access/ naked little bitch up late with his fucking notebooks/ his cock having just been pierced (it was this pagan ceremony with witches and warlocks and people who create tattoo) with a metal ring/ some vain attempt to impress me/ i don't want his cock/ or his silver ring in my teeth/ i want his breathing words like a weeping hangs from every tree/ his dark tongues and trembling wanting me to whip him now/ i am nine/ the men in cars pull to the curb/ the sound of a thousand small camps whose gods and fires spitting in the vacuum where i come to wipe my mouth/ on that pale belly/ and across the milky way/ what is left now of all my small molecular pieces/ can be mostly found in notebooks/


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