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Marina Tsvetaeva, from Three by Tsvetaeva

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Love comes in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on & on, a hollow cave

Margaret Atwood, Postcard

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Erotism: Death and Sensuality, Georges Bataille.

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God betraying me blooper reel

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Michael Haneke on Pornography

MICHAEL HANEKE — I would like to be recognized for making in La Pianiste an obscenity, but not a pornographic film. In my definition, anything that could be termed obscene departs from the bourgeois norm. Whether concerned with sexuality or violence or another taboo issue, anything that breaks with the norm is obscene. Insofar as truth is always obscene, I hope that all of my films have at least an element of obscenity. By contrast, pornography is the opposite, in that it makes into a commodity that which is obscene, makes the unusual consumable, which is the truly scandalous aspect of porno rather than the traditional arguments posed by institutions of society. It isn’t the sexual aspect but the commercial aspect of porno that makes it repulsive. I think that any contemporary art practice is pornographic if it attempts to bandage the wound, so to speak, which is to say our social and psychological wound. Pornography, it seems to me, is no different from war films or propaganda films in that it tries to make the visceral, horrific, or transgressive elements of life consumable. Propaganda is far more pornographic than a home video of two people fucking.

Source: The World That is Known , 2003. Kinoeye [online].

Full: http://www.kinoeye.org/04/01/interview01.php

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Peter De Potter, All Statues Sing Protest Songs, 2017

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excerpts from Peter De Potter’s Tumblr Takeover for ShowStudio: “THANK GOD”

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& i could be speaking of the hood

             that perfect land of sweet milk & bruise

      that birthed every nigga i care about most or i could be

                                            speaking of wherever the sun is vengeful & keen

      on squeezing from the skin what it is owed for all these

                                            years of verve & fantastic light but truly,

      i am speaking, this time, of the sprawling white

                                            tundra & the lonely ghosts we shield ourselves from

      with the soft feathers of some gone & ruined animal,

                                            the ghosts who are hungry to pull what warmth

      we have managed to keep in our mouths & bundled

                                            in our necks & i get it: God sings through cracks

      in the foliage until something more sinister

                                            takes his place but just how am i to face

      my children when they arrive, when they ask for the name

                                            of the good river from which they were dragged

      to be here & in such sudden need of protection?

                                  who were you thinking of, really, they’ll ask,

      when everything is so eager to draw blood?

- Bernard Ferguson, I just don’t think we should subject our bodies to the violence that beckons outside.

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Richard Siken, “Snow and Dirty Rain,” Crush (2005) // Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous (2019)

[”We have not touched the stars, / nor are we forgiven, which brings us back / to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, / not from the absence of violence, but despite / the abundance of it.”

“All this time I told myself we were born from war—but I was wrong, Ma. We were born from beauty. Let no one mistake us for the fruit of violence—but that violence, having passed through the fruit, failed to spoil it.”]

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ok but i need 2 open the wound More.

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cruel and unusual that in order to do something you have to begin

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To Be Devoured - Sara Tantlinger

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To Be Devoured - Sara Tantlinger

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God embodied is

a deadened blade, exists

as a shape subtracted from

its occasion. Once upon

a child, I was splendid

gestalten. A furious

chiaroscuro. In therapy

someone says depression

is when a body turns

into a robbed grave.

- Scherezade Siobhan, Sertraline - I.

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Ghostly Portraits Painted Onto Layers of Netting by Uttaporn Nimmalaikaew

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They say the only language God understands is thirst. 

Listens to that craving rumbling out of your mouth 

more than any sweet or piercing prayer. And that the ground,

and anything slamming against it doesn’t belong to Him.

Truth be told, I grew up believing that nothing precious 

came from dirt, was careful not to spill food, a drink, trip, 

tumble or fall. Never sat on grassy hills or sand at the beach, 

never picked anything up, making sure I was absolved. 

So that no one could mockingly say, “Te chupó el diablo!” 

But, when a blue-eyed man, using his breath as bait, led me 

by my wrists down the corridors of his thirst, I complied. 

Was God listening then? I wanted to heed (hand to the heavens, 

I did). I believed him when he said I was precious

while making me lap up sand to make mud with my spit. 

- Eduardo Martínez-Leyva, GOD MADE DIRT, AND DIRT DON’T HURT.

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Most wounds are circles, so it’s no surprise

you’ll find me here. Alone. On my knees, on evenings

when the moon hangs low. The brown boy

behind the hole—not quite the size

of a cave or a cigarette burn. Splitting open

my lips the way a saint parts his mouth to banish thirst

or famine or to greet his flock. I have stories

and sadness to share, known men

who moan like injured dogs, others like horses

off to the glue factory. Their dignified shape

reduced by the deep vermilion of my rim.

I used to be scared. Eyes locked to the heavens.

My trembling voice wrapped around their hard-ons.

They only feel me through the hollow space

they briefly occupy. I am all mouth. Cavities and throat.

Obedient. Never see, never touch.

Some call for Jesus as if that were my name.

I have lost so much around here.

- Eduardo Martinez-Leyva, Portrait of a Boy on the Other Side of a Glory Hole.