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“throw away your agendas!” by I.G. Karfield On September 15, 2011 Replyed to by Andrew Stergiou February 28, 2012  Throw away your agendas
Set your agendas – Set your agendas. We shall never surrender You’ve caught us moving So set your agendas tonight, And they will be your last pair. Reply from No Body No. Two by Andrew Stergiou
The agenda of no agendas, Share and EnjoyNo Body repliesLovely speech, beautiful words, [the bread and roses, Yes sir Mr. brother man, The Global Square: simply an ode to the world revolutionBy I.G. Karfield On February 27, 2012Are we being overshadowed by the big money of the devouring wolves and the peckish pigs? No we are not. Because we are the global square. At the global square is where I take off And I am thinking to myself The global square intergalactic It has a name that the people of Louixfied Why do you come back
Share and EnjoyArt, Larry Rivers, and People With More Money Than Brains.  The Chromatic Typewriter by Tyree Callahan Recently the Google+ Art circle I have received art related notices, and so we have been discussing art at times, at length on which I commented. In comments which in kind were responded to by many other people of varied opinions. Commenting not that I consider myself any great authority on matters of art, nor any great financial success as an artist, but in that I recognize I have and am of a mind to state by valid means of conjecture, a restatement of facts. As reason can be used to produce a rational understanding, without neither relying solely on emotions in a strict sense, nor indulging in apathy, nihilism or a cabal of other derogatory methodologies, producing an objective materialist perspective on art, which can be derived from what commonly passes as chit chat, and banter, that otherwise remaining outside university and the intellectual circles of some very pretentious publication is considered rather academic at best. One counter-comment came from Michael Romeo La Flamme who describes himself as: “an avid writer (write drunk, revise sober), voracious reader (so many books so little time), blessed husband (rock on you awesome lady who rocks my world), yorkie fanatic (they’re not my dogs, they’re my children), hobby photographer (Ansel Adams never had as much fun with a camera as I do), slightly heretical Catholic (It’s really not fun being a Catholic unless you’re a minor heretic too, it livens up the dinner conversation), and a damn good cook.” I took personal exception to Michael, in his audacity to comment, as he posted what little more than personal attacks on me rather than referring to any thing of substantive value: “Wow, +Andrew Stergiou . Get up on the wrong side of the bed today? I saw this and thought it was a fun piece of creativity. Is it enduring art? Probably not. But it is fun, it is creative, and it makes pretty on a piece of paper. There is nothing wrong with finding and enjoying the whimsical side of life. “  The Everyday Art of Empires Spoken in what he said, was not what normally what would upset me, but in his gutless whining temerity to say it, following a lack of depth, of the shallowness of his convictions, saying all so glibly in the most casual sense though we had never spoke before. What soon resulted is the cheap sniping that passes for contemporary discussion, and in the unexplained action of him deleting the initial post, and all subsequent remarks so as to frustrate discussion, which prevented any direct response in kind, after he made others comments a cheap target of his chatter. Such is the shallow nature of the modern American intellect in public spaces online, by allegedly intelligent products of western civilization, where that public has become all to accustomed generally to a corporate culture of love hate, brown nosing sales personnel, encouraged by sycophantic society of favoritism and mercantilism and profits. ARTS = RATS How many times do people drag into their miserable lives the romantic notion of being an artist, a writer, a musician, a videographer, when their primary or main source of income is derived else where as trust fund babies, as beneficiaries of alimony, insurance policy settlements. How many actors and actresses make more money as grips on production crews, and struggled waiting to be discovered at the lunch counter of Schwab’s Drugstore on Sunset Boulevard? Many teachers also strive to be poets, musicians, painters, video artists and I wish them the best of luck as much of that part of America which is deluded enough to think “prosperity is soon around the corner”. The fact of the matter that the arts field is not all it is cut out to be, in fact it can be quite humiliating, as we get with a minor rearrangement of the letters in the word arts the word rats. As I said I wish all mankind the best of luck in their attempts to become artists to which I can well add myself in saying I paint, sculpt, design, draft, engrave, etch, print, compose and perform music, video on occasion publicly (which seems to have become an initiation for every security inspired asshole and idiot to approach you). Which I continues stating I silkscreen, actively published since the age of 12 in varied forms, have been registered as copyrighted author, worked overseas as a musician for a n extended period of time, performed on some of the first cable TV shows in the world, spoken of Radio, performed on TV, appeared in theatre and cinema productions, but by some quirk can not be considered “an artist”. regardless of the people adding me to their Google+ circles, as friends on Facebook, on MySpace, and on Twitter limited to 150 characters, in twits I do not wish to think of my life nor any one else’s life. So with that I must confess even that can not bother and faze me, for if it did I suppose I would have to quit and never mention anything to do with the arts ever again, but I do object and take strong except to the many people who have over the years spoken of the top of their heads to twist and make issues, especially in the arts, as if those were most rationally based on the “emotions” of aesthetics. Where if someone says something it must be fairly dealt with sensitively and emotionally, from a positive perspective when any purveyors of such sensitive emotional positive perspectives should be prisoners locked up as criminals, just as those that believe such rascals should be taken as inmates to mental institutions. Which does not say much for the many deluded members or ex-members of the middle class, as often that was their forte of experience which was founded on right and the left as the existential joys and sorrows of living which many “trolls” have come to feed on in my being. Now if I were to work at home, it is the studio space, of a three story house in Pennsylvania (excluding the basement which would make four floors), that is situated far from the “art markets of the world”, and far form the 9 to 5 rat race I want no part of. Some where I can work, producing what I will, as I am so inclined to do so, or desire. Where over the years, I have worked with many, most commonly available materials, including artist supply materials, then some such as gold and silver when I was once in the jewelry industry, where often I do not retain the fruits of my labors, and where money is no compensation for living my life. For when most speak, galleries, art dealers, artists, students, the public of the selling, display, and archiving of art work that is glorified systemically in this country (the United States of America), we are should be saying and speak of “the theft of art”, “the fraud of art”, the “international trafficking in stolen art”, “the demeaning of art”, and “the murder of artists”. For the foundation of art trades in western society is founded on the organized systemic theft of art, that begins with the British Crown’s involvement with the Elgin Marbles (circa 447–438 BCE Dimensions75 m -247 ft, at the British Museum, London) stolen from the Pantheon in Athens Greece, as the alleged foundations of “western art”, which most of the world calls corporate capitalist barbarism. So generally the fact of the matter is I have no objection to works pretentiously presented as “The Chromatic Typewriter”, if it was properly presented as perhaps a lark, or as something else, as something perhaps cute, or clever, but not as ill conceived non-functional object, that for alone is not good as a reason enough to call it “art”, nor to say it is entitled to any contest award, let alone a $25,000 prize award from a gallery. No, No, SORRY! Perhaps I have no concept of “the marketing and merchandising of art”, after all, I do not call it “the marketing and merchandising of art”, but “the theft of art”, “the demeaning of art”, “, “the fraud of art”, the “international trafficking in stolen art”, “the demeaning of art”, and “the murder of artists”. I am not privy to the latest and greatest private financial statements of those who might qualify as “recognized artists”, and “recognized collectors”, of “recognized dealers”, recognized by the legal terminology espoused by insurance companies, and courts alike which perpetuate “the theft of art”, “the demeaning of art”, and “the murder of artists”. I am even unsure and not assured by the likes of Larry Rivers, though I met Larry Rivers (is he alive), when we last met accidentally, attending a session of the Civil Court of the City ofNewYork. We he was in dispute with a dealer, and I with a landlord, in matters of our own personal interests of our own individual concern, during which we never discussed money, but instead hi, hello, how are you etcetera.
On occasion I have expressed very strong views as I most often I express them in the figurative colloquial sense rather than the literal sense. Here I am not arguing with these feeble arguments, in what was sarcastically posted against me, but for the integrity of what I do, concerning the world generally, related to art in particular. That which in regard to art, considering the production of art; the perspectives of artists (if any one can call themselves artists any more), so as to include the community at large (“the public”), which as broadminded as I can be, no matter how advanced I am, regardless of how much one can be or not, being behind or ahead of the curve: the question is not always, in what matters, where all elements can be considered always equal, “as some are more equal than others”. Where being that this gallery award is decided by an online internet that I would never participate in, calmly I stated “Ezra Pound came in 2nd place [once] in the Newark NJ tercentennial Poetry contest losing to a native of Newark”. Where were winners are decided by popular vote under Hitler and Pontius Pilate meant, Nazis would win, popularity means Big Macs, Barabbas gets off rather than Jesus. I said “I am glad that insultinglyAmericahas nothing better than popular votes by which it judges cutesy, artsy, and French fried” But I was wrong in one sense, in stating off the top of my head what I said, because it was actually “The Newark Anniversary Poems: Winners In The Poetry Competition Held In Connection With The 250Th Anniversary Celebration Of The Founding Of The City Of Newark, New Jersey, May To October, 1916, Together With The Official Newark Celebration Ode And Other Anniversary Poems”. But then again no one challenged me on it, no one corrected me in what I said, and in what I should have been corrected (that pisses me off as much as senseless criticism).  The Everyday Art of Empires Initially I asked an honest and forthright valid question: “Can we actually say this is the advancement of art? After all it is actually essentially a cast iron typewriter which has been declared by the same lunatics that call this “art” to be part of a passé industrial period. In that mode of industrial production”. Some to their credit compared it the work by Marcel Duchamp.  Fountain 1917 by Marcel DuChamp But none the less the product of an industrial society, that has been usurped as the basis of art by a society without real respect and regard for what is industrial society, as a “post-industrial society”, within the artificial constructions of a “post-modern world”, of the “endless therapeutic deconstructions”. A solipsistic hypocritical society, that which has allowed for the endless senseless “production of art”, by the mere fact of existing, not that it values art, or in the value of art, or in rightful support of the arts, as it cuts as expendable expenditures for art education for the young, fosters elitism in its favoritism of the “bright and gifted”. In art stolen for the past and the future so as to indulge the present. An industrial society that has produced the means and ways to produce art, and an industrial way of life to which I pay homage. In Art as the product of an industrial society, not precisely industry, that which is produced as a direct result of the labor of a working class, regardless of the economic class of the artist, both of which has been under attack for some time as redundant, superfluous, unappreciated and unneeded so as to create the pretexts for austerity budgets, the outsourcing of whole industries, and the foundations of a decadent form of capitalist art and economics in decline.  Marcel Du Champ In an industrial society: “that has since then it was declared by them and their consumerist crap society to be post-modern, post-industrial post-feminist all without producing even the semblance of something etc at best they cannibalize products that you can not dream of designing (in this case a typewriter) stolen from that period of time before they were born but helped destroy. As if they can take original art only found in museums of the same period 1920s 30s 40s and use that to produce something they call their own in what they call “art”. How absurd does it get that what they call the art is not in the production or conception but in the con job that is baseless stealing. If they had designed and made an original typewriter of their own I would give them credit for something as it is it is stolen in that the artists name who produced this work is clearly on the machine as produced by the Underwood Typewriter Company, an old established firm of engineers craftsmen and artists. Give the credit to the real artist them.” Where Baseless Criticisms were made online that did not bother to quote what exactly they were referring to, when we were not even examining the same context looking at the same photograph in their statement to me: “Andrew, your focus on the tool is off-base. The typewriter here is no more the cause of art than the paintbrush, no more the author of a novel than any other typewriter. What makes this idea interesting is that it subverts the typewriter, altering it into a tool for tapping out a raster image. Certainly the Underwood Company, its designers and all deserve credit, but not as artists. 10:36 PM ” Bill Brody (Google+)” Where what I saw was an object that was simply arbitrarily and capriciously placed in another “dog and pony show”, another dreaded cattle call contest for “starving artists” asked to compete as competitors, where the winner is decided by “popular vote”, where one could do well in questioning the public’s taste, as artists rather than collaborate as colleagues. Perhaps literally one day they will say we have enough to assist only half of the artists so that the first half which survives wins, just as J.P. Morgan is know to having said he “can hire half the working class to defeat the other half”, and such contests represent the strategy of divide and conquer, where that prize money totaling more than $300,000, would be better spent expanding any art programs, as the one vaguely described as Western. I stated that: The entries were part of the “2012 West Prize competition” described as part of the Paige West Gallery, that George C. Scott may have referred to in what he called glorified “dog and pony shows”. “George C. Scott portrayed George S. Patton in the 1970 film Patton and researched extensively for the role, studying films of the general and talking to those who knew him. Scott refused the Oscar nomination for Patton, just as he had done for his 1962 nomination for The Hustler. In a letter to theMotionPictureAcademyhe stated that he didn’t feel himself to be in competition with other actors. However, regarding this second rejection of the Academy Award, Scott famously said elsewhere, ‘The whole thing is a goddamn meat parade. I don’t want any part of it.’ “ Second This type of work not merely pretentious, but contemptuously pretentious, in preferentially treatment of a double standard, contrived based upon privileges, where they have not only benefit, but benefit without consciousness of that privilege, contrived as presented without more than void and ignorance of self, and the world as an excuse. Devoid and lacking of empathy and consistency.  The Everyday Art of Empires
Where “The Chromatic Typewriter” described as a “a functional ‘painting’ device called the ‘Chromatic Typewriter’ by Washington-based painter Tyree Callahan. Presented by the artist not as “art” or an “art work” but as a device, though it was originally a device, before and after it was “modified”, as much as before it was “a 1937 Underwood Standard typewriter, replacing the letters and keys with color pads and hued labels to”, as much “art” of the artist as anything bought and sold as a finished product, not produced as a result of the human process, as the result of the “post-industrial society” of consumerism not producing, where even human defecation in a toilet bowl photographed, sculpted, painted, sketched is more so art as entirely produced by the artist.  The Everyday Art of Empires Where in argument, I am patronized on one hand, in that some state they “have no problem with [my] rant against the corruption and decadence of the art world or the evils of capitalism, nor do I fault you for your animus toward the pretentiousness and contempt so common in much of the art world”; and, As the ignorant, savage, “unenlightened” in the ways of modern capitalism, and furthermore attacked by on the other hand, where they spoke “authoritatively:” as if “authorities”, in a world without authorities, standards, or well founded conceptions stating: “I am simply wrong to suggest that the true artist can make their art out in the jungle.” (Bill Brody ) Though people as artists work every day in jungles, may those be Amazon jungles, or Asian jungles, or African jungles, or European and North American concrete jungles. Where there is a double standard in play, where the vested interests of academia and “art merchants” that selectively calls art dependent of their self-interests based upon what they are producing, or selling, or giving classes on, or writing books about. Where people are pretentious to think of themselves as greatly distinguished from “animals in a jungle”. Where the “The Jungle is a 1906 novel written by journalist Upton Sinclair. Sinclair wrote the novel with the intention of portraying the life of the immigrant in the United States, but readers were more concerned with the large portion of the book pertaining to the corruption of the American meatpacking industry during the early 20th century, and the book is now often interpreted and taught as a journalist’s exposure of the poor health conditions in this industry. The novel depicts in harsh tones poverty, absence of social programs, unpleasant living and working conditions, and hopelessness prevalent among the working class, which is contrasted with the deeply-rooted corruption on the part of those in power. Sinclair’s observations of the state of turn-of-the-twentieth-century labor were placed front and center for the American public to see, suggesting that something needed to be changed to get rid of American wage slavery.”; and drawn now upon as a figurative image in reference to the barbaric nature of “western art”. Where the ability to conceptualize art maybe limited, but where the product of that formal lack of education and indoctrination lends greater strength to art in what is produced, offered in opposition, rather than the swill all the “art galleries”, “university fine arts programs”, corporate published “art books”, “fine art academics”, and the “Art world” cliques can ever produce collectively. Unofficial art (especially that of under-appreciated forms, that have traditionally been copied and plagiarized by western “artists” and society: In a process of “art” where in its efforts on behalf of capitalist culture and of cultural neo-imperialism, is for the advancement of that capitalist society, as part of a cultural war suggesting it is the greatest of all masters, though as masters, it is a decadent society in decline.  The Everyday Art of Empires Where the typewriter convolutedly is viewed as a canvas, or a palate, where I place the context in discussion within a social framework, as much as other attempt to claim I take it out of the social context of frame work, by which they do a great disservice in speaking without quoting I allow their words to speak for them, and my words to speak for me. “It appears that you have the idea that true art and true artists create from somewhere beyond human connection, without recourse to technology of any kind. Technology is the socially transmitted use of tools. Artist are humans first of all and as such are products of social connections as well as their genetics. Without human contact that most fundamental of technologies, language, is impossible. Without some sort of technological basis, making anything at all is extremely difficult. I know how to make basic art materials from scratch such as brushes, charcoal, water and oil paints, and paper, but I could never have learned all of this on my own. For that matter why would I even try without a history of others around me? Most of all I learned these things by reading, talking, listening and watching, only part of which was or even could have been all on my own. Yes, the art world is unfair, pretentious and corrupt, just as any social group. Artists and art critics are no better or worse than any other self-serving class. In the case of the color typewriter, I like the concept; I think it is fun; I think the designers did a witty and pretty low-tech job. I would not enjoy using the tool for my own work, because the logical extension of the color typewriter is that it is a raster printer, not much different from a color dot matrix printer, a tool best used with computer input.” (Bill Brody ).  The Everyday Art of Empires Where the bottom line is the question I posed in asking “Can we actually say this is the advancement of art? After all it is actually essentially a cast iron typewriter which has been declared by the same lunatics that call this “art” to be part of a passé industrial period. In that mode of industrial production”, and the answer is as simple today as it was yesterday with the advent of Dadaism. For if we look back to analysis the purpose of Dadaism which was originally envisioned as a form of “non-art art” ridiculing “what its participants considered to be the meaninglessness of the modern world. In addition to being anti-war, dada was also anti-bourgeois and anarchist in nature” it has not succeeded, but in fact become the foremost vehicle for the very same institutions it has opposed, as most so as the purist elitism of “pure art”, and which is merely presented as cheap commercialization of a limited nature.  The Everyday Art of Empires Share and Enjoy
It is easy to hate me, Finding myself, I am very easy to hate, Without ego, I am ergo ego ipso facto absurdum For who an I to say I have no ego, I am required to be an egotist, you require me to be egotistical, my sin is pride, that I am alive, I breath and survive, living in this brown card board box, what is called planet earth, there is no trip getting there, I am the truth, the light and the power, For the world is a sinful barren wasteland, Brutal, obnoxious, ugly I live and exist, in a world of goodness, beauty, and miracles, with words for your lips as a sweet kiss, of garlic breath and mouth orders, sweetened with artificial flavorings of toothpaste and mouthwash, of medicine breath, douched with strawberry flavorings, with vanilla, peppermint and orange cinnimon, where everything beautiful is a threat, where all miracles are delusions, where all goodness are perversions and lies, where security is a throw of the dice, I hate me, and you should hate me also, for I don’t drink your mothers lukewarm milk, I don’t eat of your manna, nor live in a land of milk and honey, but a land of food preservatives, additives and food colorings, in artificial prices of artifical markets, So I hate me, and I enjoy hating me. For I love to hate, in hating me, For I know it is me, but who are you, for you and yours, in what certainly does not improve, I just wrote to someone I never met, never saw, Someone I never spoke with, Someone with out gender, Someone without a body, Some without a pedigree, Someone without a resume, Someone without a mother and a father, Someone for whom in some sense I will never care, Someone without an account number, without a social security card, a birth certificate without inspiring in stupidity, without inspiring in hatre, so without, how compelling me mysteriously, in an urge to write, as they wrote, I wrote, then I was, as I am, I was urged to write more, then at some point, as I was required, I was required to stop, like the pugilist, worn and beaten senseless, laying down for the count, so taking notice I returned to me, my ugliness, my anger, my hate, my emptiness, my prison, my empty devoid planet, my dead space, my empty cage, the space where a toilet does not fit. where I need to take a crap, where all full of shit as I am, I am, all constipated, or alternatively worse, ranting, raving running at the mouth, riverhead of the unending flow of shit, that which flows and covers the whole world, where I always need to take a crap. though in fair use they stated: “So never say you’re too powerless that is all they wrote and stated, I swear, all so very pretentious for such a small flower of hope, meaningless in the non-existing reality, in something that happened but did not happen, as it does not exist so: I wrote in response, a short brief comment: Sorry, I wish you would learn to think, read, and write better your poems are not my job: this poem of yours from the view of an empty windowless prison cell is a reactionary empty devoid meaningless metaphysical baseless ditty which on paper would not be substantial enough for most people to wipe their asses with. I am not nice, I am not fair, I am not you, existing as ass wipes, or worse, unqualified to be less than an ass wipe. without potential I am not an ass wipe, I am the shit! Share and Enjoy
Some write , some speak by Andrew Stergiou Some write , some speak, some refraining, others in hesitation neither write nor speak, you idiot, you fool, you bastard, wishing matters to be as they are not, desiring words never heard, unheard we die waiting for word, a word any word, some word, angrily scribbled by repressed and angry means, we are reminded to be calm, to calm down, to speak civilly, without a question of politics, positively thinking, in terms which can be understood, in pain, in agony, in suffering,
without the partisan politics, in the greater sense of gangs and politicians, beaten in remorse, the words are soft and sorrowful, dead, there are dirges of tears and sweetness, clichéd, in clichés of clichés, in mythologies spoken over time, in histories to drown out the tears, anthologies in forgetting the human being, blood and flesh, sticky and discoloured,
where in after life, gods become legends after death, deities become gods, heroes become deities, as citizens are once again forgotten, lost in the catacombs of cities, amongst the graffiti cursing, shouting fool screaming at the emperor, hysterically ranting at the mufti, degrading demeaning the Sultan, viewing the King, his majesty as the citizen, arguing over the size and the shape of the peace table, fools are not fools but idiots, idiots are not idiots but jesters, jesters are presidents and kings, in the proper respect and decorum, befitting the office of “human beings” tortured and dying on a bed of death, of green grass fed with rivers of blood, speak nicely you will be dying soon, speak freely get it off your chest, excusing the follies in protocols of silence,
When the dead and dying do not give a Fuck! So don’t listen, your presence is not required, ever, or any more. for you rather have your pompous pretensions, rather than be addressed as knave or fool. where the suffering has been so great, where the pain has been systemic, pain and suffering is embellished, through propriety, blurting out obscenities, whilst obscenities speak, in rivers of sincerity, suffering confused and tormented, Artaud understood, that convention betrays. with or without the drugs, money, power, in the unbridled sadism of civility, the convention of fate laughs, laughing at worshipers, in the divine temple of madness, twisted to face the unspoken realities. Some write, some speak, some know.  I myself spent nine years in an insane asylum and I never had the obsession of suicide, but I know that each conversation with a psychiatrist, every morning at the time of his visit, made me want to hang myself, realizing that I would not be able to cut his throat. Antonin Artaud Share and Enjoy
America just like ….
Weep for America, for she has died, here is one thousands dollars for the first poet who kills me painlessly. Share and EnjoyBooty Call at Midnight by Andrew Stergiou
Couldn’t get there soon enough, The girl patient, patient girl was ill, her laid restless in anxieties, her toys laid listless on the bookcase, as bookends lodged somewhere, between Wilde and Cummings, after a day editing copy, typing and chat, she was prepped for treatment, doctor your patient is ready, for her life was going fast, no where but no where in the rat race, she had no pretensions about what she wanted, but hadn’t exactly expressed them, but why, in pure lust and love, warm day sweaty afternoons, she waited for they met before, without much to do, met in a quiet open space,
she sun bathed, burning tan lines, to trace outlines of her breasts, marked by protruding nipples, a liberated woman, surrounded by oxymorons and paradoxes, (ha ha they look it she said giggling) for not much has changed in years but the desire, as a hidden door in plain sight, with a locked wrought iron gate,
calling from the corner telephone booth, before cell phones were invented, the phone rang, she had a loft bed, but leap, high above the distractions, of dirty dishes, walking bare footed on sanded varnished wooden floors, the phone rang once, twice, three times, “hi”, “hello”, “what’s up?” Not much “I’m down stairs”, “you busy?”, no come over, in a detour off the main strip, couples dressed for dinner, stripped naked, each taking the others clothes off publicly, what was eyed, in what was called decent, as hidden in the tortured bondage, of the mind, in silly bourgeois conventions, of dinner, drinks, theatre, corner bars, in deceased book stores, on the front stoops of many stairs, lounging out doors in summer, passing quickly past many small shops in winter, kissing and hugging in greetings, just a girl, tongues darted in the taste of a mixed drink, perfume, cologne, of sweat and cum, yes the smell of cum was noticeable, mixing with the smells of turpentine, linseed oils and artists paints, applied in a heavy pastiche in converted industrial lofts, clothes were removed , in the freedom of the naked bodies, transversing as spirits from one world to the next, in the plastic toys vibrating in crude motions, of crème coloured flesh, made in china, that now rested in a box, between Shakespeare and Dickens, there was no tyme wasted for it was late, in a booty call, before they called booty calls, booty calls, before Texas sold vibrator as “personal massagers”, before Texas called dildos “demonstration models” before red bullets, spiked condoms, in a rainbow of pastel colours, the Doctor of Love made a house call, before women became just as twisted as men, writhing in passions masturbating, in sync with poussez (pussy), (pussy) pousser mon cher amour, walking up the winding stars, of the narrow winding stairs,
knocking on the door, the door opens, pousser (pussy) plus fort, aller plus vite, the pussy cries with a fevered pitch, in a high pitched shrilly voice, enter, just don’t stand there, her eyes shyly spoke, suck my tongue deep into your mouth, squeeze me tight, feel my hands caress, your naked arms and shoulders, I followed your naked buttocks, follow me up the winding stairs, along the iron banister, spare me of my misery working days,
of endless classified ads, priced at five cents a word, slaving as a copy editor, suffering nights I am home alone, but why alone, because, because what, because we loved, because we never in thought to ask, because we just met, and met again, because in what was never more, because we never asked, in what was perfect as it was, for in nothing more but passion, in solace for a working girl or woman, the woman or girl we did not know, in solace of a boy or man, the doctors knows for today he writes, the patient is well and satisfied, in what we were for a moment, as pure in heart and nothing more. that we ponder unknowing, impetuously never curious in the futility of the moment, no time is wasted on romance, no words are wasted in negotiations of betrothals, rushing in a society without commitments, in lens of the disposable love, of disposable men and women sacrificed, on the altar of finance and economy, in industrial love, passion, compassion, and empathy, in truth and sincerity a mechanical process, in a booty call at midnight, for if we meet we will not be sure it is who we think, unless our noses meet, and mouths draw close enough to kiss, in smelling the sweat and scents, of each other, as we meet again in writing, of desire we share/d. Share and Enjoy
There is the door it opens and closes
1,2,7,8,3,
balling in the bath room,
drink some more beer, baby, hanging on a back street, walking to the store,
4,5,6,9, 2,7,5, 3,6,9,
Fuck you your sex, your drugs and rock and roll, —————————————————————— Alternative version There is the door it opens and closes 1,2,7,8,3, balling in the bath room, drink some more beer, baby please, hanging on a back street, 4,5,6,9, 2,7,5, 3,6,9, Fuck you your sex, your drugs and rock and roll, Acting like an asshole, Fuck myself like none of you can.
Share and EnjoyOPEN LETTER TO THE Electronic Frontier Foundation also posted on my websites Goggle+ and Facebook pages. I can just imagine having to deal with ICE and DHS in attempting to fly to another country where besides the indignities of harassment of having to speak with those dogmatic self-serving pompous asses of pseudo-patriotic fervor and BS; besides the initial indignity composed of my merely of my being and the jingle jangle in my pockets; and all the stupid rules that DHS et al imposes under the pretexts of security, for which there are no reason for security but merely for their reasons of desire to appear secure: Will be a nice argument over them wanting access to electronic device laptops, cameras and the like where I will reiterate my previously stated views the USA is a POLICE STATE though the EFF and many ACLU CPUSA SPUSA etc proceeds along as if it were not as the act like ostrichs in confrontation of the main issues regarding that POLICE STATE in the US. Why should I to resist such asses pretending to be guardians of the law allegedly serving important vital national security interests? Well because minimally for the for the last 23 years I have written as I write this and as far as I am concern I am correct they the ACLU and EFF are wrong. Why do I include the ACLU and the EFF because we have grow up on this issue and they have taken over the years the reasonable positions pretending to some extent that this POLICE STATE is not a POLICE STATE but a legitimate government. As the ACLU in the 1950s and 1960s had at its helms a president and vice president both of which amongst many others were FBI informers I question the ability of such organizations to resist such secret political police activities which makes their activities appear ineffective to say the least. Many of us day we are in our individual capacities making our feelings known opposing SOPA PIPA which seems to be a bad Greek joke as SOPA is slang for shutup and PIPA is Greek slant for “blowjob”. In any case we have not stopped the internet nor blackened it as the majority of users totally ignore these feeble calls and do not even place black graphics to cover their profile photos.Nurtured in the permissive entitle environment of the early internet the public now appears A POLICE STATE I do protest, in the most strongest terms of objection, with plenty to spare for the ineffectual activities of the ACLU and EFF which have for me always been two pronged as ineffectual activities channeling discontent into less militant avenues. SEND THE ACLU and the I will await your brainless bourgeois responses in my prison cubbyhole. Share and Enjoy |
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