“Rabensburg gives perhaps the most nuanced performance of the night. As the mother, watching her son turn on all those close to him and unable to stop him, she gives a performance that is heart breaking.”
I’m moving, again.
So I’ve been neglecting writing. I’ve built some things and taught some classes, but very little writing.
I tried to think of someone I wanted to quote and came up empty.
So you have to suffer through another one of mine…
virgin/whore, I’m never both
never one the same
either worshiped like the eternal child
or touched with naught but shame
men splay me on their pinning board
pinned through, bare souled I’m lain
or my sweetness causes virgin thoughts
and my heat is all in vain
can’t people both make love and fuck?
I feel choosing one’s a bore
love me like the virgin please
but every now and then, the whore
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon by Pablo
Semi-crummy poem by me
Photo of beautiful painting of beautiful whores by me
But, to thank everyone for liking my past few posts, here’s one of my own along with some art.
My poor attempt at being Dorothy Parker…
So Good For Me
so proud, so proud I thought myself
so proud and fit and strong
and on my pride his ass did sit
and showed me I was wrong.
how fair, how fair I saw myself
fair eyes of sparkling blue
then his wandering prick, it crooned to me
you’re used and they’re brand new.
well loved, well loved I told myself
his lies were lovable foes
I was much too plain and sad for him
I’m not the one he chose.
my dull brown hair, my pale white skin
my wit too crude and mean
I hope his brand new bouncy lass
downs a gallon of gasoline.
so now, so now I pine alone
pretending he is here
not that he was so good for me
dying alone is what I fear.
words by me
ink print by me
To the Top.
A piece of pie?
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
“Hope” by Emily Dickinson
“Woman” by Antonio Mancini
Theft of Meaning and Beauty
“Photo of Woman” by Me
We make things. Humans. Some of us make things even when we don’t have time. I aim to be that person every day but sometimes life breaks your brush or dries out your inks and sticks its ugly deadlines and lifelines in your face and yells that art isn’t important. Screw you, life. Get back on my schedule and we’ll be fine.
“Andrew at Mary Jane’s” Ink Print on Paper