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#armenia #armenian genocide #april 24 #bbc #reblog

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Protesting against atrocities comes in many forms, today I would ask everyone to help Armenian political prisoners in Azerbaijan by going to www.freearmenianprisoners.com. 

The following information comes from the good folks at ONEArmenia:

April 24 is Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day. It’s a day when Armenians and their allies around the world remember the 1.5 million lives lost over a century ago at the hands of Ottoman Turkey, fiercely fight for recognition and justice, and reflect on the road ahead. Part of that road today includes grappling with the aftermath of Azerbaijan’s assault on Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh) last September, which resulted in the forced displacement of the region’s near entire Armenian population, forced to chose between living in exile from their homeland and the threat of genocide by Turkey-backed Azerbaijan. With our ancestors and compatriots from Artsakh in our hearts and minds, today we’re adding our voice to the growing movement for the release of all Armenian political prisoners in Azerbaijan. One of those prisoners is philanthropist and former Artsakh State Minister Ruben Vardanyan, who since April 5, 2024, has been on hunger strike after repeated requests for a fair and transparent trial have not been granted by Azerbaijan. If you’re able to, we urge you to join a global hunger strike in symbolic solidarity with Vardanyan and the dozens of Armenian political prisoners whose rights continue to be violated, and in remembrance of the 1.5 million Armenians who, deprived of food, water, and shelter, perished in Ottoman Turkey.

#armenia #armenian genocide #please reblog #thank you

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lansing's poet laureate

Yesterday I had the honor of attending the "passing of the laurels" ceremony as the city of Lansing, MI, celebrated its newest Poet Laureate, my pride and joy, Ruelaine Stokes.

To say that Rue has played a huge role in my life is an understatement. I never would have become the poet I am now without her. For decades she has been the backbone in this city that kept alive, from hosting a variety of readings, open mics and passion projects to get, "poetry to the people," as it were.

When you know someone for over 30 years it can be a touch difficult to find that one shining example that sums up who they are as an artist, but for me this one works well:

The first time I ever went to the Dodge Poetry Festival was with Rue when it was still being held at Waterloo Village, in New Jersey. At the time it was the biggest gathering of poets in America and the Main Tent, where many performed, was huge, football field huge. When we entered there were already hundreds of the tribe seated -- a gathering of poetry lovers from around the world. As we made our (slow) progress to find two empty seats someone stood up on the far side of the tent and yelled, "It's Ruelaine!" It turns out that they had seen her host an open mic years and years ago and that memory had stayed with them all this time. That's the sort of poet she is: in a sea of die-hard devotees she's the one who stands out.

As shameless plugs go, I recommend everyone read her book, Jar of Plenty (if you order it through Goldenrod Music you'll also be supporting an independent women4women music and bookstore, so double yay for spreading the joy). Here is one of my favorite poems of hers:

yesterday I listened to the grass grow wild green under the snow ... and now I see the water fall from your eyes let it rain let it rain down on me forgiveness is mine/ listen to your lover the trees will buy new dresses the birds will flower tea is on the table, honey in the pot bread and butter even the radio wants to be my friend

Bravo!

#Ruelaine Stokes #poet laureate #Lansing #Michigan #O happy days!

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bogus

Q: Do you ever find yourself ruminating? What do you ruminate about?

I feel sober … delirious … a crass imperious, like a needless meltdown or a skirt with buttons sewn down the ass, leaving queer imprints each time i sit down. Don't frown. I have floppy sweat, sweaty flop and this deeply odd dimple. Here are two blinkable eyes drowning in my mop top. High dreams, click bait, a smoking glitter glue gun. Don't laugh, this glamour is serious, like the foundling you're fondling. Hell's bells in the palm of your hand. Don't question this fog's piss. I've turned totally bogus, as the kids say. Fog? Dementia that swells in me, hot as any glue from a gun.

As I’ve noted elsewhere my father has dementia and I, being the oldest child in the whole extended family, am perhaps showing early signs of it too. I say, “early signs,” as if I were operating with some sort of money-back-guarantee of reaching a million miles before needing to be sold for scrap in exchange for something slightly better.

This is what I think about, perhaps at times a bit too much. Self-pity is an odd toxic beast. Some folks say that dementia is a blessing since it causes the patient to forget that they’re slowly losing everything about themselves. I don’t spend a lot of time on-line these days, not because I don’t care but because there are times that I’ve forgotten that I have a blog and that revelation is sorta a total bummer.

If, at some point, I stop posting here for good it will probably mean that I’ve lost the path to get back home; midway, as Dante would put it, through those deep dark woods where no search party will ever be able to find me.

#bogus #poem #sonnet #poetry #conversations with imaginary sisters #spilled ink #Dementia #floppy sweat

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plagues

You say you want to be seduced. I want

that, too. Not me. You. I want to seduce

you: with song, with soul, with the feral haunts

of your thwarted passions. I know the juice

you keep bottled between your legs, DJ.

Let us incantate: Kafé – Kasita –

non Kafela. “All these beats will obey

what these grooves/ demand. Bloody, raw

and in command.” Shall we dance, my spitfire?

Shall I taste all that runs between your legs?

This is my glamour's glimmer. My coy please.

My pomp's circumstances and rude desire.

We are what we play. For you lust plagues.

For me one irksome and vexing cock tease.

][][

Notes.

It starts with Bowie's “I am a D.J., I am what I play.”

#lust plague #sonnet #poem #poetry #spilled ink #erotic poetry #I am a D.J. #I am what I play. #conversations with imaginary sisters #cunnilingus

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bareback

Like this. The abyss yawned wide with jelly

honey smeared around the rim. Such event

horizons spawned from your thirst for nerdy,

fey boys. I've never been much except bent,

as in, curious. You called it your black

hole. “Je veux te sentir en moi.” Back when

strange new worlds meant more than just bareback

sex in the backseat. Since I wasn't, “Men

who Suck,” I was safe, even if you weren't.

All you adults and your Midlife crises

still faze me ⟺ middle school was spent in moans

⟺ slaphappy moans ⟺ one more pretty thing “learnt”

in singularities ⟺ “Like this” ⟺ how to please

supernovas and erogenous zones.

Note.

“Je veux te sentir en moi” translates into, “I want to feel you inside me.”

#bareback #sonnet #erotic poetry #poetry #poem #spilled ink #anal sex #black holes #age difference #french translation #sodomy

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#camp humor is campy #ah #the 1950s #dumpster fire #You don't understand #I coulda had class #I coulda been a contender #I coulda been somebody #instead of a bum #which is what I am #let's face it #yup

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"Your father is insane! Ask what happened to your other brother, the one no one talks about!"

#the one no one talks about

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TEXT:

"Do you know where little girls go who don't like putting their clothes on?"

"Yes, on the stage."

... from Humor Camp, vol. 5 (1961)

#other people's humor #burlesque forever #camp humor is campy #reblog #artist unknown

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TEXT:

"That isn't what I meant, Sister Sally, by going out to find some sinners."

... from, Laughters, v.14 (1931)

#Llyod Hutchinson #other people's humor #reblog #\ (ツ) / #find some sinners #vintage art

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... from, Follies, vol. 10 (1933)

#Follies #other people's humor #artist unknown #vintage art #reblog

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TEXT:

BOOKS Suppressed books NOW $3.50.

#other people's humor #1952 #humor #censorship pays #Proprocyson

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Art from, Spice O' Life (April 1926)

#vintage art #other people's erotica #reblog #Spice O' Life #roaring 20s #jazzland jottings #humor

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Another curious selection of photos from days gone by, this from a so-called, "lad's" magazine, Beauty Parade (1950), featuring Leslie Banning, star of many a "hoss opera."

#vintage cowgirl chic #Leslie Banning #other people's hoss operas #reblog

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Hot Dog (1923) was a curious magazine. Billed as a, "regular fellows monthly," it featured "Famous Physical Culture Beauties," as one caption put it, in 1920s swimwear, striking poses and hanging out down at the beach.

For the most part the models appear to be actual athletes; this in an era when the boudoir photography of the Jazz Age was all the rage, full of coy nudity and bad puns, aimed at a more heterosexual clientele, shall we say.

#vintage swimwear #1920s photography #a magazine called hot dog #reblog #other people's erotica #let the ozone strike your skin

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tía

“Surrealism is only shocking to those who are shocked by dreams,” André Breton.

Scads of old wounds, tía. Scads. El viento

muere/ en mi herida. “The wind dies/ in

my wound.” And in the blood, tía, its slow

flow, a queer smear. Horror under the skin.

Horror that keeps itching. Alejandra,

tía, I'll still be your your fag hag that keeps

you from the night that gnaws and, mendiga,

begs in your blood. Infernal stone that weeps.

Sugar crusts. The crunch and chew of language.

An itch. A witch. I cannot stop, auntie,

I call you all: Necromancer of words

and wounds. This scar? Where I pulled my innards

out. Where I washed my old wound in the sea

and used your name as its heinous bandage.

Notes.

If Federico Garcia Lorca would be my uncle, then please let Alejandra Pizarnik be my aunt. These two poets taught me more about the craft than anyone else. And yes, I use the term craft as in the dark Dionysian powers of the psyche and soul. Pizarnik wrote in fragments, as the language she used drove her insane. Artistically, she is sister to Paul Celan, who wrote in German and committed suicide by drowning in the Seine. Language as virus. Language as plague. The poem of hers I use is, “El viento muere en mi herida./ La noche mendiga mi sangre.”

#tía #sonnet #quote unquote #poem #poetry #conversations with imaginary sisters #Spanish poetry #alejandra pizarnik #ars poetica

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bestial

Shan't know, I suppose. So I'll go … I'm gone …

watch me, “went.” To find that blessed spot. Even

that sounds like a joke. Flesh Gordon. Sex Spawn.

Deep throat Nine. Whimsy, chaos & semen.

Even Leia's, “Into the Garbage Chute,

Fly boy,” made you snicker; though sodomy

remains a tribal language. That & brute

passion, which is also a force. Your knees

around my neck. Your nails digging fjords

down my back. I tongue-fuck that spot & you

groan like the ravenous Bugblatter Beast

that you are. That spot? You hit the high chords

each time. Messy mirth is always taboo;

messy, whimsy, chaos with lips well-greased.

Note.

The Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal is a fictional monstrosity from, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. File it under: Other People's Pillow Talk.

#bestial #sonnet #poem #poetry #erotic poetry #spilled ink #cunnilingus #fallatio #Bugblatter Beast #hit the high chords