Thursday, May 28, 2009

Profaning the Sacred Grove

Love Spell

from William S. Burroughs' The Ticket That Exploded:
The young monk led Bradly to a cubicle-On a stone table was a tape recorder-The monk switched on the recorder and sounds of lovemaking filled the room-The monk took off his robe and stood naked with an erection-He danced around the table caressing a shadowy figure out of the air above the recorder-A tentative shape flickering in and out of focus to the sound track-The figure floated free of the recorder and followed the monk to a pallet on the floor-He went through a pantomime of pleading with the phantom who sat on the bed with legs crossed and arms folded-Finally the phantom nodded reluctant consent and the monk twisted through a parody of lovemaking as the tape speeded up: "Oh darling i love you oh oh deeper oh oh fuck the shit out of me oh darling do it again"-Bradly rolled on the floor, a vibrating air hammer of laughter shaking flesh from the bones-Scalding urine spurted from his penis-The Other Half swirled in the air above him screaming, face contorted in suffocation as he laughed the sex words from throat gristle in bloody crystal blobs-His bones were shaking, vibrated to neon-Waves of laughter through his rectum and prostate and testicles giggling out spurts of semen as he rolled with his knees up to his chin-
All the tunes and sound effects of "Love" spit from the recorder permutating sex whine of a sick picture planet: Do you love me?- ...

Friday, May 1, 2009

Is there a specific goal for you as an artist?

Peter "Sleazy" Christopherson, from a 2008 interview:
Q: Is there a specific goal for you as an artist?

A: I believe that, for humanity to progress, the model  of the world, of reality, that parents pass on to their children needs to be replaced when the kids are in their teens by a darker more complex vision.  One, taking into account all kinds of miasma, multiple plans of existence, sexual liberation, human perversity, idiocy, and beauty.  I believe that only benevolent outsiders, such as visionary homosexuals who bare their artistic souls in public, are fully qualified to do this.  As long as children stay with the model of reality provided by their folks, no progress will be made.

My goal is to provide the same service for like-minded kids, that William Burroughs did for me, when I first read the Naked Lunch as a 13 year old in the back of a dingy WH Smith's bookshop in Pontefract, Yorkshire ...
And from AA Bronson's Negative Thoughts:
I am about to write an e-mail to a man I have never met.  He lives in a small town in the Midwest and teaches algebra at a small university, collects food stamps, and spends his time learning Ukranian and drawing strangely beautiful images of cue balls and tarot cards.  He is smart and gifted.  He is wasting himself.

I have learned all this from his home web site.  But in responding to him, in thinking of telling him of his gifts and talents - for I feel it is a responsibility of older gay men to acknowledge the gifts of younger gay men - I realize it is myself that I am talking about, my own gifts and talents that I am wasting.

All the ghosts came to that party ...

From Derek Jarman's Kicking the Pricks:

Adam and Eve (that's you),
And Pinch-Me-Not (that's us),
Went down to the sea to bathe,
Adam and Eve were drowned,
Who do you think was saved?

What was Pinch-Me-Not up to? Well, years ago he danced to a wind-up gramophone on the deck of HMS Invincible with his mates. Afterwards the lads went below decks, stripped off, and fucked so hard they forgot the war. The ship sailed on and on, and reached a desert island. Was it the Isle of the Dead? I'm not certain.  It could have been Easter Island with its giant statues, or Stromboli, where in the sulphurous smoke of the volcano, he discovered a wild flower growing 'essence'. He picked it, and pressed it, and sent it home, to the neat little back-tobacks which he had left far behind.  His mates were pirates now, deserters, they fucked each other all night; no one came less than eight times; in the dawn they were like a clean room, minds opened.  The fucking burnt away the cobwebs, and broke their manacles.

One day, as the sun came up, they reached the very edge of the horizon. They lay in the dawn, crushed in each other's arms, satiated, but still erect. Who made love to whom that night? All the ghosts came to that party: Alexander the Great threw himself to the battalions that died for him, Socrates pronounced a blessing. Many were there secretly, but I'll not give them away. There was Richard Coeur de Lion with Lord Kitchener, who pointed at us and said 'Your country needs YOU'; Gaveston had his cock up Edward's arse; they had minstrels-Tchaikovsky was blowing Britten-and painters to record them: Michaelangelo, Leonardo, Caravaggio.  The guest-list was endless and they built their own world far away from yours, with doctors and dentists, bricklayers and ploughmen. The authorities never caught up with them because they were wizards and witches and faeries.  It was a queer old world; you can stamp on a fairy ring, but it will bring you terrible luck, and neither you, or your children, who know how sweet the faeries are, will sleep soundly ever again.