Saturday, May 30
you said you couldn't hold it you couldn't hold it and you travelled to crete to see him and you pucked like mad like animals and his penis inserted your vagina the same penis that inserted mine you couldn't hold it you pucked like mad and now he is holding me and you are lying next to me in the bed and I want to die
Friday, May 29
the clock and the cock
how wonderful how wonderfully wonderful
to wake up next to you this morning
to think I wake up next to you
to think next to you this morning
to think I wake up this morning
i say wake up the clock is clocking
the clock is clocking dear how wonderful
you say no no i have my own clock
and it is not yet clocking it is not yet
how wonderful how wonderfully wonderful
to wake up how wonderful
two clocks clocking
two clocks out of synch clocking
to wake up next to you this morning
to think I wake up next to you
to think next to you this morning
to think I wake up this morning
i say wake up the clock is clocking
the clock is clocking dear how wonderful
you say no no i have my own clock
and it is not yet clocking it is not yet
how wonderful how wonderfully wonderful
to wake up how wonderful
two clocks clocking
two clocks out of synch clocking
Wednesday, May 27
letter from BB about a feather always already lost
it's ok the chicken has landed
it's ok it's ok it's ok
The chicken has landed
he left on 22nd May and arrived just today
I think he's been through some ordeal with the Royal Post
His packaging was broken
and as the post man slipped him through my little box this morning
I caught him in my arms
I looked out of the window
a trail of his yellow feathers were sprinkled up the street
and i gasped
I gasped
ah!
i was not expecting him
but i caught him in my arms and a little tear dropped to the floor
i mopped it up with a little towel and opened my package
a book
3 images
a scroll of writing
it's ok it's ok it's ok
but the chicken, only two of his feathers remain
i gasped!
I think the post man was smiling,
I asked him about my chicken and he said
something about a wondrous beginning
it's ok it's ok it's ok
The chicken has landed
he left on 22nd May and arrived just today
I think he's been through some ordeal with the Royal Post
His packaging was broken
and as the post man slipped him through my little box this morning
I caught him in my arms
I looked out of the window
a trail of his yellow feathers were sprinkled up the street
and i gasped
I gasped
ah!
i was not expecting him
but i caught him in my arms and a little tear dropped to the floor
i mopped it up with a little towel and opened my package
a book
3 images
a scroll of writing
it's ok it's ok it's ok
but the chicken, only two of his feathers remain
i gasped!
I think the post man was smiling,
I asked him about my chicken and he said
something about a wondrous beginning
Friday, May 22
(in a low, slow, manly voice)
yes yes that's it, take it out, yes that's it, empty the folders, one by one, yes, with your hands, yes, your fingers, your beautiful long fingers, empty the folders baby, yes, all of them, take them out, yes, all of them, close now the door, close it baby, with your hand, your fingers, your beautiful fingers, yes, touch the handle, touch the door handle, with your warm palm, yes, that's it, baby, that's it
yes yes that's it, take it out, yes that's it, empty the folders, one by one, yes, with your hands, yes, your fingers, your beautiful long fingers, empty the folders baby, yes, all of them, take them out, yes, all of them, close now the door, close it baby, with your hand, your fingers, your beautiful fingers, yes, touch the handle, touch the door handle, with your warm palm, yes, that's it, baby, that's it
Thursday, May 21
why didn't you appear before? What do you mean before? Why didn't I appear before?
Because I was kissing someone else, I was lying in bed ill, I was waiting for the knock on the door. Because I was waiting for the sauce to firm, because I was not sure I believed in you or me or anything at all because it is always too late anyway. Because in order to appear you need to disappear and I am scared of that, because before is now, now, and after, afterwards, before is afterwards and after a while. Because I was old and ill dying in my death bed, because the zip was stuck and I suffered from scabies, because I had only one leg, one arm, one eye, because my hair was not long enough, because I was still trying to stick the pieces back together, because it was not long ago, because, somehow, I knew and I waited for you to ask the question.
before what? Before I can reach you, before 11 o' clock, before it's too late, before the clock strikes, beforehand, before I die, before you come back, before you remember, before I shrink in my bed and can't reach the key, before my hair turns white, before the end, before the beginning, before it gets too cold or too dark before you know it, before midnight, before before.
Because I was kissing someone else, I was lying in bed ill, I was waiting for the knock on the door. Because I was waiting for the sauce to firm, because I was not sure I believed in you or me or anything at all because it is always too late anyway. Because in order to appear you need to disappear and I am scared of that, because before is now, now, and after, afterwards, before is afterwards and after a while. Because I was old and ill dying in my death bed, because the zip was stuck and I suffered from scabies, because I had only one leg, one arm, one eye, because my hair was not long enough, because I was still trying to stick the pieces back together, because it was not long ago, because, somehow, I knew and I waited for you to ask the question.
before what? Before I can reach you, before 11 o' clock, before it's too late, before the clock strikes, beforehand, before I die, before you come back, before you remember, before I shrink in my bed and can't reach the key, before my hair turns white, before the end, before the beginning, before it gets too cold or too dark before you know it, before midnight, before before.
Saturday, May 16
this story this first story about this other story there is a story in the story
she lives on the ground floor she eats every afternoon she eats and then throws up
it is really hard to say it is so very hard
this story this great story this very first story
she eats in the afternoon and then waits until the next day in the afternoon to eat again
i do find it hard sometimes
the story has now reached its middle it starts from the middle it is a middle story
every afternoon counts the hours down for the next afternoon, she always eats very little so that she can stay up and count down
of course I could just make it up make it up I wouldn't need to say the truth or stick to the facts of course
in medias res this is how it started from the middle to the end and then to the middle again
13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20
of course I wouldn't mind lying to you I wouldn't mind lying to anyone in fact to my close friends, to my neighbors, to my siblings
21, 22, 23, 24, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,
this is a story that keeps going to does not have an end, because by the time the afternoon will come she has to wait for the next one and so on and on
5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11,
yes yes yes its nearly there its nearly the end I don't mind I can make it up yes baby make it up make it up she lives on the ground floors and she counts the hours to the end
this story begins by repeating itself. Its first time take place many times, amongst which one is the last.
she lives on the ground floor she eats every afternoon she eats and then throws up
it is really hard to say it is so very hard
this story this great story this very first story
she eats in the afternoon and then waits until the next day in the afternoon to eat again
i do find it hard sometimes
the story has now reached its middle it starts from the middle it is a middle story
every afternoon counts the hours down for the next afternoon, she always eats very little so that she can stay up and count down
of course I could just make it up make it up I wouldn't need to say the truth or stick to the facts of course
in medias res this is how it started from the middle to the end and then to the middle again
13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20
of course I wouldn't mind lying to you I wouldn't mind lying to anyone in fact to my close friends, to my neighbors, to my siblings
21, 22, 23, 24, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,
this is a story that keeps going to does not have an end, because by the time the afternoon will come she has to wait for the next one and so on and on
5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11,
yes yes yes its nearly there its nearly the end I don't mind I can make it up yes baby make it up make it up she lives on the ground floors and she counts the hours to the end
this story begins by repeating itself. Its first time take place many times, amongst which one is the last.
Friday, May 15
how dare you how dare you how did you do it how did you do it how dare you/look at me have a great look at me have you ever seen this have you ever seen that what so wrong with you look at me sooo good yes yes yes sooo good, soo good I cannot resist I cannot say or stay, look at me have a great good look at me sooo unbielivably undeniably good yes yes
Wednesday, May 13
by Daphne Twiesselmann
Once upon the time, a beautiful fairy organised a wondrous party to celebrate her birthday. People from various lands and horizons were invited and the castle that marked the end of the last mile was soon filled with minstrels, troubadours, fabulous performance artists, talented cooks, two spey wives, a giant, a wizard, and the good twin sister of Medusa. As the evening reached its momentum, the fairy princess fell into a trance and all who were present came to live one of those great shamanic experiences that one does not forget. Many were transfixed, a few were prompted to extrovert to the extreme, they all spoke in tongues and danced to unknown rhythms till the sun rose on a new day and appeased at last the minds of those transformed children...
this is what I wrote for my friend Owen's performance on Saturday
This is a rhapsodic story. And it starts with a tongue in a field of rose petals. Its fragments invite you to let go of the handbrake and follow its sloppy paths. It is a story about a small trolley, on top of which there is a man sitting. A man who cries shit, who doesn’t bother to finish you off, who hopes that something will eventually occur, last or somehow end: Let’s start something! Come on! Let’s start something now, he says. A man who likes surfaces: a smelly carpet, a porcelain vase, a wallpaper with rose petals.
Sometimes, he rubs himself against them.
I’ll just be standing. I’ll just be here, he says. And his legs do not reach the ground. Lick my juice, lick my cunt, he says, and he remains unmoved, on his little table trolley. This is a rhapsodic story, in the literal sense of the word, the word ‘rhaptein,’ which means stitch or sew together. It is a sewn story. Random images come together: A funfair party, the boy who jumps in his stripy pants, who jumps up and down, the curly-hair boy. Two bare legs, which do not touch the ground. Keep your feet on the ground. A crazy dance in a hoodie, a boy in a plastic bag who hands in the microphone. These are the images I recall. And there is something about their randomness that makes them last and last longer. Lick my juice, lick my cunt, come on, you know what you like, he says.
Despite its fragmented nature, the performed text acquires almost immediately a context. The specificity of detail, although we don’t know precisely what the situation is, or what it refers to, draws me closer to the story and rubs me against its surface. The man on the little trolley, with his feet on the air, his bare legs wide open, in front of us, remains still. We know he can walk, we have seen him walking before, he is not incapable of walking. Yet, he remains still. Anyone, at any moment could push him off the trolley with the little wheels. Yet, he does not seem defenseless. His vulnerability is a forceful one, exposed in our eyes with a violent helplessness. Something about that stillness makes me wonder whether he chooses to be still, or he has no choice, like Winnie, perhaps, stuck up to her waist in a mound.
What is the worst thing I could tell you today? Suck on my big titty nipples. Mother fucker...oh yeah…give it to me…oh yes. To me. Me too, never again…lets just do it, he says. Horny, lustful, yet at the same time deeply sentimental, the text refers to a love story that you long to be part of. Soon you realize that this could be any story, any love story that has ever existed, any love story that involves a man sitting on a little trolley, a tongue in a valley, an evening sunset, a funfair, a dance.
What is the colour of the thread and its texture. How to stitch the fragments together. How to take them apart. Or is it important.
Do you know what a medal is or a trophy, he says. I let go of the handbrake. I am there too. This is my small trolley. I put on the leather jacket, my medal trophy and I start rolling down the slope. My little trolley takes me to the room with the small bed that he talks about, where it is easier to wake up in the morning, to the place where the branches and the leaves and the fruit are pissing over my legs this time.
This is why I never keep my legs on the ground.
Now, I wonder what you think of me. If you like me. If I am ok.
The light will come on soon. It is quite simple.
And I am standing. I am there.
My medal or trophy commemorates that event, the event of being there, of not keeping my feet on the ground, of being pissed, splashed, spanked and shat. And I am still there, standing, with my feet off the ground.
May 2009
Sometimes, he rubs himself against them.
I’ll just be standing. I’ll just be here, he says. And his legs do not reach the ground. Lick my juice, lick my cunt, he says, and he remains unmoved, on his little table trolley. This is a rhapsodic story, in the literal sense of the word, the word ‘rhaptein,’ which means stitch or sew together. It is a sewn story. Random images come together: A funfair party, the boy who jumps in his stripy pants, who jumps up and down, the curly-hair boy. Two bare legs, which do not touch the ground. Keep your feet on the ground. A crazy dance in a hoodie, a boy in a plastic bag who hands in the microphone. These are the images I recall. And there is something about their randomness that makes them last and last longer. Lick my juice, lick my cunt, come on, you know what you like, he says.
Despite its fragmented nature, the performed text acquires almost immediately a context. The specificity of detail, although we don’t know precisely what the situation is, or what it refers to, draws me closer to the story and rubs me against its surface. The man on the little trolley, with his feet on the air, his bare legs wide open, in front of us, remains still. We know he can walk, we have seen him walking before, he is not incapable of walking. Yet, he remains still. Anyone, at any moment could push him off the trolley with the little wheels. Yet, he does not seem defenseless. His vulnerability is a forceful one, exposed in our eyes with a violent helplessness. Something about that stillness makes me wonder whether he chooses to be still, or he has no choice, like Winnie, perhaps, stuck up to her waist in a mound.
What is the worst thing I could tell you today? Suck on my big titty nipples. Mother fucker...oh yeah…give it to me…oh yes. To me. Me too, never again…lets just do it, he says. Horny, lustful, yet at the same time deeply sentimental, the text refers to a love story that you long to be part of. Soon you realize that this could be any story, any love story that has ever existed, any love story that involves a man sitting on a little trolley, a tongue in a valley, an evening sunset, a funfair, a dance.
What is the colour of the thread and its texture. How to stitch the fragments together. How to take them apart. Or is it important.
Do you know what a medal is or a trophy, he says. I let go of the handbrake. I am there too. This is my small trolley. I put on the leather jacket, my medal trophy and I start rolling down the slope. My little trolley takes me to the room with the small bed that he talks about, where it is easier to wake up in the morning, to the place where the branches and the leaves and the fruit are pissing over my legs this time.
This is why I never keep my legs on the ground.
Now, I wonder what you think of me. If you like me. If I am ok.
The light will come on soon. It is quite simple.
And I am standing. I am there.
My medal or trophy commemorates that event, the event of being there, of not keeping my feet on the ground, of being pissed, splashed, spanked and shat. And I am still there, standing, with my feet off the ground.
May 2009
i am this man I am this man with the hunch the hunch over the glass the hunch as small as a cloud I am this man that holds your fingers about to break they do not move do not move slow as the sand do you hear me I am this man I roll up my collar I roll up and I crawl towards you your broken fingers touch me for the first time too close I cannot breathe
Tuesday, May 12
He put his right hand on the edge of my seat. I looked at it before sitting down. He looked at it too. But he didn't move. His right hand was purposefully placed on the edge of my seat. So I sat. I sat and the edge of my bottom touched the edge of his hand. And each time we'd encounter a red light or a quick turn or a zebra crossing or a bicycle, a random animal, a car accident, the riot police, Hare Krishna or a group of marathon runners, my bottom would press on his warm hand and each time his hand was warmer and the pressure against it more and more. Then he handed me a post-it. I think I am your uncle, he said. He looked at me in the eyes and we knew straight away. The next day he moved in.
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