Author Archive

Cunt Gushers: On Being Farmed

by on Sep.20, 2010

In his post below, Josef remarks (in response to Paglia’s assertion that Gaga is the end of sex): “…as if the nudity-obsessed 20th c media had anything to do with sex to begin with. Wasn’t it more about normalizing certain official [patriarchal, heterosexual] modes of desire?”

Absolutely. Hello normalization factory.

But it’s not just the media. Frame it however you want to, a huge swath of contemporary art is still an avalanche of female bodies.

Where are the men’s bodies, full-on eroticized and relentlessly so. Where is my snatch candy. Where is my skullmeat. “The shy glimpse of shaft in the open toothed zipper.  The youth, barely legal, stripped with his wrists and ankles bound to the gears of a printing press.  A stubbled chin and ripe tongue pressed to the bleached grout in a shower stall.”

People complain that there is too much cock in the Gurlesque anthology. O really.

Why do I have to look at a parade of trussed-up female bodies. All. The. Time. Stylized bodies that police me, that invite my own radical sense of inadequacy.  I am being farmed. I have been raised to be unstable.

(continue reading…)

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A Note on American Poetic Excess

by on Sep.16, 2010

I’m up over at PSA:

“In American poetry, we are building an enormous funerary monument. A monument to our own imagined collective death.

We fervently wish our empire would collapse, and then again, we don’t. We prefer not to be dead and are having bazillions of fun.

Our poems are effigies. Effigies that express our longing for our own imminent demise but that also serve as a substitution, an offering to stave off a death we would avoid at all costs. Art as necessary simulacra. Placation. To some pixilated, meat-addled gods.

We are having ourselves some truly phantasmagoric fun. We shoot our pornotopic wad. In spectacles and games. We’re a lube job atop our nefarious empire…”

Read more here.

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Cunt Gushers

by on Sep.14, 2010

So I was at some poetry thang last year and right before I scrambled up on stage someone told me that some “experimental male poets” had coined a new phrase for their “experimental” female counterparts: cunt gushers.

As in, “O that ol’ cunt gusher’s up taking her pussy on sublunary walks in public again!”

I’m totally embracing this. Poetry is such a lame-ass term anyways. Deserves to be chucked overboard. From now on, I write cunt gushers!

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