Heterologias

Etiquetas: Art, capitalism, Democracy, mass consumption, Mass Media, Politics, Yes Men

E esta que fingiu nunca dar por mim, quando o carro arranca e me deixa esquecido, diz:

- Adeus, meu senhor .

Como quem diz: estavas aí e me viste e me desejaste, e quiseste o meu cono, e fui tua. Nunca mais me verás, fantasma de blusão negro e óculos grossos cara aparvalhada, fica-te, tarrenego!, sei lá quem tu és - não sou para ti.

E eu que era para ela. Outra qualquer. Dentro e fora da memória, fantasma para fantasmas.Vou para a cama. O vinho pesa-me na cabeça. Bebo água fria para desenjoar a gorja. Durmo como um bendito. Acordo no escuro, cedo, 6 ou 5 horas, há um grupo na Pensão que se está a levantar, batem portas. Estou excitadíssimo. O meu homem virá ao encontro? Onde o hei-de meter? Nestes quartos ouve-se tudo.

Abjecção. Remorsos. Decido não ir. Misturo a Deolinda com o António e sem mexer na picha estou quase a vir-me. De repente, tudo é tão violento que tenho de bater uma punheta.

Como a Natureza previu todas as nossas fraquezas e ausências, dotou-nos também com outro caralho para o cu detrás. Meto o dedo (médio?) todo no cu, bato a punheta. E a ejaculação, forte porque há dias que estou sem deitar nada cá para fora, dá-me contracções no esfincter. Gozozíssimas. Venho-me imenso. Estou cada vez mais excitado. Cada passo na escada parece julgo que é o António que vem e me penetra e me obriga a chupar-lhe o delicioso caralho que não vi. Escândalo. Tribunal Militar.Vergonha. Filhos a saberem tudo. Loucura. Suicídio. Tomo meio Calmax. A pouco e pouco a corda vai-se aligeirando, estou melhor. Mas que vontade de ter pecado. De pecar. Como assim: de viver.
Descubro que o êxito e o fracasso são uma e a mesma cadeia e em tudo. O êxito para cima, o fracasso para baixo, e quando digo baixo digo baixo: sujidões, dívidas, vergonhas, podridão, loucura. Mas o que toma tudo igual é que ambas as cadeias se encontram, nada a fazer, meus caros, daqui a cem anos ninguém se lembra.

E a nossa lição-abjecção a quem aproveitará?

Já tanto faz.

Tanto nos faz.

Braga, 16 ou 17 de Outubro, 1961.

Luiz Pacheco, O Libertino Passeia por Braga, a Idolátrica, o Seu Esplendor (1961), 1ª ed. 1970

LINHA ALERTA INTERNETA SEGURA: chamem a polícia

Etiquetas: Angola 62, Art, caralho, Disobedience, foda-se caralho, José Sócrates, Literature, Luiz Pacheco, paneleiros, pedophilia, politically correct, pornography, Scatology, Sexuality

Elizabeth Short’s body, January 15th, 1947, Museum of Death


Oh! Death to Nancy

What is this taht (sic) I can see
Cold icy hands taking hold of me
for Death has come, you all can see.

Hell has open it,s (sic) gate to trick me.

Oh! Death, Oh! Death, can't you spare

me, over for another year!

I'll stuff your jaws till you can't talk
I'll blind (sic) your leg's (sic) till you can't walk
I'll tie your hands till you can't make a
stand.

And finally I'll close your eyes so you
can't see
I'll bring sexual death unto you for me.

B.T.K.
Letter to the police, February 1978



Oh, Anna Why Didn't You Appear

T' was perfect plan of deviant pleasure so bold on that Spring nite

My inner felling hot with propension of the new awakening season

Warn, wet with inner fear and rapture, my pleasure of entanglement, like new vines at night

Oh, Anna, Why Didn't You Appear

Drop of fear fresh Spring rain would roll down from your nakedness to scent to lofty fever that burns within,

In that small world of longing, fear, rapture, and desparation, the game we play, fall on devil ears

Fantasy spring forth, mounts, to storm fury, then winter clam at the end.

Oh, Anna Why Didn't You Appear

Alone, now in another time span I lay with sweet enrapture garments across most private thought

Bed of Spring moist grass, clean before the sun, enslaved with control, warm wind scenting the air, sun light sparkle tears in eyes so deep and clear.

Alone again I trod in pass memory of mirrors, and ponder why for number eight was not.

Oh, Anna Why Didn't You Appear

Letter to Anna Williams, June 1978


"Wanted $2000 Reward", 1923, Philadelphia Museum of Art


Museum of Death, Los Angeles (closed)


LINHA ALERTA INTERNETA SEGURA: chamem a polícia

Etiquetas: Art, Black Dahlia, caralho, Crime, Death, Disobedience, Duchamp, foda-se caralho, José Sócrates, Poetry, politically correct, serial killers, Sexuality

"The more fucked up and surreal the world, demonstrably, becomes, the less David Lynch films become feverish, inscrutable, schizoid texts and, more straight forwardly, just the order of the day.

The first time I saw Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, in late August of 1992, I was in the midst of a quasi-nervous breakdown resulting from the messy end to a three year love relationship coinciding with a feature film stalled in post-production with no completion funding in sight. I went alone to see the movie on a sweltering summer afternoon in a wife-beater and tiny short-shorts at the now defunct Cineplex at the Eaton's Centre in Toronto, a slew of tiny, shoebox theatres in the dank basement of a shopping mall.

The air-conditioning blasting, I sat shivering with my bare arms around my bare legs, identifying intensely with Laura Palmer, played by Sheryl Lee. I hadn't related to a character so strongly since Diane Keaton burned a hole in the screen as Theresa Dunn in Looking For Mr. Goodbar fifteen years earlier. There's something about Hollywood actresses playing promiscuous, burned-out drug addicts in female-identified movies that drives me, as a gay man, wild with passionate desire.

Enter Terrence Koh. Mr. Koh and I had often talked about our love of the movie Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, arguing over who was more Laura Palmer, him or me. We also expressed a mutual fascination with the Bang Bang Bar from the same movie, situated, as it is, on Canada-US border. As fellow Canadians who often find ourselves striding that border, one foot in the more demure, polite, and wishy-washy Canadian identity, one foot in the aggressive, hard, and confidant American identity, we appreciate the metaphorical notion of walking across the floor of a bar and switching identities as easily as segueing from beer to hard liquor.

We also began talking about collaborating on an installation of degenerate art consisting of horizontal glory holes, envisioning cocks coming down from the ceiling and up from the floor like stalactites and stalagmites. After all, why should glory holes be restricted to the vertical axis? That's strictly for the birds – and Republican Senators.

Combining these two ideas, Blame Canada was born. After all, the US makes a habit of blaming Canada for a variety of nasty things: a porous border, lax immigration policies, Communist tendencies, multiculturalism, gayness (gay marriage is legal in Canada), Celine Dion… so why not give them what they want: a scapegoat , a whipping boy , a lapdog, a masochist , a Judas, a boot-licker, a cocksucker, a punk . In fact, why not give them two - Terrence Koh and Bruce LaBruce – two of the biggest faggots this side of Elton John.

BLAME CANADA will be on view at Peres Projects (26 Schlesische Strasse, Berlin) in our new first floor exhibition hall, through Nov. 10, 2007. Hours: Tuesday through Saturday, from 11:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M and by appointment."

LINHA ALERTA INTERNETA SEGURA: chamem a polícia

Etiquetas: Art, Canadá, Engenheiros, foda-se caralho, José Sócrates, nazism, paneleiros, politically correct, Politics