There’s art in that

I guess it’s never too late to be a farmer
Now that my hands are tied
to the hind legs
of a raging bull

It seems a good time
to find out if I can apply
the horse whisperer
(the film, not the book)
to a raging bull

He’s constrained now
but he won’t be
in a minute
when the gates open
after they’ve prodded his balls
with a pitchfork

– or should I rather
try
the ancient art of peasant whispering?

Well, do I need to explain that?

I guess it’s not too late to be a farmer
The peasants did not take my art too well

They mind pictures of naked women raping bulls
in their butt hole
more than they mind real life violence

I guess it’s the perfect time to become a farmer

Hand me a pitchfork
I’ll show those peasants
what I’m capable of

There’s art in that

The prompt for day 8 was to write a palinode:  a poem in which the poet retracts a statement made in an earlier poem. I chose There’s no art in that.

More images on this subject can be found on http://www.fscclub.com/muse/sculpture-rape-europa-e.shtml

There’s no art in that

I guess it’s too late to be a farmer
now that my hands are tied
to the hind legs
of a raging bull

He’s constrained now
but he won’t be
in a minute
when the gates open
after they’ve prodded his balls
with a pitchfork
to

Well, do I need to explain that?

The peasants did not take my art too well
They mind pictures of naked women raping bulls
in their butt hole
more than they mind real life violence

Ultraviolence?
There’s no art in that

I guess it’s too late to be a farmer

On day 12 I wrote a palinode for this poem:  a poem in which the poet retracts a statement made in an earlier poem. It’s called There’s art in that.

More images on this subject can be found on http://www.fscclub.com/muse/sculpture-rape-europa-e.shtml

First we take Berlin

I was there when it started
man, you should have been there
February 23
We were on fire, you and me

We wrote history
we set the world on fire
we torched the system
we taught those motherfuckers

You should’ve seen her burn
that democratic idol
temptress of the masses
spreading sickness by her golden tits

She deserved what she got
two tongued tramp
harbinger of our exploitation
powerslave

But what good did it bring us?
February 23
1933

They never caught us
oh no
we set up some communist sucker
to take the blame

But that dim wit
peanut balled
broom lipped
painter
stole our canvas

With crude brush strokes
no sense of perspective
and abominable shading
he ruined our masterpiece

Man, you should’ve seen it
we ruined that Reichstag motherfucker

Burn baby burn
political bollocks inferno

Repeat after me: February 23, 1933

My second go at a New York School poem, because I find the form (well, form…) fascinating. I didn’t want it to be in New York though, and I wanted to give history a try.

My first New York School Poem is called This one’s dedicated to you, love hunter. I love how this type of prompt challenges me to write way outside my comfort zone, and makes me really sit down to write a poem. They are difficult but fun.

This one’s dedicated to you, love hunter

I’ve added a video of me performing this one to the bottom of the page. It was shot on April 24 2016, and it’s my first time reading a poem on stage.

Amsterdam, the ancient New York
in the fall of 2001
Red lights, big city
I don’t remember what I wore
(I may or may not have looked like a whore)

You want coke, heroin, Viagra? the little man hissed
And so did the second
and the third
For the life of me I couldn’t imagine what I’d need Viagra for

For one: I’m a woman
For two: I was in heat

I’d heard rumors though
Viagara could make your lips swell
like Mick Jagger
that rock ‘n’ roll cunt

But my panties were tight as they were
and tights are always tight when you’re six feet two
no need to fill them up even more

Scene one: a bunch of transvestites
taking the obligatory walk on the wild side
checking me out for size
– wrong gender

Scene two: a staggering stag party
hanging their cocks out to piss
vomiting at the same time
wetting their shoes

Scene three: lone riders
wanting to ride a white horse
popping pills, cheap thrills, banana bar bills
– what for?

(I still wish I’d remember what I wore)

Would you believe me if I tell you nothing is more boring than the red light district at night?
But I was in heat
and I didn’t know that
yet
People kept a safe distance
for I steamed
my pores evaporating
juice
juice juice juice

We ignored all the french fries,
burgers,
pizza
(a lover’s gotta eat, right?)
and chose a sex cinema instead

Fucking going on
24/7
like there’s no tomorrow
like yesterday wasn’t born

Behind us a plastic bag rustled
the guy took out some tissues
to blow his cock
I guessed

How hot
Not

The action was up and down
up and down
she moaning (not)
him groaning (not)
the director was a master of suspense (not)
Maybe we witnessed a climax, or ten, or none
Maybe Harry met Sally
and Sally met Sally

We had no reason to stay
We had no reason to go

We never touched I think
I would have remembered
or would I?

Amsterdam, Sin City
in the fall of 2001
Red lights, big city
The most boring thing I’ve ever done

(I think I still have that dress I wore
it would have been of more use on a whore)

Written for #NaPoWriMo day 22. You can find the prompt here: http://jacket2.org/commentary/recipe-writing-new-york-school-poem

I enjoyed writing in this strange form so much that I wrote a completely different one, called First we take Berlin. And when I decided to go on stage for the first time, I picked it as the one I’d read. Because I thought it was the most difficult one, and I didn’t mind a challenge on top of a challenge (performing… argh!). It’s here if you want to see it