Cami Park

Archive for the ‘Sex’ Category

No Tell Books: Cadaver Dogs, by Rebecca Loudon

In Photography, Poetry, Sex on September 2, 2010 at 7:28 am

This instruction is holy.
Rebecca Loudon, from ROMANCE #1 IN G MINOR

Cadaver Dogs, by Rebecca Loudon

Cadaver Dogs is the rib  Adam never forgot.
Cadaver Dogs is your outside voice, inside. Having sex.
Cadaver Dogs will not self-medicate.
Cadaver Dogs is a chalk outline on asphalt. Children are nearby.
Cadaver Dogs is not a right, it’s a necessity.
Cadaver Dogs is the wheel that came off the trolley and landed in your soup. Small trolley, big soup.
Cadaver Dogs is female.
Cadaver Dogs is not blameless.
Cadaver Dogs tells secrets
is relentless
knows you like your skin
Cadaver Dogs is an anatomist’s waking dream.
Cadaver Dogs wants you.
Cadaver Dogs won’t tell anyone, will tell everyone, requires hydration, could compromise well-being.
Cadaver Dogs is sacred.
Cadaver Dogs cannot be ignored.

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Somewhere between

In Photography, Science, Sex on February 23, 2010 at 11:47 pm

Caleb Charland, 15 Hours

Wonder is a state of mind somewhere between knowledge and uncertainty.Caleb Charland

Bed crumbs of all ages spiled

In Photography, Poetry, Sex on February 20, 2010 at 2:46 am

My Bed is Covered Yellow
Peter Orlovsky

        My bed is covered yellow – Oh Sun, I sit on you
Oh golden field I lay on you
Oh money I dream of you
More, More, cried the bed – talk to me more –
Oh bed that taked the weight of the world –
        all the lost dreams laid on you
Oh bed that grows no hair, that cannot be fucked
        or can be fucked
Oh bed crumbs of all ages spiled on you
Oh yellow bed march to the sun whear yr journey will be done
Oh 50 lbs. of bed that takes 400 more lbs-
        how strong you are
Oh bed, only for man & not for animals
        yellow bed when will the animals have equal rights?
Oh 4 legged bed off the floor forever built
Oh yellow bed all the news of the world
        lay on you at one time or another

1957, Paris

Submit

In Drama, Poetry, Sex on January 23, 2010 at 6:46 pm

Submit to you —
could that be what you are saying?
the way ripples on the water
submit to an idling wing?

–Ono no Kamachi

I wanted to fuck a robot

In Film, Poetry, Sex on December 23, 2009 at 8:30 am

So you want to be an astronaut
Rebecca Loudon

what hoodoo did you encounter
in the swamp
prying open shells with your hook
grip tight enough to turn a flywheel
six hash marks today
track your compulsion
slake your blue-
veined Jesus

clouds puckered from the north
at Yaquina Head steam rising
a constant foot-deep howl
I examined my body in hotel mirrors
that was my job across the country
Oregon Idaho Montana Illinois Virginia
coffee and a compass
my hair shorn
rolled whiskey in chloroform
worshipped your tongue’s pink pelt
holy holy holy
hot wet cloth pressed to a boil
on my pudendum

I wanted to fuck a robot
have him lurch above me
metallic thumb inside
his nictating lens
hey rube hey rube
I danced in a whirlygig dress
sea smell throbbing up

let’s fly in an aeroplane no storm but the Perseids
zip above the James River while all the tweeters
in the meadow tweet holy holy holy
lifted by a spaceship that proves
the great inconvenience of love
green lights spraying underneath
your metal thumbs
your Duchenne smile

Vodpod videos no longer available.

They have voices like human beings, but their roars are proverbs.
Henry Darger

10 eggs

In Confessional, Science, Sex on December 8, 2009 at 12:04 am

Windy, overcast & decidedly cold. Some sloes still on the bushes. Plovers sitting on the ground & crying.

10 eggs.

Remembered

In Dream, Household, Sex on October 30, 2009 at 6:31 am

The dream was sexual. There was a death. A Nigerian looking man. The last thing before waking, trying to  fold a stained towel.

Love & Peace & Bar

In Music, Sex, Universe on October 6, 2009 at 5:44 pm

Kim Laughton

Kim Laughton

“For years I had recorded hours of tapes of my teenage band, prank phone calls, studio demo tapes, synthesizer blurbles, and various recordings of an unusual nature. I wanted all this hard work to be heard, and I loved distributing my tapes simply to annoy people and sometimes even to enlighten or entertain them . . . It was my response to a world that seems always to have told me that I am small and worthless. Putting out music for the hell of it was my way of giving the finger to a universe indifferent to my existence.” —John Trubee, from You Too Can Be a Recording Star!

Questions about life and shit, part II

In Poetry, Prose, Sex on October 4, 2009 at 7:20 pm

bureau de books

It came in the mail today. Well, yesterday, I suppose, but I picked it up today. It was drizzling a bit, but no drop penetrated the tight, classy packaging.

It looks good in person. It feels good, too. The text and the graphic are slightly raised; handling this book is texturally pleasant.

I’m the second piece in, after Jessica, before Greg. I like it. I’m comfortable with my line breaks now, and with my surroundings. I feel cared for, and in good company. I feel kind of important, even. Well, not important, exactly. I guess just comfortable.

Andrew Borgstrom‘s is my absolute favorite, out of so much good, which I’ve already talked about. Whose Goddam Oatmeal Is This?

There is an ISBN.

This is something to have, I think.

My poem:

Where Is Cyrano?
Cami Park

Your eyes are like honey in a cup.

Your cheekbones are
like
the shoulder blades of an anorexic,
they are like
the wings of sharp birds.

The time I spend explaining things
to you is like
traveling faster than
the speed of light and coming back
50 years younger, before
I was even born.

Explain that one to me.

Fucking you is like
pressing my thumbnail
through the skin of a bruised apple
which is weird
because I hardly ever talk like that.

This is not my mouth.

Muscly back

In History, Prose, Sex on September 27, 2009 at 3:08 pm

Avon Book Cover #1505

I wrote Beautiful Plague for the year 1505 for for every year.