for Allen Ginsberg
“I saw the best minds of my generation” turn to bark and run from the heads of the necks of the bodies divvied and owned by the
pharma-suit reps of the Neon Elixir Age, sold by boob-baring pez-dispensing lovelies, porn and pills,
who fed on toxin pudding till they glowed smelling the nut and berry diet of hippy parents funding child-death
who pickled brains in Butriptyline bubbly and Trazodone lying in the candied beds of doctors who could diagnose a freckle, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, hippocampus hype-shit
who scattered into the pockets of sweet old order to make cleaning product rat poison cocktails, to burn their lungs, to outshine those Beatniks (who get all the credit)
who died
who watched their parents marry strangers for the 3rd and 4th time, on TV
who signed up for MTV’s taped pigeon shit eating contest to be among many in the Age of Attention-Starved pigeon shit eaters
who shoveled angel food cake by the fistful with a page from Atkin’s while reading Star while crying for doomed modeling careers
who carried the tired torch of the Hefner 80th Wives Club liberation movement of girl cock-spit money shots (and beat off to so much porn they had to fetishize potted plants to get off)
who loaned their education to The Big Golden Bank of Eternity while Mexicans pissed on babysitter wages and hopped the white van back to Me-hi-co
who carried the profiteering thong into the ass-crack of the mega-corporacracy target markets: addiction, stupidity, patriarchal slime
who married young on free love internet hookup profile pics and personal blog buddy lists
who deafened their own cries with nihilistic Cobain sexy suicide, we-got-issues grunge guitar rifts, rehab and rainbows, return to God, Christian Music, college campus fellowship group sign-up sheets
who were not beaten with telephone receivers and branches, did not walk to school, start revolutions, grow their hair out and write a song about it
who bit the bullet: joined the military
who were thankful that they too, finally, got to wreak the stain of war, so those who came before would look upon their fallen and not dock them their grievances
Filed under: Uncategorized
Close that dropped jaw–hell yes I am against pornography and prostitution.
Apparently a host of really awesome bloggers are as well:
🙂
(Thank you for your work on this Burning Times)
Filed under: Antibodies, gender pimps, Grab a shovel, PUKE, rape extinction
I cannot imagine dedicating an entire post to why I am not anti-sex. No one should have to be so bored, so futilely engaged.
If what I am about to object to is seen as synonymous with sex then you and I live on very different planets heading in two very different directions. And I am not averse to telling you I think mine is more right. If right is free, if right is a right turn out of Patriarchy Lane, that is.
I am anti-sexy.
Anti ANYTHING that takes a form as sexy or trying to be sexy, or, only-succeeds-when-found-sexy. I am anti use-sexy-to-get-rewards sexy. Anti want-to-be-considered-sexy sexy. Anti want-to-consider-others-as-sexy sexy.
I don’t agree with jobs that rely on sexy. I don’t agree with exchanges that rely on sexy. I don’t agree with sexuality that relies on sexy. I don’t agree with institutions, businesses, constructs that need sexy for existence.
You might not be surprised then to find I am anti porn, stripping, BDSM, prostitution, hotness, objectification, cosmetic surgery. I don’t need to hear about how you reclaimed sexy in porn, BDSM, stripping, prostitution, hotness, objectification, cosmetic surgery. Sexy is not in your hands. Sexy is the invasive appropriation of each others’ bodies and externalities. Sexy is the lens you are forced to look through. Sexy is the lens your are forced to be seen through. Sexy is a constant state of against-your-will, without-consent, what’s-yours-is-mine, without-permission.
I don’t need to hear how you feel sexy when you are reading a good book. I don’t need to hear how your so-and-so thinks you’re sexier when you don’t have on make up or haven’t worked out in a little while. Sexy does not care. Sexy is only accounting for the role you play when you ignore your full human capacity. Sexy assumed your role all along. Sexy will still be there when you want out.
I don’t need to hear how you are helping young girls who have otherwise been abused and tortured and slain by patriarchy regain their “sexiness.” Sexy will not help. Sexy entitles our pleasure centers to others. Sexy is the visual rape primaries.
Stop with the Sexy already.
To those caught up in trying to Save the Sexy, reshape The Sexy, regain, reclaim, refresh The Sexy—please, we are feminists—we’ve got enough to do.
To those enslaved by sexy, beaten by sexy, afraid because of sexy, hidden by sexy, appropriated by sexy, employed by sexy, abused by sexy,… my sincerest apologies. We are working on it.
FREE SPEECH
DOESN’ EXIST.
And I think for us to move forward with certain necessary changes we will have to stop using that phrase.
We wouldn’t use speech if it were free—if it didn’t have meaning or value. Then what would be the point? (If you think you are bubble on Mars or that your levels of consciousness occur somewhere in the 6thdimension of time and space separate of your affective-ness then I’ve got a tinfoil hate with your name on it*.)
Humans have not reached droid status yet–predictions on when we will, however, are fodder for the comments section.
What the first amendment is really saying is that we should be able to use speech freely and without government interference. I agree with that. But people actually think speech is free–that it is practically void of its own currency. (Or more, likely, they want to believe this rubbish because they are irresponsible toads without concern for others).
For radical feminism, the value of speech is set by how far it will take us from patriarchy. Because speech was essentially made by Man we already have some parameters in place that make this process difficult. But let’s compound that with the rest of reality: the majority of people on this Earth do not think like radical feminists/feminists, or are in anyway concerned for women’s condition, and a good many claiming to be so are more concerned with how many men find them sexy then how many women can rid themselves of the terror.
So what does that do to the speech that we use daily to try and explain our situation, or appeal to and help others? It fucks it up. We must constantly navigate this Feminist Word Market, making more words and concepts expensive or valuable so that when they are used they relay the kind of distance from patriarchy we are going for. (For example, I wish I could put the word “liberate” in a vault for a thousand years with the combination inscribed on some rock on Radical Feminist Island found only by using the Radical Feminist Treasure map.)
So let us do a little exercise that includes a short economics lesson (this will not be a perfect analogy).
Inflation= the consistent rise in prices that leads to each dollar being buying less and less of a good/service. Basically, a decrease in one’s purchasing power.
Analogous definition:
Inflation= consistent overuse of words that leads to a decrease in ability to convey desired level of patriarchy-distancing. Basically, words lose ability to “purchase” certain distances from patriarchy.
Okay, I will start a list (obviously, you can contest this list, and-please-explain why–the exercise is the point).
Inflated words
choice
consent
freedom
want
right
ownership
empower
liberate
fantasy
pleasure
woman
rape
* “Dumbass”
The other day, as I am helping my mother take down her Christmas decorations outside, I hear a distant angry voice–across the creek and up a long hill, the neighborhood that runs parallel behind. It’s far enough away to make out very little of the houses but the sloping hill carries sound well enough.
A man and his dog. The man in his best mighty voice is reprimanding the dog. “Come here! Get up here!”
…
“Now! What are you doing? GET UP HERE.” RARRARAR I AM MASTER FETCH ME MY HUGE DICK FURBOT (you know, that kind of tone).
Then I hear it followed by a !*SMACK!*! and I can tell the dog has been hurt.
I run to the edge of the yard, so upset I want to yell back at the man or go take the dog or both or take a branch to a certain someone. (I hate the feel of violence in my hands, my impulsivity towards eye-for-an-eye.)
I did nothing. Instead, I thought about what I’d like to do. What I’d do next time.
Dumbass and his dog. Dumbass, getting his meager masculinity-gasm for the day. Dumbass-would-never-own-a-cat, something-sometimes-synonomous-with-“pussy” and, really, what could be lower? Dumbass hurt because dog won’t lick his balls for volunteering himself as dictator over everything the animal will ever come to know or love.
Coercion lauded as “loyalty.”
Bruises like “because I love you.”
My heart goes out tonight to the dog who is only across the creek and up a hill. A house, though faint, with its lights still on, where lives man and his dog. I can see because of the sliding glass door I am looking through. And the bell jar.
What is the significant difference between the fundie war on porn and the radfem’s?
Hope.
(ok, there are many–this one I find to be of great importance.)
You see in the “Jesus is my anti porn” camp, there is a frightening flaw: resisting porn means resisting temptation. Temptation, not being the socially constructed variety, but the ohmygod-that’s-hot-no-matter-how-you-slice-it—justdon’tlook! variety.
That’s bloody hopeless.
Why does porn have to be tempting? Is sex trafficking tempting? Are people in gendered clown suits tempting? Is a bunch of obnoxious noise/fuss about peepee/poopoo holes tempting?
Who the f*ck is sending all these lascivious memos to my paper shredder!?
(I’m of the idea that, in a more perfect world, nothing would ever be tempting in this way but I’m just so boring you can’t take it).
While surfing the anti-porn internets this evening I of course find myself being linked to Conservative sites. And I’m not going to go running just because the site is run by Debbie from Minnesota, the Christian wife of a former addict, whose homepage is the family photo with exporn lover Bill looking all reformed and shit with those crazy eyes wired on God Cola.
Substance and content are my first interest. If they include information on how porn affects the mind, who it exploits, the nature of the very beast, I’ll keep reading. Where I get so eFFing confused is when they, after all this despicable info, say one must resist such temptation. How do you have the nerve to call it that now? Talk about perversion.
(Am I splitting hairs? Call it “dehumanizing,” “destructive,” “exploitative”–make the names match the facts. But tempting??????????????????????????)
Everywhere I go, every fundie site I try give a chance there it is: don’t look!, avert your eyes from this succulent devil!, resist this temptation!! Well hey I agree your eyes shouldn’t be having an extended vacation with the lingerie mag but, surely, if you don’t think the white elephant exists you won’t feel it in the room.
This is the kind of attitude that’s got America so fucked (I’m just sure of it). We’ve sexualized power (submission/dominance). We’ve sexualized lack of consent. We’ve also sexualized our own hopelessness.
In the radfem camp, however, we say: you don’t have to want porn. You’re not innately aroused by it. You can be anti-porn and anti-want-porn. We allow intent to sit in the same room as want. It’s a beautiful thing.
Buried Alive 