Music by Occurrences in the Rain. Directed by Ginnetta Correli.
Shots on TV from the movie: Diamonds are Forever directed by Guy Hamilton.
Category Archives: Anything Lambchop2 decides to post at the moment
Just what the title says anything else other than Ginnetta Correli or Beatie Scareli that lambchop2 decides to post.
MINDSCAPES
MINDSCAPES IS A FILM EVENT WHICH STRIVES TO BRING TOGETHER ESTABLISHED AND EMERGING ARTISTS FROM AROUND THE WORLD.
FILMMAKERS CASSANDRA SECHLER AND GINNETTA CORRELI HAVE CURATED THE MINDSCAPES SHOW IN ORDER TO CREATE AN ALTERNATIVE SPACE FOR DARK, PERSONAL FILMS OFTEN IGNORED BY THE COMMERCIAL WORLD.
WORKS SELECTED REPRESENT A CRITICAL MOVEMENT HAPPENING UNDER THE BELLY OF MAINSTREAM CULTURE.
ARTISTS:
CRAIG MURRAY
ALASTAIR COOK
ANTHONY ROUSSEAU
H.D. LANGE
CASSANDRA SECHLER
NARA DENNING
LINDSAY LAVEN
GINNETTA CORRELI
MOSES
VERONICA MOTA
BEATRICE GUENET
NUNO O.C. MADEIRA
SIMON THEIS HANSEN
NABIL SHABAN
JASON MARSH
RUSTY RODIER
MARIANO RENTERIA GARNICA
ROLAND QUELVEN
TAMAS MESMER
GUILLAUME BAYCHELIER
JAMIE DEAN
JEAN-LUC CHARLES
FABIO SCACCHIOLI
ADRIANA NOVOA
CRAIG JACOBSON
NICLAS HALLBERG
ALEXANDER JORGENSEN
EAT CAKE AND WORSHIP SATAN
AS HUMAN PATTERN
JOAO KREFER
SHIMRIT
IOANN MARIA
FRED L’EPEE
JEREMY ROMBERG
MADEMOISELLE L.
Agnus Dei by H.D. Lange
I just love this love it… love love inspired today. Thank you H.D.
Ground
Written & Narrated: Alastair Cook
Directed & Edited: Ginnetta Correli
Soundtrack: Pierrepoint’s Epitaph by Dirk Drieson
When I am Gone by Craig Murray
Music by Sparrow House
The End of Ambition by J de Salvo
The End of Ambition
my life is made of onion skins and eggshells
I can count them in the sink…I could count them,
that is, but I don’t…if I knew how many
there were it would take something away from the
experience…make all this trash less sacred
I’ve learned to love the trash…and perhaps that’s where
I’ve failed…in seeking out and wishing for
ordung…on the contrary I have sought a
panoramic view…everything atomic
an amoeba, even the branded buildings
not in some higher system, but merely for
color, depth, detail…merely to amuse
but it’s not so, you know…these onion skins
and eggshells have a life of their own, and it
is taking…the onions and eggs, the bagels and
lox…might as well be the whole animate
world somehow rotting in a sink in
Los Angeles…ocean, earth, and animal
decompose…a landscape, a Guernica, waste…
I could grow cilantro in it, but how would
I wash my dishes, and manage to keep from
drowning it? …killing it, with grapefruit scented
detergent? no…it’s died already, must it
die again in death? …first the trashcan, then the
dumpster in the back, at last, back to the earth
coffined in poly fibers, which cannot birth?
I wait until every dish is dirty
…then wait some more, until, suddenly, Ordung!
I spring into action, polish the whole place
with poison…now I’ll tackle the wide world!
we must keep our city clean! …the cat must have
its mouse…now the panorama is gone…
now I can work, think! …execute my designs!
…it’s all in my way, out the window with it!
…the onions, the eggs, the cat, the wife, Ordung!
…but no…it’s a soliloquy, nothing more
I shouldn’t know what to do once I’d done it
I’ll plant a tree in my sink, wash my dishes
In the bathroom…fornicate and breed…plant my
failure like a seed…relapse into content
I was a bored, excuse me, I meant to say
born, I really did…born leader at one time
…but I defied my destiny, and now the
trash keeps piling up…there’s nothing I can do
but join the unwashed masses, who dislike me
cook onions and eggs with them, in the back of
a greasy spoon…I have more patience with eggs
than people…with whom I turn the heat too high
…get to the point too fast or not fast enough
…or worse, remark that a point is what’s missing
a complete and total failure, that’s my life
…never finished or accomplished anything
I saw through it all, even my self…too bad
…I found the final solution in the trash
and left it there to rot…it smells of onions
J de Salvo is the editor of the Bicycle Review. http://www.thebicyclereview.net/current-issue.html His fiction, poetry, and articles have been published in numerous online and print publications, including Art/Life, New Angeles Monthly, and the Poetry Super Highway.
Hippodrome Mime by Ginnetta Correli
Hippodrome Mime
Pollygrind Film Award Best Music Video 2010
Music by Last Nights of Paris David Eng
Episode 24 First Night
EPISODE TWENTY-FOUR
FIRST NIGHT
I lie on the red velvet couch inside the living room of the trailer. Mother smokes a Salem next to me on the couch. The Salem stinks of peanut butter.
“Mom, that smoke is making me sick.” Mother continues the puff.
“Can you put that out? I can’t sleep.”
“I’m almost done.”
“I hate that smell.”
Mother pulls the last of the smoke into her lungs.
“Good night, Mom.”
LATE FIRST NIGHT
I dream. In my dream, I see myself. I sit on a goat. I hold the goat’s horns and guide the goat. Me on top of a goat. Together we ride through a village in Tuscany. People in the village follow us with flutes and tambourines. They sing in the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard.
I am the Messiah. The chosen one. Something touches me, invades me. My
goat stops. I kick the goat with the heel of my spur. The goat does not move.
Someone grabs one of my breasts from behind. I open my eyes. It’s dark. I see a shadow and smell a stink of body odor mixed with beer. A man. I feel him. He touches my body and caresses me. I open my eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Huh? Oh, I thought you were asleep,” Lenney whispers.
I pull the blankets tight around my chest. Shit…
What the hell was that about? Why did Lenney do that? I’m scared.
I don’t know what that was about Beatie I don’t either.
The Thought Police by Barry Titus
The Thought Police
Major Jane, government spy, surveilled through ground glass
flights from my vest to capillaries, a sail loosed within my mask.
She begged a monk in exile to broadcast to and from my mind.
The Tibetan priest’s eighty hands smear mud on eyes, mouth, nose.
The blades that gouge their sexual glands pulsate their bladders, your envelope.
The mind: shade watches ozone dissolve a lake like veil.
Monks look down my skull until a revelation: cheeks and legs on water, thigh up.
Jane said, “Sex!”
The pulse falters and puffs out. I’m punctured. The monks exude more neon letters. Words fasten and crease me. Sentences incinerate skin.
The clouds expand down between shreds.
Jane says, “That’s a pose.”
How should I not kill yourself?
The Dalai Lama says: “It’s your ego.”
What calm does the lama worship?
The elbow that will never move, torn edges so sliced and ripped a shape must have flown to roost.
Embrace your arm and confront the stalks and the thread feathered rib bones.
Thousands of nights, noon and dawns flood out a valley not on earth.
Spurn the lilac breeze, looks at bosoms annihilate. Monks, see no pallor ooze from under a blanket pressed on a face. Their corpse press on my lung. My prodded flesh mourns in drool. Gas lit words glide on runners and are let ebb like pennies you lose.
As the Buddhist Congress ordained you said: ‘Nirvana is as a woman you love.’
Cindy is a girl. What do you think of her?”
To think the silence that dust suspends must fall on an breathless pond
whose motion dissolves to crystal
like smoke that moves behind a mist.
Above the waitress’s tray, snow
The Church Bell Player by Barry Titus
I did not know some facts until after I wrote this. The CIA had blamed my grandmother for some mistakes they wanted to hide. During the 1950′s they had let English agents spy on the H bomb, steal the plans and give them to Russia. CIA pretended my grandmother had done it. They harassed my father, planted agents, tinkered with his car and tried to kill him. Two years after this novel ended, I moved from a hotel to a one bedroom apartment. The Dutch and US cut off my television cable. I had a friend, Jan Derek (Dirk) Pasterkamp, a Dutch folksinger with an apartment but no identity card. We smoked cannabis every afternoon, played the guitar and sang. He went out on my bike and bought grass. We had a friend, Walter the German, we met on Leidseplein where we talked twice a week. Walter only talked about marijuana. One night I insisted that Walter and I rent a hotel room to watch television. We found one above Rookie’s cafe, and went downstairs to have coffee. The only ones at the next cafe were an older man and an adolescent girl. Fluffy haired with spectacles, he wore a beige check jacket and tie. The girl, four inches shorter and thinner, sat part way around the table. As he spoke, now and then she shifted her glance. He pushed his face toward something down the street, hers partly moved. Later, upstairs, I lay on the bed. Walter on the floor rolled joints. I heard thumps like someone banged on the wall, and smaller bumps; then a door shut which made Walter look up. Words came through the wall. With a blush and a grin, Walter translated:
“Dirty little bitch. You’re an evil girl, you mean, filthy slut.”
February, 2000
The attempt to cut an egg increased the charge in all my muscles. Pieces sped off the plate. My numb hand could not fork them up. Girls shook their heads No or didn’t answer. The perfect, vanilla kewpie doll, a level blue eyed blond with a round forehead and globe breasts, never saw me through the glass pane. The effort to cut conflicted with the muscular overcharge. I sawed on. The struggle united with the increased effort and doubled. I was enraged over an egg. I cursed, trembled and sneered. I stabbed at the fatty bacon, l pinned and shredded. A piece flew off the table. Tall Rita with the spear head cheekbones looked back from between her legs.
After breakfast, ease of walking provoked the CIA treatment to clench my lower back. Two days later, Rita left her bra on. The gluteal muscle followed the tendon and shuddered to return twenty times. She said she might know of an apartment; drop by tomorrow. The next day I felt a scratched anger. Black whips hung on the wall. Rita cell phoned in German. The apartment was no longer free. I thanked her and left.
In my small hotel room, I added details to old notes of interrogation by hidden CIA officers. I had been experimented on. The federal spies had done ten thousand conditioning trials on me with humans and electricity. Now I told secrets I had promised to keep: the officers’ names and hints of their personalities. They’d repeated their recognizable voices. If I concentrated, the letters wavered. In a light sweat, I trembled and felt I was losing my balance.
Upside down, Rita’s breasts had flown and swelled close. Her buttocks, a semi soft bubble, followed the cord in cream. I had glimpsed an extra spasm in her back.
Two canals East and five blocks South lay Nieuwmarket, a large square where at one end stood a brick fort with conical roofs. Down a side street halfway to a canal, a slim blond admitted me. Four days later, she said: “No.” I walked back to the hotel. On the bed, relaxation brought images of men who rushed with weapons. I cursed the government. The swearing erased the attackers, but not the nervousness created with frequent electric current. I went out again. I told Rita I yelled on the phone at my first hotel. The maid thought I meant her and they asked me to leave. How was the weather in New York? “Snowing.”
In a stationary store I saw a German dictionary and thought of Rita but it was too small. Her question about the weather suggested a trip unfairly fast. Two days later, I tried a full chested blond. Upstairs she said, “I can’t. That’s it.”
Up at 2AM, tired, my thighs and biceps flexed. The main avenue was outside my window. A tunnel of air mourned from the left. “Breasts.” The plump brunette took her bra off. They faced away from me. “Now what?” “Just stand.” I held her. Outside the hotel window, a beggar played a plastic pipe. The Tv was too low to hear. If I looked too hard at the subtitles, the words switched places.
Rita called me: “Bugs Bunny.” How did my stomach get like that? The bicycle in Copenhagen. I couldn’t tell her the conditioned anxiety didn’t let me rest. A new, thick Langenscheidt’s dictionary lay on her sink edge. In Oudekerk Square, Old Church loomed, nine cement walls with nine orange tiled roofs, some conical. The bells rained a slow hymn, deep and high gongs; the melody rang like fallen cans scattered over clanged chords.
In May in the Broodje, a sandwich shop on Old Church Square, Rita came in for a sandwich, her face white above a navy coat. Her eyes looked higher than in make up. That night, the tunnel with air walls worried listened at 2:20 AM. The Church bell player, never married, wondered where the despair in the music came from. Never broken up, she hadn’t discovered grief.
Rita waved at the stars on the rear wall. I couldn’t think. Five minutes later, I said we could live in New Paltz a college town thirty miles North of New York, if she just wanted to get away. How to explain a college town. The students didn’t speak to strangers. We’d have no friends. The tension could build into an argument about what? She’d have to go back to Holland. A man spoke. Rita seemed to shrink backwards, like a scared deer.
I knocked on the glass beside the vanilla kewpie’s turned away face. She let me in. “____ me, ____ me, ____ me, ____ me.”
****
I had finished twenty poems since I left New York. An empty envelope from Mother; female modern dance; the word vergeven. Kopy Kwik copied and bound them. Under the plastic sheet, the front looked like snow with typewritten titles at different angles. Rita was probably not a lit major, but her x curtains were closed. The next day, walking up her street, I seemed to glide on light blue wings, but her curtains were closed, closed for a week. I worked on events from 1989. Hot water from the shower could make coffee in a glass container.
“Poetry; they came out well and I thought of you.” She flipped through it. Thanked me without looking up and put it on a package. The kewpie spanked my ass cheek with a leather fly swatter. Rita’s curtains were closed for another week. When I saw her, I asked her if she had a chance to read the poems. Yes. She brushed her waist length hair. Too complicated? Maybe.
Rita was with Ann sitting in a booth. One day with a shadowy look, Ann said, “Ulrika’s on vacation.” Her name was Ulrika; she’d discussed me. I put my hand on the kewpie’s shoulder. In two minutes, she said, “Yes, yes, yes, yes. How are you, Dracula?” Rita Ulrika joked.
Beside Kewpie’s armoire stood a pair of tan suede cowboy boots. Above them hung a fleece lined leather jacket. She said she will love others and I will love others. I asked if she was six feet tall. Only five eight, her wide dark eyes denied. How often did she go to the tanning booth?
“Twice a week, you seem tense,” Kewpie said.
I said: “I have strange problems. The government gave me this treatment. Electromagnetic rays.”
“Who is using these rays on you?”
CIA sounded crazy so I said FBI. Rita stopped on the way to her chair, hand half raised.
I knew I shouldn’t bring police attention to her or talk about surveillance…
To be continued
Barry Titus is a 71 year old poet and writer born in New York City. His publications include: the novel, Masks and non fiction,The Dalai Lama Caper. Barry has spent the last seven years in Holland.
Color of Meaning by Phillip David Grainger
Words are colour true hidden between if and maybe ” David you know what the power of the message will do, you know the price of finding me”
“Maybe this is not the way of it “
Maybe you should try to find me”
The truth or my truth is nothing without you. If that the chose then I choose this path”
The greatest fear certaint, the marked paragraph where in lyes unquestioning meaning. “The power of the message the certainty of the destruction that it will cause just to find me”
certaint unquestioning, what good are these when all fact conspire against.
Words tone and pitch to strike a lye or hit a truth “David I choose for you to forget this, forget me this is not you world”
“I would lye to keep him safe ,the lye within a truth I would keep him from me knowing that it would better that the truth I require “
“becouse of you Edward I know there are world times were I am never just an on looking”
“David remember to live on till all the little that left
Your faded words mean little as your cold heart beat no compassion “Edward the power of the message I will use it to keep you safe stop the flame of memory
“Tom I can not save you, what you have done the path you walk you are lost so am I “
But lyes and tainted truth
“I see a world of perfection even in the smallest detail, I see no mark from the passage of time or dent were age has been unkind “
The black fog the reflection of your own self the monster the action you choose David
Just like Tom ,like all who tried to find me that what this refection show”
wear the eye it see all but know nothing
“I dont see or rather I choose not to see why destroy this world why question , look the crake faded truths.
This world of perfection was never yours to find
The lonely child who navigate a world by an alferbet which she has yet to learn, the lost child to the howling wind
“What I face,what I know?
What can I see, I can not tell”
Wear the teacher who knows all. the lyer and keeper of realy truths
“This is my mind ,my world, this creation but that note dose not make sence the word Edward left but word not for me
Final wear the mind that stop or the heart which fail ,danger as the game is lost , as the water of the mind turn cold,icely and unkind these word are gone the game stop.
Of Canine Bondage by J. de Salvo
8/25/01
It started. I’m not sure exactly when, but it did. First it was fantasy, then pictures, movies. Finally…well, I still have that choice. Ah, Sophie.
Before I get into this battle with myself…the hardest kind, and after all, who wins?…I need to ask a question. Not for you, for me. Why does sex have to be interesting? In nature we see a lot of rape, and my darker side inclines me to not have a huge problem with that. There’s something about force, about the exercise of power. It’s delicious. The next fundamentalist nut job who tells me we have no animal ancestry needs to set up a mirror above their own bed. If there’s one thing scientists and preachers agree on it’s that the main function of the sex act is for reproductive purposes.
8/26/01
Sophie is looking at me now, somewhat warily. She’s done a lot of work for me already. I can’t think that crossing this line will mean as much to her as it would for me. After all, I can’t expect her to understand the difference between filming something (fiction), and just doing it for shits and giggles (non-fiction). Her professionalism is superior to mine in that aspect. It’s all real to her. She’s what we in the porn business call a “real amateur”. Dogs don’t act. They can be taught to perform, but they don’t act. The cries of pain and pleasure are one hundred percent real.
8/27/01
I don’t know why I’m so afraid of this final act. I’ve been felated by Sophie and countless other dogs before, that’s how it started being more than just a thought. The thing was I didn’t start it. I had to finish myself off that first time, but I soon learned how to use food both as lubricant and enticement. Sophie is the best of them so far. I really love her. I really do. That’s the problem. I know I will cause her pain if I go forward with this. Not that she’ll remember it, or be traumatized, like…say… a little kid would be. But while I’m doing it… (Doing it? Am I really that serious?)…there will be physical pain.
8/28/01
Before I made Dog flicks I was into rape flicks. The problem was the raping was never real. The most clever one was a sci-fi piece about how there’s only one woman left on the planet after a big nuclear war, and she doesn’t want to put out. That was a big seller. I am an artist first, a pervert second.
A fairly famous artist, actually. If it ever came out that Douglas Miller and Dr. Strange Love are the same person, I’d be in some real shit.
8/29/01
Part of me, I think, as I am not the most in touch with myself person around, would like that. I’d like to go down like a radical, an extremist… to hell with everyone else. I wanted to do it, so I did. Go down screaming; the most famous dog fucker of all time…. as fascinating as I was revolting.
I like to be revolting. But I will not tolerate any half measures…no no no. I need to be revolting either in total secrecy, or completely openly. I am leading up to something, perhaps.
8/30/01
Or perhaps not. I suppose it’s just that I am sitting down and thinking about it. Most days I go about my business and turn a blind eye to my darkest sides. Then I make myself drunk, or take drugs…and they come out of the shadows. Take last night for instance. I was drunk when I wrote that, trying to give myself courage. I went into her room. I looked her right in the eye. I wanted to do it, but somehow I couldn’t disconnect my conscience. Yet the craving remains.
I am a forty two year old man. For all intents and purposes, I have stopped having normal relations with women. My contact with women, in any real sense, stopped when I was married. That was when I was 33.
8/31/01
I have re-read yesterday’s entry many times. I am surprised at its honesty. That is what I set out to do here, though, but I am surprised that it is happening. I have never written anything before, so if I am gone and you are reading this, please excuse my bad writing.
What I wrote yesterday seems significant. I’m not sure how. Maybe I’m afraid of women. That’s a theory that’s out there, about my kind of extreme pervert that seems to make some sense. The more I think about it though, the more I think that maybe I’m afraid of myself. I’ve never had any real trouble giving pleasure to women, not that they’ve seen fit to complain about. I’ve often been told that I was a good lover. Maybe it was getting married that did it. My wife and I never have sex anymore. We are bored of the same old thing. Maybe we are afraid to admit that. Not maybe, we are afraid. I can sense it in the room at all times. We hardly ever even speak anymore. Our sex life, or lack of it, has taken over everything.
9/1/01
Did a shoot today. Lesbian Dog Porn. Sophie was marvelous, as was the actress. What was her name? I considered paying her a little extra to go to one of my empty studios and turn fiction into fact, but I chickened out at the last minute and went and masturbated in my office instead. Not so much chickened out, as I was actually emboldened. Is that the word? It sounds right anyways.
No doubt she would have done it. She is an addict of just about everything and has no principles to speak of. Not only has she acted out so many diversely perverse scenarios of mine, but it has been whispered in my ear on many occasions that she does not limit her self to screen work if the price is right. It would be easier with someone else involved. I would feel less responsible. Maybe I will call her.
9/2/01
No way. Man, what was I thinking? This girl is money hungry, and she could expose me. I was working on one of my films today. Not one of the dirty ones, but one designed for people with less evil imaginations. As I was watching the actress play out a scene I had written, I began to leave the set. In my mind, I mean. I began to picture her in the same role the other actress had played in the other film. I could just see little Sophie licking her cunt, loving the salts and the juiciness of it. Lesbian dog porn is an invention of mine. Imitators have sprung up, but they are few. It’s not essentially different than woman on male dog type flicks, except that the woman is never penetrated by the dog. That is what your average dog porn lover is looking for; the canine equivalent of the Tijuana donkey show. I have built my niche market by pushing that anonymous manila envelope. So far I have not found any actors willing to film with male dogs. Even hard core stars have their standards I suppose. But I will some day. Maybe then I will turn one way or the other. When I picture it in my head, it is always easy to do…and it is never like you picture it, is it?
9/3/01
I suppose the normal thing to do at this point would be to kill us all. I mean her, myself, the children. That seems shocking in too average a way. Maybe tonight I will do it. Also, you always hear of loving fathers faithfully executing themselves and their family out of love or poverty or both. None of this applies. I could do it, I suppose, just to act it out. I’m fond of such things. But no, I fear that I am totally alone….that this involves only me.
Not true, of course. With my death, many things would come out. My trauma will be theirs. Good. If people would share each other’s trauma more, less of us would go out on our own limbs.
9/4/01
I thought the point of this was to get better. To try and work it all through and see if there’s any hope for redemption. But sickness, and I am sick, I admit it now, breeds sickness. It is hard to think of the thing you are not supposed to do without being tempted to do it. And yet you must think of it in order to learn to stop doing it.
I could just let her go, but every time I try, something stops me at the last second. I have got as far as the front gate. Once I even opened it, but she just stood there staring at me, innocent to all that was in my mind. It seemed like it would be as cruel as it was kind to let her go. No, the problem is mine.
9/5/01
It all comes down to rape. I want to rape a woman badly, and I cannot tell you why. Some of us are just made in different ways than the rest of you, and yet we still have the instinct to preserve ourselves.
I do not want you to think that I am talking about some billboard slut. Some blonde with lipstick and high heels. This would give me no satisfaction. If I use such women in my films, it is only because they are commercially viable. But not my type. Such women are always being raped by the eyes; I would like to rape someone who would never expect to be raped. Of course, I do not have the courage to carry it out on humans. And…still no penetration of the other…of Sophie.
It is a question of loyalty. A dog is loyal once it has been made so, and it is very difficult- though not impossible- even to beat this out of it. That is the kind of woman I would want. The one who protests to the rape at first, but then ends up liking it. This persona exists in legend, for those of you who think that I am only referencing smut. I think that in this day and age, this would only be possible with a woman who was unattractive by modern standards. Such a woman would be the only one capable of responding to such a thing. Of course, I know the chances would be very low- but I am trying to get this out, to end my denial of the fact that I think these things.
Previously, especially during the dark ages, you can almost understand an attractive woman wanting to be raped. Sex was taboo, and yet we must imagine that people’s carnal urges were not much less developed. The evidence would certainly seem to indicate so. But I digress. Once upon a time, the only virtuous way to get laid was to “allow” yourself to be “raped”. All sex, as in the animal world, was, virtually, thought of as rape. It was a way of protecting one’s reputation in those chivalric times. “He abused me”, such women would say to their girlfriends, smiling knowingly. “But I tell you, after a while, it wasn’t bad…”
Now, of course, attractive women are raped by the eyes of all men. They know this, and this makes them unattractive to me. I love to pass some slut on the street, and make her notice that I seem to ignore her. I have grown the discipline of keeping them out of my vision, of looking towards, but never at them. This includes my wife.
I tell you, for those of you who are interested, as I am surely not: that is the way to get them. Don’t look at them. All their lives they will complain about the eyes which pry under their tops, their skirts, their pants. But just let a man pass who doesn’t give them the time of day and they ask themselves: “Why? What’s wrong with me?”, and straight away they make it their mission to seduce him. These are generalizations, of course. But things become generalizations by first being generally true. Obviously, I am not talking about Lesbians. Or dog fuckers, for that matter.
9/6/01
I have done it. Not really…only in a dream. But this is different from closing my eyes and touching myself in a number of ways.
…First and most of all, because of total suspension of disbelief. Some level of this is necessary to reach climax during masturbation, and of course during sub par intercourse, but there is- sadly, must be- some level of awareness that disbelief has been suspended. Not so in dreams. They only continue, typically, as long as we believe them to be real. It is amazing how much we are actually willing to believe, if you think about it. We can accept phantoms, all kinds of creatures, drastically altered buildings and sometimes entire cities. Sometimes even our own house has changed in some inexplicable way, or we walk into another room and find ourselves in another place; yet we do not question it. Dreams are proof that the only thing we question, on an instinctive level, is our own death. This seems to be the only possibility which begs the question: is this real? Of course, most of us are not ready to accept death, and that’s as it ought to be. It has probably helped us to stick around while so many other species have faded away. And yet, death is a very common thing, whereas many of the other things we dream about are highly improbable, if not impossible.
(The fish would seem to contradict much of what I have just written, now that I think of it. Perhaps sex, reproduction is the key. Of course it somehow had to come back to that.)
I am always myself in my dreams. I mean that I never have the oft reported experience of watching myself. I am always me, in my own head, seeing with my own eyes. I could only see the back of her head, unless I bent my neck to get a better view of her face.
Strangely, she did not seem to react at all. There were no shrieks of pain, no thrashing around trying to get away. The look on her face was…almost worried. The same kind of look she gets when she is watching me eat. Except…how can I put this?…her eyes were not intent. It was as if she were lobotomized, they were so dead and empty of feeling. It would not be this way in real life, I know. I must have cum several times; at least three, judging by the evidence.
9/7/01
The best and the worst in us are borne in secrecy.
I am turning into a poet. I did want to be a writer when I was younger. I guess I just never had much to say until recently. Now it is coming out, all of it. It is no longer secret. From myself, I mean. My motivations have gone unexamined for so long that it seems like I must have finally become aware of them through inertia. Then they just poured out onto these pages by their own will. I had no thought to write this all down. One day I just had to. Writing hard core scripts is not really writing. There’s not much dialogue, mostly instructions. I don’t write the scripts for my “normal” films.
I’m not such a great writer yet, though. I was trying to talk about secrecy…about taboo, and how it makes us go astray, perhaps even further than we might have. In secrecy there is no reference. No one there to say to you: you’re fucking up. That is why I have always loved confessions. However heinous the thing confessed, once published it is harder to get away with again.
I read confessions. That is just about all I read, these days. It started with Rousseau in college… although that was barely a confession. That just made it all the more delicious in its own way though. Because of the morals of the time, the man had to write a book almost as long as the bible just to get it off his chest that he was a masochist. Still, I imagine de Sade must have read certain portions of the confessions over and over again. They must have given him the courage to expose himself. By exposing himself, he built a dam against the flood of his passions. He could only go so far. Had he not published, and continued having his little, um, “sessions”, he would most likely have gone down in history as a shocking item in the French or Czech newspapers. “Nobleman rapes and murders woman on country road!” Instead, we have his plays…which, whatever you think of the subject matter…are well written.
I have read them in the French. Did I tell you I speak French? You who will read this when I publish my confession? I don’t want you all to think I am without education. Then you would chalk it all up to that one factor.
9/8/01
I have made a decision. I will kill myself in three days, on my birthday, and leave these notes out where my wife can find them. She has known that I am doing something secret and nasty for some time, I imagine.
The thing is, to expose myself, to talk about all the things that I have done, would almost certainly mean imprisonment. It is too late to seek help. There are no real specialists who understand my problem. The science and the data are all behind the times. People chose to ignore Kinsey’s warnings, not to deal with the darker side of sexuality, and now we are paying the price. If I had not been born in such a puritanical country…but who knows. Enough ifs. I do not have long to live, and I intend to carry out every sick plan I have hatched in the meantime. Starting tonight.
9/9/01
Why am I doing this? To stop myself? To give myself courage? How much courage does it take to fuck a dog?
I chickened out again. After last night’s entry, I drank myself into a stupor and cried intermittently all night. My wife came up to me and asked me what was wrong, and I ran away from her into the basement; forgetting Sophie was there…where I had left her. She did not follow. Amazing how I have convinced myself on some level that she does not exist, or at least does not matter. My wife, I mean. Not Sophie, obviously…she is ever present. Her existence blots out all others.
Writing it, I felt so sure of it. But if words only deceive me, of what use are they one way or the other? But then I went down there, I looked in her eyes. She saves herself, somehow. Though in all things she is an abiding and loyal little thing, she knows somehow. She fears me only when I am ready to cross this one line. She can sense it –at least on some very basic level- her hair stands up on end, and she freezes on the spot. The thing is, she becomes afraid. Perhaps if she would resist…or better, somehow seem to want it.
9/10/01
Each day brings me closer, yet further away from a decision. I am no longer a whole person. I do not so much live as vacillate. I go to work in the day, and everything passes by me. Thankfully we are wrapped for a month or two while my starlet finishes up another project which she is under a more pressing contract for. Whether I shall be here or not all comes down to Sophie. I will try once more tonight.
9/11/01
This is it. Odd, but since early in the morning, the phone keeps ringing. I have dispatched Sophie’s violated body. She went quietly, drifting off in a pleasant opium cloud. Damn, there it is again. It’s my wife; she keeps calling over and over again. Well, let her. I am going to take the shot now.
J. de Salvo is the editor of the Bicycle Review. http://www.thebicyclereview.net/current-issue.html His fiction, poetry, and articles have been published in numerous online and print publications, including Art/Life, New Angeles Monthly, and the Poetry Super Highway.
Dog by Alastair Cook
Maybe Die by J de Salvo
Maybe die
My wife is asleep
The city is outside my window
And me?
I have nothing
Just this last piece
Of night
Every road out there
Leads to trouble right now
Better not
To go anywhere, better
To go to sleep
Right now
But there’s something
Inside me, crawling
Wants to shoot out the windows
Wants to make a mess
And clean it up later
Hope no one finds out, then
Stick my face into the night
And maybe die
J. de Salvo is the editor of the Bicycle Review. His fiction, poetry, and articles have been published in numerous online and print publications, including Art/Life, New Angeles Monthly, and the Poetry Super Highway.
Naked by Rich Hillen
I’m naked in the middle of a department store and no one notices. It’s not a department store. It’s a Grocery store. It’s not a grocery store. It’s a sex club. A department store of sex. A grocery store of sex. Still no one notices me. The room is filled with cocks. Cocks in hands. Cocks in mouths. Cocks in pussies. Cocks on guys and cocks on girls. Cocks. Cocks. Mine blends in with the rest.
I dig a shallow grave in the corner to sit and die in as I watch couples, singles and transsexuals living their lonely morbid lives. I accept my fate.
There’s an old man rolling around on the floor begging for someone to piss on him as he touches himself.
There’s men whipping women and women whipping me. Tied up. Tied down. Begging. Crying. Laughing. Moaning.
Men on women. Men on men. Women on women. Trransexuals and transvestites doing everything in between.
I grab my cock and start my own memorial and pay tribute to my surroundings. I get turned on and laugh to myself when I see the fully clothed tourist girls clinging to their men frightened by the scene. They’ve never seen such debauchery in real life. I have. This is the highlight of my life. I think.
A woman walks up to me in a short tight dress and offers a hand. It’s not a woman but looks like a woman so I give myself to her. My cock is hers. She has her own but takes mine. I abandon everything until I cum. The party’s over for now.
At least I was a part of something, someone for a moment. I crawl back in my grave.
Rich Hillen Jr is an author, artist and performer. He is famous for The Serial Killer Coloring Book from the late 90′s. Hillen has since made a string of horrible full length and short films such as Serial Killers Gone Wild, Night of The Groping Dead and Welcome Home. He also founded Crawlspace Records mostly to promote his former band The World Famous Crawlspace Brothers; acoustic songs about serial killers. While he fights his sex, drugs & rock n roll addiction on a daily basis, Hillen is also working on a novel called: Yellow Socks chronicling his relationships with his paranoid schizophrenic mother and the various other mentally ill women throughout his life.
Crash Dive by Barry Titus
Crash Dive
Viral lightening burnt this shirt green
for a second a day.
Radar stations recorded
a six thousand feet per second descent.
The wounded in the damaged boat
a rope dragged under water
at night past Japanese enemy guns
to a beach.
Narcissus bleeds the darkest blue,
platinum carpet and overcast.
Divorce,
son in tears,
until you see a lawyer.
At dark
over a bay of water
lost control
in the haze.
“…. another student to court,
a bad influence on his ‘son’.”
Assay the shade when it alters your arms.
He’d heard the words,
an urge as a phrase,
so the impulse must be pulled
by the CIA.
Silence yourself,
shrivel,
an all afternoon session,
five a week with Jeff Goldberg
who orders small, and no answers.
“I’m not qualified.
I don’t really want to go.”
Served papers
have locked your child’s breast
behind a lawsuit letter
two hundred a piece
and words you break.
Pots and pans weep chrome roads.
Gongs slash screams and bells.
Staircases circle.
The sky piles stone.
Insults cut the skin away
to eat the meat
stomach and bannister radium.
If guitar with the guy over the intercom
changed body or arms
they stopped to reeducate
until he disowned
and reported their version.
Go for, jam out,
any drama role
can cause restless and impulsive
and then the flank
ulcers kiss purple and rove down.
The scorn of God
if film star Peter Lawford
who listened to
and stared at the butler
was weak and false.
Then come the dark and unsure
with feelings.
The Navy robot
salvaged the broken fuselage.
Military law will deduce the causes
and transcribe the duress,
lessons
he had to not look aside during.
He saw with the wholeness
of the alone
when love hasn’t smashed it.
Focus on him
immobilized eye and ledge
like the spine of a tame cat,
even him who hated
the shallowly scooped angles.
His feet lifted gnawed latex
by the tongue and cloth laces
to pound up wires to loudspeakers.
Above the banquet tables and seat rows
unnoticed cathedrals shaded the ceiling.
Unspoken self
to be washed off
drained not even by phosphorous
until mute upon muteness.
The breathless add a wall
as the door to your cellar.
Stand, you can steal each skin cell
through stillness to listen.
Have no knowledge of what comes next
like paint on your pants
when you must not glance at a guest.
When the morning moisture is glazed off
the ripest green grapes
are the first seen,
hands full over the wagon side.
Reply Forward
Barry Titus is a 71 year old poet and writer born in New York City. His publications include: the novel, Masks and non fiction,The Dalai Lama Caper. Barry has spent the last seven years in Holland.
Fuck Your Words by Rich Hillen Jr
I want to fuck your words. Never mind your body, your face, your personality. Never mind you. It’s your words I want.
Press myself against your words and have my way. Take your words. Kiss, lick, caress, fondle, molest and taste your words. Fuck your words. Bend your words over the chair and give it to them. Hard, fast, wet and deep inside your words.
Obsessed since I first read them I dream, eat, sleep, love and lust your words. Day and night your words cut through my mind and my body like a sharp scalpel. Incision after incision I try to live my life but your words won’t let me. I love your words.
I want to fuck your words. Tie them up. Whip them. Rape your words.
I want to hold, cuddle and spoon your words. Sleep, eat and drink with your words. Live with your words.
It’s not you. It’s never been about you. It’s not what you do or how you act. It’s your words that excite me. Fascinate me.
Still what I want the most is to fuck your words.
I want to fuck your words.
Rich Hillen Jr is an author, artist and performer. He is famous for The Serial Killer Coloring Book from the late 90′s. Hillen has since made a string of horrible full length and short films such as Serial Killers Gone Wild, Night of The Groping Dead and Welcome Home. He also founded Crawlspace Records mostly to promote his former band The World Famous Crawlspace Brothers; acoustic songs about serial killers. While he fights his sex, drugs & rock n roll addiction on a daily basis, Hillen is also working on a novel called: Yellow Socks chronicling his relationships with his paranoid schizophrenic mother and the various other mentally ill women throughout his life.
Thirteen-Squaretumbleweed
Mother Nature’s Curse by Diego
I kiss her cheek
and miss her lips
for not to intimate
She saw the miss
and wanted more. Ah God!
life’s a whore
But we just said
we’ll not to bed
she, them, all I cannot comprehend
You want it on the mouth?
Without a second thought
we bring what we have brought
All tongue and lips
I touch her hips
and surely it’s divine
My hand it’s free
And like the blind to see
I take what’s given to me
From her hip my fingers trace
her side, her breast, her neck, her face
I drink up all the draught that is my race
Once again I’m drunk and without hate
woman! you do inebriate!
I, me you do debilitate
On her knee, and up her thigh
my fingers they do fly
but at the top I stop nigh
Her skirt is tightly drawn
on legs spread open like the dawn
but I dare not touch the mons
For there’s no guarantee
that if I did I would be free
entangled still might we be
One more trip
one more rip
one more taste of her flavors I will sip
And as my hand comes close
to that which I desire most
I dig into my fleshy host
I would not dare impede
like some rampaging steed
because I know that she does bleed
Mother Nature here’s a curse
You base lecherous sot or worse
and all those impediments in your purse
As I dream of woman’s powers
I walk through fields of dewy flowers
I sit and lick and drink the juice for hours.
Diego’s Bio: An actor and writer of plays, poetry and prose. His focus on the human condition and just how peculiar it can be.
photo by Mick Opportunity
Colors of the Wind
Who is John Galt?
Finally finished this. Thank You to the band: End of Science for a great tune and to the actors some of whom are pissed at me at the moment.
Fink-Make it Good
Freeze Frame Wetsuit Hangten Wipe Out-Mike Marcellino-Ginnetta Correli-Baby Pool
www.amazon.com/Lost-Episodes-Beatie-Scareli/dp/0615213847“>
Freeze frame, wetsuit
hangten wipe out
by Mike Marcellino
She was an Italian
video digital distraction.
Hangten, wipe out.
Camera, man
stop panning
up
from the rock.
Freeze
frame. wetsuit
hangten wipe out.
She was an Italian
digital distraction.
Shot
imagination,
rip
curl.
oh
overboard,
infest with sharks,
waves
Titanic.
Camera, man
stop panning
up
from the rock.
Freeze
frame, wet suit
Hangten wipe out.
Freeze frame, wetsuit hangten wipe out, Copyright Mike Marcellino 2009
Goran Bregovic – In the Death Car (Live) Sarajevo 2000
Now let us all ride together in the death car. Shall we? Not enough room? Take turns. Me first! No you first.
Brian Eno in Dark Trees
Brian Eno in Dark Trees
Find him.
Then chase her.
Capture shots in the mind.
Hide those bullets in a dark closet.
Don’t forget.
Lock the door.
Now relax.
Watch for the sun.
The sun. -Ginnetta Correli
Beyond My Control by Stuart Ross McCallum
time for a book plug
Stuart Ross McCallum shares a true account of his battle with epilepsy-beginning with the peculiar sensations he experienced as a teenager that led to his diagnosis and concluding with his eventual recovery from a temporal lobe lobectomy.
McCallum vividly describes his twenty-year journey of living with epilepsy and how this unpredictable disease has not only impacted his life but the lives of everyone around him. For years he operated a business and managed his staff while battling an ever-increasing number of seizures. As his condition worsened and his postseizure responses became more intense, he was often prone to violent outbursts that threatened his safety as well as the safety of those in his inner circle. McCallum shares how the perception of the disease and the socially unacceptable behaviors that occurred as a result of his seizures eventually forced him to risk everything-he made the life-altering decision to undergo two brain operations that he hoped would provide freedom from a life of instability, danger, and stares from strangers.
Beyond My Control provides an honest, emotional look into a highly complex and often misunderstood condition and how one man’s perseverance helped him break through the darkness to find hope on the other side.
“I think of a perfect soul. Stuart emits friendship, love and style to those he knows or meets for the first time. Never any negativity or hard feelings towards anyone. I find myself wondering what it would be like to ghost walk into Stuart’s gallery with him not knowing I read his story. A fairytale-Mister Rogers existence. Surrounded by beauty and happiness. Yet, never lasting forever.
Stuart emits this persona that sticks to a goal of having a good life through his glass business and a genuine love of life with his family and loyal friends. Only the seizures get in the way. Nothing else. This is the beauty of Stuart’s book. Stuart shows the reader a lesson of what matters in life and why. Nothing else.
Anybody suffering should read this story for it’s positive message of hope.” -Ginnetta Correli
Distance (Sonata No.14) £e Postman
Martha Colburn “Asthma”
I wish he would stop smoking but he won’t. Lets all try to quit inhaling. No more will we breath and swallow crap. Instead let us take warm showers in the sun. Clean them gizzards out. The stinky pits deep down. scrub… scrub… scrub…
Bukowski Poetry in Motion
Thinking. Trying too hard. Addiction. Not trying. Getting off on it. Accepting. Failing. Judging. Get a real job. Forget it. It matters. To who? Me. You. Them. Why? Does it Matter?
Forgetfulness by Billy Collins
The editor of beatie’s journal felt some melancholia while watching this last night. She is feeling better now.
Murderland Part 1 H8 by Author Garret Cook
I admire writers who understand and write about dark character motivations. Jeremy, the protagonist is an insane perpetrator. Yet, through Cook’s writing, a compelling portrait of an understanding sociopath is painted through Jeremy’s thoughts. I almost felt sorry for Jeremy, especially the struggles with self control, pity and the way he interprets his world. I also liked the planting of the inner seed stuff going on. I thought this aspect added a gritty edge to the book. The perspective changes took some time to become vividly clear in my mind.
In the end Murderland Part 1 H8 reminds me of: Henry Portrait of a Serial Killer with an Electric Ant edge.-ginnetta correli
Whoa?
The creator of this blog, scrapbook or gumball is ecstatic. In fact an orgasm was imagined. A thank you to the Facebook readers living somewhere in Kitchi Kitchi Kumi Land who have decided to authenticate this website as a real site.
Currently accepting some poetry, flash fiction, reviews, music, Utube links, other links and other short less than one thousand word musings. This editor sometimes has a fetish for dark, depressing, surreal, horror, soft erotica and some hippy, hoppy, happy stuff. Previously published is fine as long as you still retain your rights.
.pdf .rtf or paste in body of email. no word or doc files.
send to beatiescareli@gmail.com
See You In Sleep At All the Wrong Times
by Brian Green
sigur ros – untitled #1 (vaka)
An oldie but goody
Broken Bulbs by Eddie Wright
The editor of beatie’s blog has decided to enter a review of an 
experimental novel.
All hail to Eddie!
This book is one of those stories you understand what is going on during the experience. Although, when your done with the process you may wonder what the hell just hit you. You may not be able to explain what may have happened.
Broken Bulbs takes you in the mind of an addict. Written with such complexity the story almost reads like poetry. Reminds me of a movie called Videodrome or Jacobs Ladder. A surreal novella indeed.
See Ya Georgie!
Lucky Man and Most Likely You Go Your Way and I’ll Go Mine by Author Ben Tanzer
The editor of this blog feels it necessary to give a big plug to a some great reads.
Ben Tanzer’s debut novel Lucky Man follows four friends from their final days of high school though their first couple of years out of college. Each has personal demons they are battling – anger, substance abuse, sexual identity, and detachment – and the novel is separated into four sections, with each section focusing predominantly on one of the friends and his individual struggles.
It is a story about friendship, growing-up and trying to move on. Interwoven throughout are explorations into dreams, the Twilight Zone, the Grateful Dead, and The Greatest American Hero. There are drugs, road trips, breakdowns, violence, and adultery. Fathers and sons try to make sense of their relationships and characters question what it means to know God. It is a quintessentially American tale, and at the end only one character remains on his feet. Whether this means he is lucky, or not, will need to be decided by the reader.
You should also check out: Most Likely You Go Your Way and I’ll Go Mine by Ben Tanzer
Most Likely You Go Your Way and I’ll Go Mine takes place in an early nineties New York City and follows the romance between Jen and Geoff the novel’s two main characters. It is a story about fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, the value of friends, the reason its best to go out for coffee on first dates and what exactly defines being on the rebound. The characters riff on their favorite books, channel Yoda and Bob Dylan, deal with siblings and try to make sense of a world that shouldn’t be as confusing as it seems to be. They also seek greater self-awareness and debate why Dallas will always be superior to Knots Landing, even as they find love, lose it and find it again.
Also check out Ben Tanzer’s’ newest book Repetition Patterns
