[leonseff]

[afrosonics]

Visit Original Link

I know what life is 

[rebeccabeauchamp]

welp I weigh 115 now I 

don’t know how that happened 

[rebeccabeauchamp]

In lieu of my body write instead  / Poetry was like mopping the house with her mother’s tongue. Then knocking back the froth: so the gyre stopped her throat.

Considering the mouth, not all holes are blind. In the third-person I’ve seen my hunger roiling, hot for cleansing, oh say would you feed this opening a whole human baby.

I want to hold that sort of whine inside me forever until of course it becomes fluid, streaming.  I live by the virtue of sound, hold a note inside my stomach so it can’t quiver.   This morning I hurled a yolk of tar – or was it fire? Noting the difference between the two is like groping the breasts of mother & offspring in the dark:  what’s the difference?

In my absence write / There is no soma but breathing. Everything else is making, which is sex, song of the heart that needs it. I left our tile dirty with my piss, my dirt, my frosting.  My sorry’s burning.

[rebeccabeauchamp]

wow this was written a year ago- 1 of my best

[rebeccabeauchamp]

THE SWEAT MACHINE

With my bitchface and my big nose I am highly emotional, needing you like a dry towel after a dip in the pool mid-summer, crush of toddlers warbling against the chlorine, the sun like a gumball swooning. O how I worshipped your swath of cotton because it is so stained & awesome & beveled to the wind, the heat. I am an amateur stripper cutting shapes around your flagpole where my cunt is the void you feed a quarter, a feather, a lick of skin, softest always when it’s dripping. Look at me, lathed in SPF like /something perfect faltered/, bald, spinning, worshipping the shape of my hair. Singed & absent.

[rebeccabeauchamp]

When Mickey fucks Minnie must he try hard searching for an opening in all her skin like black taffeta, all her drawn-on & filled-in, does he mistake her yonic mouth for the opening he wants because it is her only visible hole.  Does he think her tongue like mink, her eyelashes like flicks of pulp tethered to two overwhite eggs, her tee-hee-hee unsure and beautiful because. Her timid cartoonish laugh a rope of ink & feather.  Does Mickey get hard.  Does Minnie touch his thick fat whatever & swoon or does she think in that moment of how her parts were slapped on, a set of rules applied to the body because guys like Mickey, well, it’s not like they know anything else.  When Minnie comes because she can’t help it does she clutch her dumb chest; does she clutch her stomach and know no one sketched the maze inside:  the heart, the voicebox, gut. Does she know when she laughs it’s air pumped through her jet-dark outline weathering, does she know she cannot moan, does she know she cannot fake it, does she imagine for a second all the things that might fill her:  a host of guns smuggled, ten lobs of cookie dough ice cream, a lifetime of children she might feed with her wrists. Minnie is bald.  Is Minnie embarrassed by the one bow plunked askew at headtop, does she wish for hair like a Real Girl, does she worship its liquid absence. Does she feel Mickey’s flatness so similar to hers and question his potency; does she question science & the law that says man must fuck woman, even when her body barely exists. Does she wonder who carved her does she question why she’s lived forty lifetimes without growing a lick of fur all the while watching history churn, watching the a-bomb become a hand-held gold detector, books become screenplays, hands become instruments, et cetera, she’s in pain but the answer’s in the script: laugh! and laugh she must. Shucks & garsh, Mickey! Good god!  Minnie remembers the day the phonograph held its awkward mirror up against the living, remembers being stuck mid-frame and hearing Edison’s voice through the clean earthen jetstream she could not touch, remembers wondering what her voice might sound like transmuted and what she would say if she could:  What does blood look like. I feel heavy. Where’s the addendum confirming it’s okay for a mouse to yoke a dog to his house red-mouthed and drooling.  At night after Mickey jerks himself to sleep Minnie feeds Pluto a hunk of angel bread, it’s the least she can do. She is so tender and kind. Throw the girl a veil. She wishes her eyelids heaved with more real feminine personality, wishes she could drive a car, wants to start a hedge fund, wants a nose ring, wants so goddamn much. In no cartoon has anyone ever seen Minnie eat. When Mickey finishes does she call to his kurt attention there’s no hole in question to fill, no dish, no fixture for the white plinth that is her endless hunger, nothing to suck.  Does Minnie watch her husband’s ugly open mouth contract like an urchin while he sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. Does she imagine ramming one rubber fist then the other through it. Does she call this thought a reckoning. Does she stay awake forever, watching.

[rebeccabeauchamp]

Hollowed at the crux, my cassiopeiae I tell a white turtleneck adult size small Thrifted, of course, as the poor do Lady of the Chair if I ever were poor I’d tell you I will suck on the Tao of Pooh like i need the money Fruit o payola ripening and turning: a ballet dancer Bribes herself into tatas, snacks, accepting milk for what it is and it was for sure a cruel cruel joke Watching those 1000 Russian orphans in the shop eat John Frieda Sheer Blonde for gruel Everything is retarded & i put it on, growing bigger For i will never forget Devin breaking underneath me i will never forget fishing, oil of stepdad Please sir I want shum more says Oliver writhing Do you know that kind of feeling? Well, yeah

[rebeccabeauchamp]

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today

To come to terms with prayer, laced with jawbreaker phoneme,

The vowel in retroflex, mouth bending like a dude in assless chaps

Let’s assume songs are bodies & unfuckwithable

So the voice must be tarped over the bass

So the skin must be translucent or perfect

We must be sincere with ourselves and others

Let’s assume the synthetic 3D of the song or the body

What then when he crawled out of the bathtub & onto the floor

Dripping in the video for a song with no bass at all

Where he was both mother and father or neither

He didn’t know

Though there is a universe inside a teardrop

Then turning the question on me with his eyes like zeros

Begging me to be him or be invisible 

[rebeccabeauchamp]

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today

To come to terms with prayer, laced with jawbreaker phoneme,

The vowel in retroflex, mouth bending like a dude in assless chaps

Let’s assume songs are bodies & unfuckwithable

So the voice must be tarped over the bass

So the skin must be translucent or perfect

We must be sincere with ourselves and others

Let’s assume the synthetic 3D of the song or the body

What then when he crawled out of the bathtub & onto the floor

Dripping in the video for a song with no bass at all

Where he was both mother and father or neither

He didn’t know

Though there is a universe inside a teardrop

Then turning the question on me with his eyes like zeros

Begging me to be him or be invisible 

[youshouldkno-blog]

[rebeccabeauchamp]

MODULES FOR SELF-BETTERMENT  TRIAL SESSION #1

REBECCA BEAUCHAMP & JONO MI LO  IN THIS MONTH’S ISSUE OF ARACHNE.CC 

NEW SLICK OUEVRE PLEASE PULL OUT YOUR ART THERAPY COLORING BOOKS...

Jónó Mí Ló (Born; Jonathan Milu Lockhart°1982, Dayton,​Ohio​ United States) is an experimental musician and visual artist who works mainly in the underground internet music and visual art scene​s​. Currently living in New York, New York. Words that come to mind, in no particular order, include digital​, dystopian and surreal; Mí Ló creates work in with a fascination with​ ​clarity of content and with an uncompromising attitude towards conceptual minimalism and sample based art.

Over the past ten years He's collaborated on a number of projects with artists all over the world such as: VIA (Music and New Media Festival)​; Pittsburgh Filmmakers; Orange Milk Records; T​he ​W​rong ​D​igital ​A​rt ​B​iennale.

Rebecca Beauchamp is a poet, composer, and digital artist from Washington D.C whose work reimagines languages of commerce, femininity, & representation. She is the author of Necessity of Foreplay (Gauss PDF), Welcome to My Book (Gauss PDF) and Poems About Bulimia (Hysterically Real).

[rebeccabeauchamp]

how do i delete everything?

[rebeccabeauchamp]

http://rebabeauchamp.com -- other/better home. for devotees 

[gausspdf]

GPDF195 : Rebecca Beauchamp : Welcome to My Book

Rebecca Beauchamp

Welcome to My Book

2015

PDF

[bitch-media]

In 1982, David Bowie called out MTV on-air for not airing enough videos by Black artists. 

Transcript of this interview via Tech Insider. 

[frankocean]

On the real though Donald Trump. How is it 'interesting' that these shootings happened in a country that's tough on guns? Tell us Don? Because it sounds like that vacuous observation was about giving your NRA-loving constituency a handjob and spinning a tragedy for political gain and I'm thinking maybe using a situation where dozens of innocents have just been murdered in the streets isn't the best time. No?

[rebeccabeauchamp]

Hollowed at the crux, my cassiopeiae I tell a white turtleneck adult size small Thrifted, of course, as the poor do Lady of the Chair if I ever were poor I’d tell you I will suck on the Tao of Pooh like i need the money Fruit o payola ripening and turning: a ballet dancer Bribes herself into tatas, snacks, accepting milk for what it is and it was for sure a cruel cruel joke Watching those 1000 Russian orphans in the shop eat John Frieda Sheer Blonde for gruel Everything is retarded & i put it on, growing bigger For i will never forget Devin breaking underneath me i will never forget fishing, oil of stepdad Please sir I want shum more says Oliver writhing Do you know that kind of feeling? Well, yeah