stageless

[stagelessarts]

Jemy Francillon - The Olé and Plié

Feet splayed, so well trained in the brutality of the pointes. The performance begins long before the salutes and bows with every step to center stage practiced, poised, and perfect. The crowd is addressed - chest pumped, head high, and haughty. With a deep bend, the show begins in earnest.  A quick twirl, shoulders stretched and level, blades are drawn. The second position is taken in a flash.  An ideal pose to begin taking flesh. Carefully choreographed prancing, light and nimble - so precise, it could easily be done in the space of a thimble. This dance is done in loops pushing the needle through and through to sew the strings that ensnare the stares of following eyes. There is a taunting brutality underneath the graceful disguise.  These dainty steps are still tracking blood as they as they perform their pointe work.  Every plié is a fractured reminder of bones folded over and broken. Never scared of scars, a near surgical coupé is executed, cutting clean and deep.  Now in the third position, arm raised high, the patrons are called to applaud. Intensity builds.  Adrenaline rushes through widened veins. The frills fluttering about the waist like a cape demand and draw attention, focused and rapt.  A tool used by a master to lead the puppet. The strings are still being pulled. The next step, strong and determined, is both the instrument of entertainment and interment, each in turn. This is how you dance on a grave. With a pivot, surefooted leap, and a lunge. This is where the mettle is tested - as it runs through the spine and strikes the heart of the watchers as they pass on their cheer, eyes wet and lungs emptied. As the fourth position is taken, the crowd is an eruption of ovation and praise. Feet planted firmly, chest pumped, back arched with head held high and haughty, the admiration is greeted with aplomb. As the roses pour in, reverence greets the exquisiteness and power of the dance of the swan and the bull.

[stagelessarts]

Ohan Hominis - An Ironic Title

Something something humanity is important Something something war is bad Something something American government Something something love, man Something something something art with a message

Something something life Something something beauty Something something peace Something something guns are bad Something something something poem with a purpose

Blah blah protest Blah blah freedom Blah blah drugs Blah blah oil

Words about cynicism Words about optimism Words about existentialism Words about sexism, and racism, and occasionally orgasm

Yay this Boo that Hooray this and that Fuck that and this

A is great but B is better C is horrible but D is worse In the end they’re all just letters But we can’t tell and that’s the curse

Something something statement piece Something something avant-garde Something something making a point Something something missing the mark Something something something self-deprecation

And now for the entertaining part to conceal the message and make this art more mainstream so it can be easily distributed via mass appeal:

Blah blah pretty things Blah blah word play Blah blah extended metaphors Blah blah thesaurus

Words about sex Words about love Words about nature Words about drugs

Yay edgy Boo conservative Hooray liberalism Fuck status quo

Something something hidden message Something something clever ruse Something something war is bad Something something humanity is important

[stagelessarts]

Open Brain - April 2nd

Hi friends!  Here's a quick recap of how it went down at last week's Open Brain. Thanks for making it such a blast - we jammed hard, we laughed a lot, we cried a bit, and we honed our massaging skills.  Come join us on 4.2.15 for the next Open Brain! RSVP Here: http://on.fb.me/1Btm7OL

[stagelessarts]

Michael Ketigian - Drink My Brain

The Stand 9/18/14

This is the most important poem I've written.

It was my first attempt at writing what I came to call a personal prayer. When I separated myself from religion, I recognized the need to form my own perspectives on life, reality, and self-betterment. I've always had too much energy to be able to maintain control, so the obvious first step in my evolution was to Bring it Back to Center.

Backstory This poem was born at around 4:30 on the morning of September 14th after a night of intense partying. I found myself in need of relaxation when I got home, as my body naturally tends toward intensity. I looked in the mirror and told myself to bring it back to center—and then repeated the five words a hundred or so times at various speeds and intonations until the meaning had drifted away, leaving only sounds. I had found my mantra.

I went to sleep without writing the words down, but the seed had been planted. I picked them back up a month later, built up and tore down several poems over the next six months, and finally performed this on May 6th, 2013. It was a big step forward for me, and I recite this prayer whenever I feel less than centered.

[stagelessarts]

Ohan Hominis — A Poet's Poem

The Stand 9/18/14

Poetry isn't just for 18th century frilly shirts sitting under trees writing about flowers and heartache. Even though a lot of what we do is built on a foundation of classical poetry, contemporary wordslinging is much more than rhyme schemes and structure.

[stagelessarts]

Ohan Hominis & Michael Ketigian - Much Ado About Mousing

The Stand 9/18/14

A poem about one mouse’s existential struggle with a fiendish foe.

[stagelessarts]

Michael Ketigian — Back To Center

The Stand 9/18/14

This is the most important poem I've written.

It was my first attempt at writing what I came to call a personal prayer. When I separated myself from religion, I recognized the need to form my own perspectives on life, reality, and self-betterment. I've always had too much energy to be able to maintain control, so the obvious first step in my evolution was to Bring it Back to Center.

Backstory This poem was born at around 4:30 on the morning of September 14th after a night of intense partying. I found myself in need of relaxation when I got home, as my body naturally tends toward intensity. I looked in the mirror and told myself to bring it back to center—and then repeated the five words a hundred or so times at various speeds and intonations until the meaning had drifted away, leaving only sounds. I had found my mantra.

I went to sleep without writing the words down, but the seed had been planted. I picked them back up a month later, built up and tore down several poems over the next six months, and finally performed this on May 6th, 2013. It was a big step forward for me, and I recite this prayer whenever I feel less than centered.

It always does its job.

[stagelessarts]

Jemy Francillon — The Dancer

A recent experience in which an awkward situation was narrowly avoided led me to explore the dynamics of power when a woman is called to entertain a room full of men.  

Read more for the written form of the poem.

Show me some of that Spanish dancing.

Step inside this room perched beside the Hill, on legs hewn from centuries old passion that rages still.

Curtains pulled tight as the door shuts, and locks.

“Do Not Disturb”.

We’ll let no dark escape this cave.  Oh, you will shine tonight Bright Eyes.

Loosened bulbs twitch and flicker casting our demons as giants lurching on the walls.

It seems the Gideons missed us,

there's nothing sacred in our drawers,

but we’ll exorcise you tonight, Angel.

Every step sets a fire in the room.

We’re hungry, and each dripping mouth quiets your flame.

The air gets thick with sonorous anthems to your form.

He likes them “mami’s”, so show us some of that Spanish dancing.

Your movements serpentine as you slither out of your skins,your virtue kicked to the floor.

Hypnotized by your charm, we lick our lips at the sight ofyour fruit.

Every kick, swing, and drop tugs us closer, deeper

Black hair matted on beads of sweat keeps your eyes dry - for now.  

The tears come later.

Our hearts racing, trying to keep to the beat of your metronome hips.

We're drunk

on you.

We lose ourselves.  In this cave, huddled around your twirling inferno, our shadows now cast one horny headed, cloven hoofed creature - swaying, giddy, and ugly.

Pan, the god of shepherds, approaches like a wolf in sheepskin.  Yipping and nipping, jowls grazing his nymph's nose.  Now this nymph knows this nympho's nature.

Sensing the pressure, your learned legs execute a divine pirouette and end in a grand plié that looks far more inviting than any of us deserve.

All things are perfect when catered.

Your practiced two-step is a delicate death march.

You didn't do three hours a day, six days week for a decade and a half to dance for dodgy degenerates, your mother berates.

You weren't taught to sashay in dimly lit rooms for dim witted grooms

to be - she seethes.

You got lost somewhere on the national lawns and now you’re more than a few yards from Juilliard.

You’d sit at Lincoln’s feet and pray to make it to his Center

But who needs it?

You've always had the power.

And you've always loved it. Nothing makes you feel stronger or more whole than watching us sink dumbly under your spell as we drink numbly in this cheap hotel.

You never lost control. You love the show.  Love the disguise.  Live on lust - no matter whether it's that guy's or this guy's

or mine.

The music stops. We're interrupted by Tchaikovsky. You answer the call, exchange quick words and hang up.

Outta time gents.

Pay up.

Goodnight.

� |~_57

[stagelessarts]

Michael Ketigian — Finger Ninja

The Stand 9/18/14

Have you ever paid a small Thai woman to beat the shit out of you? If not, I highly recommend it.

[stagelessarts]

Ohan Hominis — Midnight Wife

The Stand 9/18/14

If I wrote a piece every time I saw a beautiful woman in a cafe I'd be the world's most prolific poet. If I ever end up gathering all the pieces that I have actually written about those women in one place this poem would be the introduction. If you were to ask when this poem was written, I'd say a year ago.

[stagelessarts]

Jemy Francillon — Word Monster

The Stand 9/18/14

This piece was originally to be called word monger, but when I was titling it, it autocorrected monger to monster, and I thought that was quite clever so I let chance win this one. The poem is actually performed from the perspective of a hawker of wares in a grand bazaar. His wares of course, being words.  Where else do you think they go and buy all those vowels?