underground ink

You See.. .. w.ww..WWhat you have stumbled onto here is a NEW generation of beatniks slinging ink. Keeping in the tradition of a writers words meant to speak. Meant to Think. Words to scream! Words written to whisper Revolutions inside the minds of those Meant to Dream. We are man, we are woman, we brace the culture divide. Come inside, you can watch while words collide. We are underground ink. Come, Feed the Beat. The “Beat Generation” is viewed as a cultural revolution or a literary movement that emerged in the late 1940’s. It reflected the mood of a portion of Americans that had become disenfranchised and were searching for a place to fit into the American experience. The "beats" made their historical, social, and political impact by rejecting traditional norms and seeking alternative forms of expression. They were the creators of the modern counter-culture, a concept, which has changed and grown throughout the years to allow the inclusion of the young, the marginal, and various sub-cultures to enter the mainstream in some form. From the “hippies” and the “flower” children of the sixties and early seventies through the “hip hop” culture of today, all followed the path originally embarked upon by the “beat generation.”

[queerandthecity-blog]

Looking for LGBTQ+ Bloggers

Looking to follow some new people. Reblog this post if you write/post about LGBTQ+ topics or feminism. 

[undergroundink]

Apply to the Summer in Granada Writing Retreat by June 15, 2015!

[undergroundink]

We are back, and

I am prepared..

For your gnawing, your needing, the way that you feed me. 

Provoke me please.

Emblazon my page with your words. Fill me with something disturbed.

Somebody.  Save me.

[undergroundink]

Language - AKA, a Weapon of Mass Destruction

Consider this quote: “Language is the armory of the human mind, and at once contains the trophies of its past and the weapons of its future conquests.”

The assumption can be made that language resides in the mind awaiting use. To make the rest of the quote clear, it must be deconstructed. The 15th century definition of armory refers to a place where arms are not stored, but manufactured, implying that language and its use is a creative process. The word trophy comes from trope, meaning “a figure of speech”; trophy means “a spoil or prize of war” from Middle French; together, trophy means a figurative prize; if language is a prize of war from the past, it must be an indestructible unit of value.

The word weapon comes from Germanic roots, most likely from the West Germanic tribes who invaded England in the 5th century AD, and who the Romans borrowed the word from to replace bellum (Latin for war, uncomfortably associated with beauty). Because the West Germanic tribes loved a great warrior, words relating to war infiltrated their culture (i.e. the word “wig”, like Wiglaf from Beowulf; incidentally, Beowulf is one of the earliest written pieces of the English language).

Language as a weapon can therefore:

conquer, meaning “defeat, or vanquish” from Old French

OR

conquer, meaning “procure by effort” from Latin

Therefore, language can be used as a weapon of mass destruction (subjugating other countries of non-native speakers) or elevate an object, person (Eliza Doolitle), etc..

In case you’ve lost track, that is: Language is a manufactured but indestructable unit of high value, with the power to destroy or exalt the culture and society of its native speakers, as well as the culture and society of surrounding non-native speakers.

AKA, a weapon of mass destruction.

[undergroundink]

Footnote

Floating from an asterisk, a shooting star muck black nails grip to lewd mouths, stretching their cracked lips, their brittle bones for virgin words to chew with teeth as sharp as knives. Then spit up, had, a footnote in typed black text.

[undergroundink]

Of inferior dirt they call her thriving a green queen among the withered weeds pursuing apples rotted, sun-dried seeds gourged with possom teeth and grinning wide as the Atlantic Her knuckles are bitten raw bowing letters and postage stamps to stocking-footed men If she’s done it once, she’s done it twice before Then, how now my mousy, matted friend smeared black with pitch and maple leaves The winter is dead, and so are you.

[undergroundink]

human condition (trying to communicate)

brother, silence and hear: our raw cries translated into little words. a robotic hand distorting our breath, musical but inaccurate. what did we expect, trying to ‘speak’ in such an existence based on patterns, repetition, organization, mathematics, geometry sacred, logical, infinite, but how it stifles our HUMANITY.  unravel this pattern, brother i need your skilled hands, unwrap the equation, make everything one: my sharp yells, my deep sighs, learn my language. bear with my cry, decipher it backwards it leads to my heart (out of alignment, far from the universe’s mystic logic.) had i not been thus intercepted, my sound would echo, earth would know me, would certainly wail back.  only then will we begin to realize the humility and honor of the human condition something like: shaking on the mountain, eyes burning, howling at the moon.

nina

[nowhere--now]

none of my friends want to talk about my drinking problem but they love telling me the terrible things i did last night

[undergroundink]

a love poem

I. My love for you burns like the jalapenos i ate straight and dry on an empty stomach or maybe more like the juice i rubbed into my eye, me wailing fit to die, you laughing fit to cry.

II. Some late morning I am tickled pink and somewhat terrified of your sober and  someways twisting fists.

III. She woke up with his hands around her neck: he dreamt of protecting her.

nina

[undergroundink]

With an ignorant disposition searching blindly in the dark for answers in a midnight game show staged in back alley, brick rooms facing the white, white stars reaching toward the poisoned blue. A set of false teeth, a glove gripping iron rods rusted crimson red, so old they'd bend and break They would perish under red brick weight and dust. Dust for red, red brick walls.

[undergroundink]

To kiss those lips which so afflict the tongue, in bloody battle do bleed scarlet red to hiss mistakes of feeble men and catch the jaw in yawning traps. Clenched shut with ivory chains grating gums to keep the nay-sayers sore, and silent. Do the ugly really speak and do the beauties sing? The clenchéd jaws will never tell.

[undergroundink]

You are a serpent you are the moon you are a Sunday afternoon You are a playbill you are a book You are the photograph I took You are a pen you are a quill you are the erosion of my will You are an apple you are a tree you are the sweet, sweet honey bee And I am irrelevant.

[undergroundink]

Winter rains freeze white-wash skin awaken words forgotten, and I blinded with glass, with liquid silk remember the lines of forgotten prose.

[undergroundink]

this is not a poem about our lips meeting this is not a poem about my heart beating this is not a poem about romance, fingertips, or love, fast and fleeting. this is a poem about the sweat on your neck this is a poem about the places you’ve wrecked;

this is a poem about the way your mouth opens in a dogsmile, all seething teeth, comical with heavy breathing. this is a poem about the sounds our bodies make in the heat, sticking and pulling again and again.

this is not a poem about your blue eyes this is no fucking sonnet, no valentine’s day surprise, this is a poem about the spreading of my thighs, the sanctity of my sighs, a hundred feeble tries, the buzzed, undone flies.

this is not a poem about purity or candlelight or grace, no glitter, no gold, nothing holy, no space. this could be a poem about how i’m a whore, and you know i’m not lying when i say i want more, and how it just becomes one more chore, but theres no topping that thing at the core, and i find myself wondering whats in store for motherfuckers like us who like what they see and that its me for you and you for me, and when i’m sittin’, wondering if this is all i can be i’m still taking what i can; hell, it’s free.

[undergroundink]

The Moon Lily

It was a room full of noses; slanted, curved, bumped; and breathing, a simultaneous inhalation from slim nosed, beak-like noses; the noses of black tie socialites with complexes and clean cut, high chins In a great movement of conformity, the congregation lifted and lowered their shoulders together, carrying on with their canards, their satiric muckraking In the center of this mess their saving grace, their moonlight Lily a mythological reality. It burgeoned and they quieted to watch all holding their aristocratic breaths blue-faced, as blue as their blood The Lily bloomed, the people cried out loud too shocking was it all when the beastly beauty the moonlit blossom the dewdrop petals suddenly turned to ash and crumbled beneath the moonlight a short, dispassionate death.

[undergroundink]

member of the beast

these jackals aren't after your body, your hot, tight, good godly body. they aren't looking to drink you, they aren't looking to make you wet, or lick you through, or chew your tongue.

no one is trying to stick it deep. no one is trying to come clean. devils aren't flying above your bed, screeching about your mother in hell, or lighting you up, or damning you down.

you are smellable. tellable. repellable, infallible. the man at your feet knows what you can do. the bulb on the table can shine out or shut off, but you are on. you are on; you are always on.

you know what things hurt.  you know the tickle of the nine tails,  the soft slip of the razor. you can feel the hands around your neck and love them because it is not punishment.

all that you looked for in god or in family could not compare.  feathers in your thighs and the skin you never felt; you are not ashamed.        you are at peace.

nina

[undergroundink]

For a while, I manage it only sick of grand gestures but who am I to judge? And when I think I've managed it when it strikes me down I begin a life lived in perpetual darkness. And that's when it gets me when this silence, for so long, has been my death.