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FUCK IT THE ENTIRE PAMELAD

Aka Pamela Anderson’s Epic Poem. from July 2014 on Facebook. you are welcome The Pamelad Smoldering... I know it's bad for you... But, this is when I wish, I had a cigarette- something I've never tried- (light up) some kind of relief.. I wish it was Italy 40 years ago-- The moon rising over the Amphitheater-- to tremendous applause... like Herzog (clap) Europeans don't seem to care about silly smoking laws?, We do what we want anyway - behind closed doors-- Our true character, collective complexities. childish activities - patterns- genetics? Attention deficit- - ...SEX ... a lost art-- a sickness-- Perversions- Lost sensuality - The cruel smell of orange blossoms... I love being in love– but expectations, make it impossible to be happy- or satisfied… I've tried… so hard.. maybe it's not in fashion– Tradition…just seemed so romantic…, I guess it's a used up ideal – for the old fashion… not modern… Female security… lost- no way– Coded, and loaded Cell phones, Computers — Ordering sex on line- is like ordering a book on Amazon– and … snooping eats you alive– A mirrored action. obsessive love… unhealthy, hopeless- knocked sideways– There is always this feeling - of discontent– Like something is off… I can't put my finger on why– Who wants to be the Warden– I want out of here– out of this time – in space– Grey, muted crystals, from unsavory places- bad intentions, dull- no fire-- a secret life - Laying in my hotel bed-- pulling up my stockings- carefully re-attaching to the garter- , The cuban heel- the line (right on course) the works... Feeling a little guilty- I started to fantasize-- Il Postino, Pablo Neruda- Should I go to Capri--? So frustrated-- burning... questions... No man knows what to do with me-- I blame myself-- To play with me, is eternal-- I'm not 'on the clock' or… on the 'payroll'– rrrr– I had to get out of the room- The velvet stuff and porcelain things closing in on me– What have I done...? I knew it was wrong from the start-- primitive-- base instinct.. Never marry a rich man... Euros from a Vagabond.. Just start walking - (Like Jeanne Moreau and Miles Davis) Never look back- There is only beauty ahead, Salvation.. Glory Rushing... I almost forgot where I was-- shit-- My white Burberry trench - - on the floor? A Parkay floor… (Narration by a deep voiced sexy black guy) BG- She stopped to admire it's clever design, ME- "So pretty" BG wrapped herself up— She snuck out the door with a quiet click, and Seamlessly, floating down the hall- (on wire) Her Tom Ford feet didn't touch the ground– Falling gracelessly into an elevator playing Nat King Cole's …. Stardust? (remembering the movie) ME- "Fallen Angel?" BG Nobody was up yet- out into the cool world she goes, ME-"Freedom… I can breathe…" BG- looking for a little human contact? Playful seduction? … ME- "I'm so Hungry…" BG- Her heart was racing— It was barely dawn — Bathed in perfect light- magic hour– — ME- "Everyone looks good this early" BG- Even cats and hummingbirds Was anyone watching her.. She gazed up into dark windows… to nobody… and let the jacket fall loosely around her shoulders… The rush coming back- … a little lost on purpose, Hiding around corners, ME- so dangerous- my body is on fire…. my body is never done– trouble finds me– please find me- The iron is always hot!" BG- She Leaned against the cool wall of a stoney church- It felt good, soothing- ME- I wonder how prostitution works- Does it ever feel good? Lost little souls - being taken advantage of-- or taking advantage of- Is it just for money? Is it for attention? or --- both-- Women suffer- - Everywhere... rules, rules, rules-- conflicting needs.. I can't find the answers-- It's an epidemic-- I know I won't compete with a computer-- or - a gaggle of hollywood boys hiring poor Russian girls to swallow loaves of bread up their anus'?- How does that work?" BG- She was disturbed-- How far can she take this?-- Is it even real?-- ME- "Have we lost men to thin air--- to the Abyss-- to technology and lube- Flesh is attached to a heart and a brain- takes effort...and skill... Where are the great lovers?-- A lost art... God , I hope not... I've never been to Columbia-- Should I go?- I really want to go! Is this Hysteria?… Objectification? now– Coming down from the ceiling, dripping in gold glitter– Dancing with Nureyev- eyes closed— the dream… arousing my tenderness, A sweet rawness- feeling bruised and scratched up– Hypnotic - Life is sensual– not a "fix it in post"– ME- I miss PLAYBOY- The End of an Era– Chivalry, elegance- Celebrated imperfections - differences… hot—passionate dreamy scenes… The girl next door– shyness– "it's my first time" but - not my last….(wink) – I'm planning a mysterious coup– Want to get in on it– Julian Assange? Is it healthy, to be fantasied about… by many men –? Isn't that the goal- How many can we effect– It's natural– to want to be desired– The world creeps up on you– and there you are, ALL over the place- places you never intended to be– (desert storm?) (soldiers) I am human you know– left to adjust to the madness- No mercy- pay the price– my fault- BG- feeling empty, sad– withdrawn- Left to Isolate– Medicate. Go to sleep– ME-NO! I wont- - ME- You know- It's not freaky enough, to just be beautiful– I've never felt beautiful- I always felt sexual… and blind.. oh wowwy… I'm losing my mind– I'm shutting down– It's such a strange feeling… going numb… in front of everyone—- It's like a Self inflicted drowning…hard to do– (Alarm bells!!)— When did I want to be this thing?– To attract what? When did I go from a curious little girl, to an insatiable woman? Girl on the run… Femme fatale… devoted and ….divided. Are we all going crazy? - or, is it just me? Is it that stuff on unwashed vegetables? When did I lose control over my own heart?– When did I start believing , That this is all I'm good for- against my better judgement– fell for it- dammit- it all backfired– It doesn't feel good to be used, neglected, ignored— controlled…. I'm not doing this— It's humiliating - I have to turn this around– Settling is powerless- desperate– an illusion– Can't buy your way out of this one …buddy!!, I'm cold- (She can't stop laughing..) Reminds me of a play I wrote -- That one about The Hell's Angels, starring - Steve Queen and Brigitte Bardot-- The Entr' Acte.... ** A car chase- She is going on and on (in french) and He's just trying to have his way with her- everything is double entree' Funny/Sexy-(subtitles projected) They've stolen billions in diamonds - she's dripping from head to toe... in a sparkly madness of laughter--- 60's Porsche?- (or that GT/Bullit car) All in a Car - bouncing and swerving-- lights- facing the audience-- (with BW projections from the 60's behind them--)... They fall in love-- They fall apart--- I'm not sure what the The Hells Angels have to do with it-- but they stay in the title--- The End....

@bitchscape

Apr 10, 2025

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leaving montgomery park

we’re careening— well, that sounds dramatic. not careening— but sliding, holding you and myself in place— because my disposition leads (and has always led) to believing abandon reckless will kill if I let it as close as myself and yourself held only by bicycle rope or kayak rope or moving box rope side beside inside truckbed backseat forgone throats slicked with City of Roses forest gin and Artemis Moons I’m sober and you’re not I’m anxious and you’re not you’re carefree spit-balling about side parts and saying love and love as we pass long-haul truckers— eyesclosed Lyft drivers— that pinkie-promise coworker to fast friend elbow to elbow barefoot to clogs off in the cab shallow river dipping mask off cheek pinch I-tell-everyone-you’re-my-cousin kind of love that no mother could ever that no father could ever that kind of love that door we kicked down and threw into that mustard bonfire of before that old worthless hinge don’t work so won’t bother not ever not now not in this truckbed— I toss my thoughts to traffic fine me $900 for littering lock me up for language you say what a beautiful city my glasses are in my pocket those empty offices stacked apartments and windowbeam glitterblurs fall into the nightvoid I’ve seen beautiful and more unmatched in those words you weave so keep weaving them— I’ll be here listening long after we pull into the driveway. (& if u like it, I linked my poetry newsletter :)

@chickeninshoes

May 14, 2024

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“Ithaka” by c.P. Cavafy

As you set out for Ithaka hope your road is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians, Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians, Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you. / Hope your road is a long one. May there be many summer mornings when, with what pleasure, what joy, you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time; may you stop at Phoenician trading stations to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfume of every kind— as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities to learn and go on learning from their scholars. / Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you’re destined for. But don’t hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you’re old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich. / Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you wouldn't have set out. She has nothing left to give you now. / And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you. Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

@gaucheries

Mar 15, 2025

Top Recs from @saoirse-bertram

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Absent ephemera

Bereft of a true home, I dwell instead in sentiment and practice the collection of numerous small tokens thereof: an olive-pin, a tea-tag, a berry-shell, a fortune. I treasure the incitement of memory brought about by these little markers in time-passed, as I do that incited by the more obvious strains: postcards and Polaroids and locks of hair … and these too I try to accumulate, these too light me! But perhaps what is most meaningful is the undisplayable — that which is gone — letters received and lost, letters writ and never sent and lost; a poem misplaced in the loose-leaf of a moulting notebook. A garland of flowers or bouquet that remains only in a blurred photograph; a collection of photographs drowned in a flood. Since my adolescence, some of most beautiful pictures I’ve made on my cameras have been the nonexistent — the mechanisms failed or my Nosferatuesque fingers blocked the lens or or the memory card betrayed me or the film was overexposed through actions entirely beyond control — yes, the most beautiful, I say! It is just so. I can picture them all behind my eyes in perfect clarity — so so beautiful — as beautiful as the flowers that nevermore will fragrance a room and all those words which forevernow lay unread. I can’t speak exactly to the wider benefit of this “recommendation”. But somehow this is the sort of thing that makes me happy.

@saoirse-bertram

May 10, 2023

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Kenka

Maybe this is played-out in the eyes of anyone who’s spent much time in Lower Manhattan but it’s such a classic for me. Kenka is that wacko Japanese basement off St. Marks that serves a wide range of cheap bites and cheaper beverages — the cheapest prices in the city, for all I fucking know; for an emptywalleted and literally starving type boy such as myself, the prospect of an udon-bowl, a miso soup, a French fry, and an agedashi tofu for about fifteen bucks altogether is so dreamy … beers are a buck fifty, a pitcher of beers is eight. I used to come here with my best friend, who is a very beautiful girl, to play the Drunk Challenge, which is a sort of game where you challenge yourself to drink a pitcher of beer and become intoxicated … those were the days … since her attitude went more-or-less downhill, I mostly just go here by myself now, or sometimes with Patrick. When I’m alone I’ll write out some ideas or reread Tropic of Cancer or another book of that vibrational frequency or get accosted by one of the other drunk men there, which makes me drink faster so I can leave. In fact this is a wonderful thing: the sooner I’m schway, the sooner I can get all impulsive, and at least a few more hours of life are saved from the wasting indecision that has murdered so many of my moments. C’est la fucking vie.

@saoirse-bertram

May 10, 2023

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Ultraviolence outtakes

There’s a limited selection of poets that can move me to tears without even reading through their stanzas but allowing the recollection of their words to pass over my mind — the aforementioned Bachmann is one of the real ones, T.S. Eliot is another; Elizabeth Barrett Browning, on occasion; sometimes-too Hölderlin, Herbert, Hadewijch; at least one Donne piece has this power, at least one Brecht; perhaps-too I would add cuttings of Young’s Literal Translation of the Holy Bible — contemporarily, the lines of Paris Reid, an absolutely gorgeous young Canadian I discovered several years ago (her first published prose piece can be found in the most recent Heavy Traffic) certainly effect this movement upon me time and again … who else? — well,  the only other living writer to fall on this list, and quite honestly my most exalted favourite of all-above, should be obvious to anyone who knows me … yes, yes, of course: singer slash poet slash emotional-genius Lana del Rey, my personal saint and hero … truly, her words either brought to sound or put to page surpass the Scripture to me and this I would not say if I did not mean it violently. She has held aloft my life: she is probably the third factor to my continuance. You know — as I type this — I can hear the lyrics to Venice Bitch, perhaps the greatest lyrical song ever written (though a strong case could too be made for Video Games!) echoing within and my vision swims — so overcome with emotion am I! Good God. My friends, it’s unbelievable. And everything she does is fantastic, of course, but lately I have been really been spiralling about in her demos and bootlegs and regional exclusives dating around the release of Ultraviolence, her third studio album. Pray listen; I’ll leave you with this. Say Yes To Heaven: breaks my heart. Fine China: breaks my heart. I Talk to Jesus: well, you know, onward and onward, from here to eternity…

@saoirse-bertram

May 10, 2023