Aug 27, 2010
On Wednesday, I performed a new piece, “Oh Woman”, at the event “CONFUSION IS SEX”, curated by Dino Dinco, Oscar Santos and Dawn Kasper, at Pieter in Lincoln Heights. I wore a black smock on my body, and a white blouse over my head. Woosh. The blouse came off. I made myself very nervous. I let myself feel extreme terror. I pleasured myself on the tit: Oh Woman With what honor does a woman arrive into the world, blood in hand, staining the area covered in such lacking distance, now with the blood, now with the blood. I am expected to be, become, to be held, to be holy, and matter as, not was or been. Now, a flood of hope to enrapture the stars, to be a muse, to bear children and to live in eternal fear of losing them to a God of Death, a man, a man, a man now with the blood entices a man, come the struggle and the ebony of hope, and please arrive slower, at the exact, or approximate, distance covered so lacking in pre-meditated disregard. Here, in a woman the scented honor, drenched by man and fed by father’s hand as he called upon me at 7:30 in the morning, to be present in my room when I could not be, and held in mother’s favorite hands, how I should not be held, sniffing my thoughts, to call upon me at such an evil hour, the coos and caws of a fathering soul, he loves me, again and over he repeats this, discovering my soft, unearned breasts, like his little girl he cood, he cawed, and letting his vein of hands discover, dissolve into his beard, my own, his baby’s little clit, hardened to his dawning. He, my father, one God of Death to send my mother, me, my own mother, into the glistening patch of love beneath my own, mothered, bad bad clit. I am 13 he says no I am 10 he says no I am 7 and how can one believe a love-mother-pearl to be so willing and learned at mere 7 years in exist…ence. I won’t tell her, it would kill her and the honor of pressing her jewel hard on her nipple, to hold dear in adoration, my own mothered skin, in tribute tho she lives, in hiding, for she lives, the father now is the baby, sucking gush after gush of woman milk from my daughtered breast. Drink it all, rid me of my fledgling supply, hot sweet milk from my breast, fed thru my chamber of whore, and out from a silkened nipple, into this…man, mine to keep in secret, my son, less he fathers me, my father, less I suckle him, forever, the cycle of man-made-man, thru a girl of half slumber, now with the blood, now with the blood. I await the wee hours I am allowed to be his wife, he whom I exchanged vows and foresaw the untethered sanctity of ours, the truest love. He, my father, can be what my mother own mother is direct with not allowing, and in between morning dew and first yawn, he pours our children into me. A project for me to see thru, a new dollhouse of salted fledglings, so still less I move, so want of breath less I pray and give thanks for the blood, half from within, half from my skin, neath the patch of love he calls his true home. With what honor does a woman arrive into the world, when all I desire, to be a woman who keeps her man, to pry him jerkily from a bed of marriage, riding his bestial hook as mother dreams, paralyzed by exhaustion, her daughter mounts the man she will soon claim as her own, to fulfill the promise of woman-fate, his hands keeping in motion against my titties, taking, taking, taking what I must claim as mine, a man, this man, who will ask me to turn on my own my mother, as a price to me, this here God of Death, who will one day rob my children my own of their barely earned lives, and I must comply. The breadth of our love is mightier than my own sex or desire or questioning of Divine Duty. With his hands I entrust these, my own my breasts, brimming at the dark with warm milk, to keep him well replenished…and to keep him. He is allowed to do what he pleases with my crimsoned clit, and he can drink from my tits when he hungers to be a man, a true man, virile warrior, and when his veins call out to latch onto this one, here, his woman, moaning my poorly developed moan, serenading his room with the vastness of our love song, as my mother sleeps, my mother my own, and as my father my own allows for the tender trails of his sweat form paths through his chest of hair, and he breathes and breathes, this man, truest man, truest and mine, scorching this room and begging for a swig of milk from these titties, barely noticed at barely 7, but enough for this man, my own. I lean over and hang my left one over his mouth, crowned with stubble and memories of our kisses. He sucks as a baby would, as I once did on my mother my own, never escaping down his chin, never a drop forsaken, never to suck on another tit but my own, his own, and he went on in perfect motion, mouth cupped around the nipple, and beyond, taking into him my tit in its entirety, and thru my pores, even, the milk came, all for him, my own, my father, my life. He enjoys me thru my legs, simultaneously, slowing down but never ceasing, as his jaws quicken the pace, welcoming my milk, filling his manly chest with the womanhood that flows thru my nipples. He seizes them both, and I crack the room in two with my scream, of an infant who has fallen. My mother does not awake, does not breathe, does not…breathe. He does not take a moment to see, blinded by my oceans of milk, and streams of his into mine. My mother my own has abandoned her body in shock, I pray. She has left me to take her place on this man, and beside him. His operatic howl is for me, and not for her. And although he has lost himself into me, he craves milk, and takes it, and I pull him close so he may drink, from his woman, honored finally by her blood, the blood in my hand, spilled by, at long last, to achieve my purpose, divine duty, finally, in this moment, an honorable woman.

On Wednesday, I performed a new piece, “Oh Woman”, at the event “CONFUSION IS SEX”, curated by Dino Dinco, Oscar Santos and Dawn Kasper, at Pieter in Lincoln Heights. I wore a black smock on my body, and a white blouse over my head. Woosh. The blouse came off. I made myself very nervous. I let myself feel extreme terror. I pleasured myself on the tit:

Oh Woman

With what honor does a woman arrive into the world, blood in hand, staining the area covered in such lacking distance, now with the blood, now with the blood. I am expected to be, become, to be held, to be holy, and matter as, not was or been. Now, a flood of hope to enrapture the stars, to be a muse, to bear children and to live in eternal fear of losing them to a God of Death, a man, a man, a man now with the blood entices a man, come the struggle and the ebony of hope, and please arrive slower, at the exact, or approximate, distance covered so lacking in pre-meditated disregard. Here, in a woman the scented honor, drenched by man and fed by father’s hand as he called upon me at 7:30 in the morning, to be present in my room when I could not be, and held in mother’s favorite hands, how I should not be held, sniffing my thoughts, to call upon me at such an evil hour, the coos and caws of a fathering soul, he loves me, again and over he repeats this, discovering my soft, unearned breasts, like his little girl he cood, he cawed, and letting his vein of hands discover, dissolve into his beard, my own, his baby’s little clit, hardened to his dawning. He, my father, one God of Death to send my mother, me, my own mother, into the glistening patch of love beneath my own, mothered, bad bad clit. I am 13 he says no I am 10 he says no I am 7 and how can one believe a love-mother-pearl to be so willing and learned at mere 7 years in exist…ence. I won’t tell her, it would kill her and the honor of pressing her jewel hard on her nipple, to hold dear in adoration, my own mothered skin, in tribute tho she lives, in hiding, for she lives, the father now is the baby, sucking gush after gush of woman milk from my daughtered breast. Drink it all, rid me of my fledgling supply, hot sweet milk from my breast, fed thru my chamber of whore, and out from a silkened nipple, into this…man, mine to keep in secret, my son, less he fathers me, my father, less I suckle him, forever, the cycle of man-made-man, thru a girl of half slumber, now with the blood, now with the blood.

I await the wee hours I am allowed to be his wife, he whom I exchanged vows and foresaw the untethered sanctity of ours, the truest love. He, my father, can be what my mother own mother is direct with not allowing, and in between morning dew and first yawn, he pours our children into me. A project for me to see thru, a new dollhouse of salted fledglings, so still less I move, so want of breath less I pray and give thanks for the blood, half from within, half from my skin, neath the patch of love he calls his true home. With what honor does a woman arrive into the world, when all I desire, to be a woman who keeps her man, to pry him jerkily from a bed of marriage, riding his bestial hook as mother dreams, paralyzed by exhaustion, her daughter mounts the man she will soon claim as her own, to fulfill the promise of woman-fate, his hands keeping in motion against my titties, taking, taking, taking what I must claim as mine, a man, this man, who will ask me to turn on my own my mother, as a price to me, this here God of Death, who will one day rob my children my own of their barely earned lives, and I must comply. The breadth of our love is mightier than my own sex or desire or questioning of Divine Duty. With his hands I entrust these, my own my breasts, brimming at the dark with warm milk, to keep him well replenished…and to keep him. He is allowed to do what he pleases with my crimsoned clit, and he can drink from my tits when he hungers to be a man, a true man, virile warrior, and when his veins call out to latch onto this one, here, his woman, moaning my poorly developed moan, serenading his room with the vastness of our love song, as my mother sleeps, my mother my own, and as my father my own allows for the tender trails of his sweat form paths through his chest of hair, and he breathes and breathes, this man, truest man, truest and mine,

scorching this room and begging for a swig of milk from these titties, barely noticed at barely 7, but enough for this man, my own. I lean over and hang my left one over his mouth, crowned with stubble and memories of our kisses. He sucks as a baby would, as I once did on my mother my own, never escaping down his chin, never a drop forsaken, never to suck on another tit but my own, his own, and he went on in perfect motion, mouth cupped around the nipple, and beyond, taking into him my tit in its entirety, and thru my pores, even, the milk came, all for him, my own, my father, my life. He enjoys me thru my legs, simultaneously, slowing down but never ceasing, as his jaws quicken the pace, welcoming my milk, filling his manly chest with the womanhood that flows thru my nipples. He seizes them both, and I crack the room in two with my scream, of an infant who has fallen. My mother does not awake, does not breathe, does not…breathe. He does not take a moment to see, blinded by my oceans of milk, and streams of his into mine. My mother my own has abandoned her body in shock, I pray. She has left me to take her place on this man, and beside him. His operatic howl is for me, and not for her. And although he has lost himself into me, he craves milk, and takes it, and I pull him close so he may drink, from his woman, honored finally by her blood, the blood in my hand, spilled by, at long last, to achieve my purpose, divine duty, finally, in this moment, an honorable woman.

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