For years I attempted to pornographize my writing. What do I mean by that? To fuck as well as to think in my work. To splay in the violence I feel within me (as psyche) and outisde (in actuality). To be a complete man! How funny at 60 such looks ... in America ... anywhere ...
The cock working in and out of the cunt. Inept or not, that is daddy/mommy, generalized and mythologized as the Mother-Father, Yab-Yum, the stuff that gets life going. We see part way through this projection. Then we stop. It is suddenly unacceptable that we are.
Pornography is my exiled sister because the core—all genital conjunctions—is in exile via Pornography. The stars get in bed and enswarm / cut. The porno stars are the cunt/cock roving in culture's representation of its acceptable self.
Art, from the viewpoint of the potential of pornography, has always seemed bland. From the very beginning we wanted to eat rat daintily. A few ancient cultures yield erotic conjunctions. Chavin (Peru): flies fucking people, dogs in, beetles, snakes. An extraordinary vision (from our viewpoint).
The man and woman fucking in the porno film are a cut out section of my life. I am infuriated to see my life set forth on the cutting room floor. Life can be grand with drama, but cock in cunt is not drama, it is the cur and curess inside drama.
Where is the film brave enough to show us a scene involving cocksucking or fucking as a part of the life of people we take seriously? Does not exist. Or as only a fuck film.
The real problem in 20th century art is patent acceptance—back to the conversion of Saul—of the putrid notion that the act by which my parents enfoetused and then encadred me cannot be shown, and that since it cannot be shown, it must be referred to again and again.
I put penises into my poetry to undermine their unstated implicit power.
raphy, my exiled sister