sAyingsometHing

Art, poetry, digital art, photography, criticism and essays.

28 Nov 2008

Yimar Ayrim, the new President of the United Stages of America.


Quinta Carta Menorrealista.
Friday, November 28, 2008. Washington, D.C. USA.
The Oath of office of Yimar Ayrim, the new President of the United Stages.

broken english version :

"My Ladies, flee, flee from the foolish love with you urgent.
Flee the from the insane passion, whose pleasant games always end in your prejudice "
'The City of Ladies'. Christine de Pizan, 1405.

"Women:

Today ends the high unhappiness of down-to-earth women of decades ago, right on the edge of innocence where fairy tales end. Kiss, kiss seems infinite. Today is my love for America, a verse from here and now, a western haiku, as it always should have been, like I love and I’d love even more Iraq as my Mother Land, the land of my mother and father, which could have been my beloved land if I too have been born there. But this blonde and Saxon land is my destiny and my baby from today, and the flag is just a blanket that can change color when put into the of The White House’s laundry , Casa Rosada if I’d be born in Argentina. Women, is any here, is any now, men separates it what we women join it, so I make a loved call to intercede for the lesbian part of all men. My home is my presidency, I did not have to flee, is a benefit that Christine de Pizan yearning imagining flee, her dream has come as a legacy to leave the flight. There is no escaping the American people, Pan American, intercontinental, human people. Only exist in a here and now because it needs a here and now to act and to feel and to love.

It is our here in my now, in our bodies that is now represented only in my body, what I have, what I am, it’s not this presidency of mine, is not the fervor of applause for me being the first president of the world that goes up to the podium in a same-sex marriage. It's just a title and a toga, as the title and divider pages that need novels to be read and recognized. Here now, as far as it lasts each kiss and every sex, but I do not know where we are now, I do not know and it does not matter, the notion of time seems to have gone from me along with the explosion. After the explosion, the time also broke out, and space is shrugged million times with the same embarrassment of an adult caught with their hands in the mess of any crime. The explosion of minutes ago ... .. ¿Minutes? How do I ensure that my minutes and not days or months or years or our centuries? - were 6oo years since Christine de Pizan, and barely 60 years since the only and last nuclear bomb. A sigh of women had been the last thing we hear, or was perhaps the Big Bang, then was the fire that consumed our female bodies without assassinate us, and the dessert os such feast was a solvent of the senses, and then a rainbow of Lesbian flag and then a faint and then, and then, men.

Now is now, "Tomorrow is too sorrow'd because tomorrow is just today," but I do not want to define our here. As well as a body kisses another, a nation makes love with another. Once again I see we have body again and I'm with her, my beautiful wife Georgia McCain. Without it, this new effort would be just a presidential hurry, with my Georgia, the love light up my mandate. And that would be sufficient to answer any questions. Kiss. I keep slow-opening my eyes, distilling my “drunk”eyelashes in a rest, shooting and cosmogonic rest of the poets activists who preceded me, nicely interrupted rest. The dust of history ever written and lived with us today surrounds us, and an small archaeological coughing invades me by matter of my lungs, and by matter of the heart becomes laugh of satisfaction and fulfillment. Now in front of me and my beloved wife Georgia you are delivered, revolving yourselves in our minds and our skins, as favored daughters and sons having two mothers. The threads of hair of dust of stars joins us again, women and lesbian men, yes, Siamese hair again, as those days in the sun and outside the universe, hair that keeps us together in a promise broken before and fixed again.

Our long kiss saves, at the end, true taste of dust in the place where we are, my hip gives credit for a long painful birth of 4 years that just a few minutes is just beginning, with amniotic sweat wetting the dry and harmed soil of our suffragist heroines who delivered us the (right to)vote. In a way I also feel the wide hips further widened by the chain of passive women, secretly too sore, and I also feel the soundless sound of their thoughts. Something new has happened. My groggy thought is interrupted by the awakening of my ears on the ground from which emanates all around us several handfuls of human threaded moans and broken bones: It's wounded History that was finally faint to awaken now in our gardens, while among all of us sow the clean joyful tears of heaven on the earth.

Thank you for allowing me, from this overstated presidential armchair, being all women in a single woman. "

Yimar Ayrim.
Mrs. GYNOCRATIC PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STAGES OF AMERICA.




(Spanish version)

Viernes 28 de noviembre de 2008, Ciudad de Washington. EEUU.
Juramento de posesión presidencial de Yimar Ayrim, nueva presidenta de los Estrados Unidos de América:

“Huid damas mías, huid del insensato amor con que os apremian.
Huid de la enloquecida pasión, cuyos juegos placenteros siempre terminan en prejuicio vuestro”
‘La Ciudad de las Damas’. Christine de Pizan, 1405.

“Mujeres:

Hoy termina la elevada infelicidad de nuestras aterrizadas mujeres de décadas atrás, justo en el mismo borde de inocencia donde los cuentos de hadas terminan. Beso, parece infinito beso. Hoy es mi Amor a América, un verso de aquí y ahora, un haiku occidental, como siempre debería haber sido, como amo y amaría aún más a Irak como madre tierra, la tierra de mi madre y mi padre, que pudo haber sido mi amada tierra de haber nacido también yo allá. Pero esta tierra albina y sajona es mi destino y mi bebé desde hoy, y la bandera es sólo una manta que puede cambiar de color cuando la lleven a la lavandería de la Casablanca, Casa Rosada de haber nacido yo en Argentina. Mujeres, es cualquier aquí, es cualquier ahora, ellos los hombres diferencian lo que nosotras unimos, así que hago un amado llamado para que intercedan por la parte lésbica de todos los hombres. Mi residencia es mi presidencia, no tuve que huir, es un beneficio que Christine de Pizan anheló imaginando huir; su sueño ha llegado como legado para dejar la huida. No hay escapatoria pueblo americano, panamericano, intercontinental, humano. Sólo existimos en un aquí y ahora porque se necesita un aquí y ahora para obrar y sentir y amar.

Es nuestro aquí en mi ahora, en nuestros cuerpos que está ahora representado sólo en mi cuerpo, lo que tengo, lo que soy, no es esta presidencia mía, no es el fervor de aplausos por ser la primera presidenta del mundo que sube al estrado en un matrimonio del mismo sexo. Es sólo un título y una toga, como el título y el separador de páginas que necesitan las novelas para ser leídas y reconocidas. Aquí ahora, en lo que nos dura cada beso y cada sexo, pero no sé dónde estamos ahora, no sé y no importa, la noción de tiempo parece haberse ido de mí junto con la explosión. Después de la explosión, el tiempo estalló también, y el espacio se encogió millones de veces con la misma vergüenza de un adulto pillado con las manos en la masa de cualquier delito. La explosión de minutos atrás ….. ¿Minutos? ¿Cómo puedo asegurar que fueron mis minutos y no mejor nuestros días o meses o años o nuestros siglos?- fueron 600 años desde Christine de Pizan, y apenas 60 años desde la única y última bomba nuclear. Un suspiro de mujer había sido lo último que oímos, o fue tal vez el Big Bang, luego fue el incendio que consumió nuestros femeninos cuerpos sin asesinarnos y el postre de tal festín fue una disolvencia de los sentidos, y luego un arco iris de bandera lésbica y luego un desmayo y luego, y luego los hombres.

Ahora es ahora, “Tomorrow is too sorrow’d because tomorrow is just today”, pero no quiero delimitar nuestro aquí. Así como un cuerpo se besa con otro, una nación hace el amor con otra. Sólo percibo que de nuevo tenemos cuerpo y estoy junto a ella, mi bonita esposa Georgia McCain. Sin ella éste nuevo afán presidencial sería solo un afán; con mi Georgia, el amor iluminará mi mandato. Y eso sería suficiente para cualquier pregunta. Beso. Sigo entreabriendo mis ojos, destilando mis pestañas embriagadas de un descanso, fugaz y cosmogónico descanso de las poetas activistas que me antecedieron, descanso bellamente interrumpido. La polvareda de la Historia vivida y jamás escrita nos acompaña hoy rodeándonos y una pequeña tos arqueológica me invade por asunto de mis pulmones, y por asunto del corazón se convierte en risa de satisfacción y plenitud. Ahora frente a mí y mi amada esposa Georgia se entregan ustedes, revolviéndose entre nuestras mentes y nuestras pieles, como hijas e hijos favorecidas por tener dos madres. Los hilos de cabello de polvo de estrellas, nos une de nuevo, mujeres y hombres lésbicos, sí, siameses del cabello de nuevo, como aquellos días dentro del sol y fuera del universo, cabellos que nos mantiene juntas en una promesa antes rota y de nuevo remendada.

Nuestro largo beso guarda al final cierto sabor a polvareda del lugar donde estamos, mi cadera da doloroso crédito de un largo parto de 4 años que apenas hace unos minutos acaban de empezar, humedeciendo con sudor amniótico el terreno seco y estrujado de nuestras heroínas sufragistas que nos entregaron el voto. También siento de cierta manera la amplia cadera aún más ensanchada por la cadena de mujeres pasivas, secretamente también adoloridas, y siento también el timbre insonoro de sus pensamientos. Algo nuevo ha pasado. Mi atontado pensamiento es interrumpido por el despertar de mis oídos sobre el terreno del que ahora emanan a nuestro alrededor varios puñados de quejidos humanos enhebrados y huesos quebrados: Es la Historia herida que por fin se desmaya para despertar ahora en nuestros jardines, mientras entre todas sembramos el limpio llanto alegre del cielo en el suelo.

Gracias por permitirme, desde este sobreestimado sillón presidencial, ser todas las mujeres en una mujer.”

Yimar Ayrim.
Mrs. GYNOCRATIC PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STAGES OF AMERICA.

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25 Nov 2008

I am not an artist

I am not an artist and you know that
as well as I do,
but I won't say that
for the sake of honesty.

honesty is puppetry and wilfully
obscure similar to austerity
which has neither whit nor wisdom
fair as blossoms

in a night sky fending off
burrowed springs relate to stars
that shimmy in the omniscient blanket
of rude darkness

or wisdom penetrating knowledge
like a knife through butter.
My darling, if you are the road
upon which I travel

the sky under which I furrow
the eyes of wisdom and whit
fair as your skin
yet as blind as trout

why are you as foolhardy as a man?
As reticent as an idiot when
articulating emotions? As cool
as ice cream,

even that would not melt in your mouth!

I am not an artist, for this
I am sure you can fault me
or others like me, or the Greeks
or the Chinese

or art or art history
or the camera, cinema
or any other thing you wish to take a little
time to ponder

less your arm up stretched and hasten
to hold a light ablazin'
afore your skivin', loungin'
lovin' or couch potatoeing

lonely as a fish out of water
in your house full of ghosts.

A car is a face, now you know that
or you should do by now
even a library full of design books
ain't half a plaice of an excuse

at your age you should know better
like me; I should know better
but I know better still
and writhe from under the sticky labels.

The candle of Winter skies, blows a far
cry from Southern hemispheres, bloated
from a punching sun
while we freeze to death

in days as short as art's first prose
of the year. The Moon is to close to mention
I fear the neap tide
will swallow us whole.

I fear this more than mortgages and bills
far more. Your fears are near the moon
too, you too, gaze at the night sky
a blanket with lovers

strewn in hallucinated patterns
following the cut of frost's
spooky eye right down, right
down to the thrust of rooftops.

I deal too well with emotions to emote,
as is my privilege, as an artist
of sorts, one of canvasses and paints
words and designs

I am given to bursts of energy that
begin at my breathe or my heart beat
and scurry to colours and rhymes.
I can sea the bottom of the ocean

when others can only see
the waves. But a wave, as comprehensible
as it is
has a longevity

far beyond immortality.
At least for today.....

20 Nov 2008

Bubble

17 Nov 2008

gemini


somewhere a binary star is born







~~~~



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16 Nov 2008

Poetry to Imagery


Art process...
Simon

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15 Nov 2008

Vespers (79)

prince of parentheses
come home

gelled wind
cypresses

the gait of a tired man
yellowing pages

left hook
bro ken

diametrically
oppo

now in a while
I lumber through

the yard and
that wide open

will homonyms outlast
their mates

14 Nov 2008

Poetry to Imagery

No flow
timbre flicker
images we apprehend
today lambent
fluidity

are yesterday's oddity
far out words that used to
shimmer with
pithy
immediacy

are the sonorities of
the times
contemporaneity's gate
is the wool of your jejune
face court
out

faces works and melange
beggars float coruscates a night
by surfaces whit
is the light of dreams pharmacopeia
and melodies
are planets turning

in an authentic grasped by splice
night.

Meanings are not lost
but found turning as diction
is a dicey song corrugated by
madness’s choreography
until we claim

(by the bright night sunlight
is the fusion of our senses
by your pussy or extrasensory
perception) madness as light
and sanity as darkness
again

again again. Considering
authenticity I may decide
to sign my poem
anonymity a slip of the dic
tion tic
fillip frolics trix

abounds plainsong
with disparate discretion
recession the white page
is this paint
wetting your appetite

My machine Athena
Freudian alternator
friend of Zeus cant
melodious abridged
purpose

et rectitude.
Modern passages of Persephone’s
hues clue cue
to wait scrambling of a fudging
dark makes

yesterday’s intellectuality
sound like today’s
fuck fest.
Weather (pernicious) you get it
(essentiality) by virtu
ality or actuality
your getting

a whole Freudian slip
page that was yesterday’s
resonance, eloquence
today’s orgy
even by proxy
something smells like reason, money.

Now, maintenant watching the paint dry
on the white page
canvas for sales our pithy avant-
garde, lecture by inopportune
remediacy, a farcical neology?

the paint forms into opaque
imagery, seeming too verbose (extravaganza)
until perception enchants less
contrived
more sensory

trees outline the canvas edge
brushstrokes calligraphically open
palms and fingers touch
the borders of our science
our sex, love

reason for other
and this
page
dark and light
gradations

like the stages’ bite
apples vinaigrette
a pseudo-riche
women standing under trees
the stress

of the art of the moulding of paint
gathering to children playing
the fine pelt of skies
intoxication Munch-like
into the camera flash

of Sunlight.

1 Nov 2008


Collaboration with Miss Boux who provided the original photograph.
Simon
Just a trace is left...

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