Lesbian Culture -- Art, Poetry, Music . . .

Martina · 05-30-2010, 06:35 PM

Please share your favorite cultural things -- dykey or not. Talk about them or post them. It could be the play you went to last night or the concert you attended thirty years ago.

So i never do anything queer anymore. i go to some butch-femme and leather events, but no culture. i live in SF. My friend goes to gay plays fairly often, but i never step out. i was never big into women's culture, but i was there. i read the books, the magazines, heard the music, went to the dances and the meetings and the parties.

But i am old now. The only magazines i subscribe to are The New Yorker and The Nation. Hardly queer.

So, i had to reach into my past to find something. i was looking for a book of poetry on my bookshelf, but it must be in a box or given away (i hope not). Olga Broumas is the poet. Anyone remember her? It took some doing, but i found a poem of hers on the web. I will share. ( i know, i know, a PINK cock, but it's good. )

She Loves -- Olga Broumas

deep prolonged entry with the strong pink cock
the sit-ups is evokes from her, arms fast
on the climbing invisible rope to the sky,
clasping and unclasping the cosmic lorus *

Inside, the long breaths of lung and cunt
swell the vocal cords and a rasp a song
loud sudden overdrive into disintegrate,
spinal melt, video hologram in the belly.

Her tits are luminous and sway to the rhythm
and I grab them and exaggerate their orbs.
Shoulders above like loaves of heaven,
nutmeg-flecked, exuding light like violet diodes

closing circuit where the wall, its fuse box,
so stolidly stood. No room for fantasy.
We watch ourselves transform the past
with such disinterested fascination,

the only attitude that does not stall
the song by an outburst of consciousness
and still lets consciousness, loved and incurable
voyeur, peek in. I tap. I slap. I knee, thump, bellyroll.

Her song is hoarse and is taking me,
incoherent familiar path to that self we are wall
cortical cells of. Every o in her body
beelines for her throat, locked on

a rising ski-lift up the mountain, no
grass, no mountaintop, no snow.
White belly folding, muscular as milk.
Pas de deux, pas de chat, spotlight

on the key of G, clef du roman, tour de force letting,
like the sunlight lets a sleeve worn against wind, go.

* umbilical cord

05-30-2010, 06:35 PM	#1
Martina Senior Member How Do You Identify?: * Join Date: Feb 2010 Location: * Posts: 4,999 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 13,409 Thanked 18,368 Times in 4,171 Posts Rep Power: 21474854	Lesbian Culture -- Art, Poetry, Music . . . Please share your favorite cultural things -- dykey or not. Talk about them or post them. It could be the play you went to last night or the concert you attended thirty years ago. So i never do anything queer anymore. i go to some butch-femme and leather events, but no culture. i live in SF. My friend goes to gay plays fairly often, but i never step out. i was never big into women's culture, but i was there. i read the books, the magazines, heard the music, went to the dances and the meetings and the parties. But i am old now. The only magazines i subscribe to are The New Yorker and The Nation. Hardly queer. So, i had to reach into my past to find something. i was looking for a book of poetry on my bookshelf, but it must be in a box or given away (i hope not). Olga Broumas is the poet. Anyone remember her? It took some doing, but i found a poem of hers on the web. I will share. ( i know, i know, a PINK cock, but it's good. ) She Loves -- Olga Broumas deep prolonged entry with the strong pink cock the sit-ups is evokes from her, arms fast on the climbing invisible rope to the sky, clasping and unclasping the cosmic lorus * Inside, the long breaths of lung and cunt swell the vocal cords and a rasp a song loud sudden overdrive into disintegrate, spinal melt, video hologram in the belly. Her tits are luminous and sway to the rhythm and I grab them and exaggerate their orbs. Shoulders above like loaves of heaven, nutmeg-flecked, exuding light like violet diodes closing circuit where the wall, its fuse box, so stolidly stood. No room for fantasy. We watch ourselves transform the past with such disinterested fascination, the only attitude that does not stall the song by an outburst of consciousness and still lets consciousness, loved and incurable voyeur, peek in. I tap. I slap. I knee, thump, bellyroll. Her song is hoarse and is taking me, incoherent familiar path to that self we are wall cortical cells of. Every o in her body beelines for her throat, locked on a rising ski-lift up the mountain, no grass, no mountaintop, no snow. White belly folding, muscular as milk. Pas de deux, pas de chat, spotlight on the key of G, clef du roman, tour de force letting, like the sunlight lets a sleeve worn against wind, go. * umbilical cord