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Art, Music, and Female Genital Mutilation
Guó pò shān hé zài ...
(The) country (is) broken, mountains (and) rivers remain ...
Jiān shān niǎo fēi jué ...
Thousands (of) mountains, birds fly not at all ...
Lǎo de shīrén, old Chinese poets, word
paintings. But where are the new ones?
The girl in the bookstore
smiled and said, "Bù hǎo," or
"(They're) no good."
They are also, like the birds of Liǔ
nowhere to be seen. To make an oblique reference, T² did that. So
what do the middle schoolers memorize now?
Did life, poetry, and
love end in a pea garden in the Qing Dynasty? I don't think so, but the
"Misty" ones drifted away, no longer welcome in the homeland,
gù yuán: Bù fù huán
(not come back).
De la musique avant
tout chose ...
Music before everything else ...
Different artistic values. The image of the cold water—hán
jiāng xuě—and the sound of water flowing—plus vague et
plus soluble dans l'aire.
Bù tóng de
mǐngǎnxìng: sensibilité different.
sensibility: Consider female genital mutilation. "They put us in the
bathroom, held our legs open, and cut something," recollects an Iraqi woman.
There is also breast "ironing," where the young girls breasts are pounded
until the tissue is destroyed and the breasts do not develop. If you think
crushing flowers or tearing the wings off butterflies is fun—like
drowning kittens?—wait till you
try this! Better than bastinado.
Wàn jìng rén zōng miè ...
Ten-thousand paths (but the) tracks of people (are) erased....
Peace in the snow. A vision of a silent world: hán
jiāng xuě (cold river snow).
Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou pose.
With nothing in it that weighs down
Just music. Et le bleu fouillis des
claire étoiles! (And the blue jumble of the clear stars!)
But no peace in the Land of the Mutilators:
erection is his erection;
It brings her no pleasure.
His conquest is
She has already been defeated;
Two old women in a
Cut it out in the name of the Great One.
Ifritah ... mashallah ... blade ...
blood ... evil thing no more ...
But they left her with
Nuhad ... Nǐ hǎo! ...
veiled Barbies ... iToys4iBoys® ...
Breastless there might be no
erection, and no milk for the thirsty mouth of the Cum One, the Chosen One
from the sea of turbulent scum.
She is a deaf
One that does not hear its own music.
The vibrations, the passion
are his alone.
But the wedding party was not bombed, and old uncles
went to the shrine, prayed on mats, and returned home. A miracle on Marid
Blessed be the name.
Blessed be the name of the One.
Blessed be the name of the One too risky to name.
But if for some reason she does not like having her pelvis
pounded like a punching bag or her tits sucked like that of a cow, she gets
a lesson she won't soon forget: Her nose and ears cut off with a knife. All in
the name of the Great One, of course.
The Heart of Darkness is a bright light in the Black Hole
of the Great One. Marlow's light shines.
And blessed be
the names of those not too risky to name.
Blessed be the name of bullrider Cody Montana, known to the
IRS as Steve Snyder, whose only desire is to remain on the back of the
bull eight seconds before he is thrown.
And blessed be the name of
the bull, Red-Eyed Devil, known to his handlers as "#15, Some Cautions
Required," whose only desire is to throw Cody, and any other rider, in the
dirt as fast as possible.
And blessed by the name of Angel Baby,
aka Cathy Cummings, whose only desire is to bring customers as much
pleasure as possible in one hour and be paid for it.
And blessed by
the name of All Customers who treat Angel Baby with respect and pay her
And blessed be the name of Anyone
Who treats Any Other One
With kindness and respect,
Forgoing a superior attitude,
having a good time
All the way around
Without trying to surgically
Any Other One's organs of pleasure.
And damned be the
Of all those joyless souls
Who plot to kill the innocent
as to cause pain and suffering
To those who know and love them;
ali al al Kha Kha Menei
Maniac Murder-her Monster
And damned be the names of all those old men,
And young men who are really old men in spirit,
Who sit on prayer mats
in rooms without light or love
And praise the name of the Great One
Who is really the Damned One and the Destroyer of Souls,
they do not understand,
dogma of dog-men, fearful of mind and thought.
The neo-Nazi in clericical cloak has had his day turning
ancient ritual and dead thought into the here and now of blood-soacked rags.
He thinks the Great One is pleased.
And damned be those, stone in hand,
Who would break the flesh,
crush the bones, and smash the teeth
Of those who experience pleasures they deny themselves,
Based on ancient canons that enslave
Mind and body in living death.
And damn Anyone who would send
Someone to jail
For a kiss while praising Another for murder.
Nǎo pò méi yǒu zài.
Mind shattered, nothing remains.
De la maladie sur tout.
Sickness over everything.
Blood of the earth flows into the sea,
Drone death in the northwest,
Pakistan floods, all is unrest.
Chéng chūn cǎo mù
City Spring, (the) grass (and) trees (are) thick
Paint the picture, listen for the song.
Et pour cela préfère l'Impair ...
And for this prefer the odd ...
Like the murmur of a heart in
an empty room; a full moon seen in a broken mirror; a kiss without lips but
warm and wet and wonderful; arms that embrace but do not bind; you there
in a dream more real than broken promises; all men lined up in a row,
armed ducks, quack, quack, quack, leading them to a gallery;
comic books, peep holes; fog on the beach; waffles
aglow in the snow, Oh, no! ...
Plus vague et plus
soluble dans l'aire ...
More vague and more
soluble in air
Water, whirls, those dancing girls; willows, wands, worthless
magicians, maledictions, morticians; a little stream of water running down
the hill; a rising river of blood;
god is a great
backed up sewer pipes ready to burst, bursting;
god is a great ape;
the tree a nesting Coo Coo; cock-a-doodle do, Sun
Yat-sen, the light of the Kuomingtang
and what has been lost has been found when I take off my
but don't ask for more, Al Gore; I gave you all by the wall and you
left it there;
THE MASSAGE IS OVER,
The message was not
Rein de plus cher que la chanson grise ...
Nothing fancier, says Verlaine, than the dull, gray song, la chanson
grise, where the indecisive joins together with the precise—Ou
l'Indécis au Précis se joint.
Huī de gē ...
But did he really mean that?
It is the
beautiful eyes behind the veil, the day trembling at noon, the jumble—fouillis—hùndùn—of
clear stars in a cool Autumn sky.
It is art and music in a universe
free to vibrate in its own sensuous way. Let the light of Badr-al-Budur
shine like a jewel.
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