The feminine in all its states
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The feminine is not the prerogative of women. It is a state, free by right.
The feminine, no, it is not specifically "the woman" who, contrary to what Aragon fallaciously wanted to claim, is the future of nothing but herself and not especially of the man who himself is not the future of anyone.
The feminine ... ah yes!
You, an unthinking man or woman, a vehicle for preconceived ideas, you want to believe that women are "pretty" as you want to tell yourself?
That they are fragile, delicate and thin? It's convenient to have idols that don't exist, right? Something to worship that you trap yourself in a guilty blindness. Look in the street with the little objectivity you are capable of. It will nevertheless be enough for you to see that women are neither more nor less beautiful than anyone else. None of them are the object of your imagination. They are women, that's all. Just as there are men, cats and dogs. Nothing more. You enclose beings, men, women, children, animals, in the complacent and undemanding framework of your own bullshit. In doing so, without any particular effort, you create the society we know; thank you very much.
It's that fat nonsense that you like to take for poetry. That's where the real blasphemy lies. So that the famous feminine remains well caged, in its flattering prison.
The feminine is only the faculty of being taken, of being an open womb; whether it is a male ass moaning "impregnate me!" or a vulva remodelling itself to the circumference of a penis. A well-circumscribed hole to be filled with ready-made ideas.
Yes, the feminine is what gets caught, hand in glove, head in purse, ass over head on the horizon of tomorrow. It's not necessarily the girls who "bring it"; it's also the boys who aren't afraid to be, certain to be men who don't define themselves by the (con)sequences of their genes alone, by the consequences of their embarrassment alone.
SCRAP, the feminine in all its states of lawlessness
Here, we think like we fuck; precise or dripping; with images in our heads or someone else between our legs. What matters is that it all fits together in a beautiful album of faded memories; it will make us literature to pile on our shelves.
I feed on the Frankenstein loneliness of my peers and defecate on the one-time use of the collegiate Muppet Show. Sometimes I can hardly swallow a square of chocolate or I fear that the sunrise will make my heart give out with its radiant intensity. If you are passing by, lover of rhetoric, political-media agitator, thinker-writer, blabbering commentator of the whole, confined to the narrow folds of words that everyone uses, good morning! I warn you, you won't have anything intelligent to say about it. SCRAP is not an intelligent work. It's a collection of everything that happens to me in front of you in this time X where we cross paths.
It is an amusing and self-cleaning vomit made to leave no trace in our memories. It is the future, but without a tomorrow, even if it happens to be singing. But let's leave the phoney rebellion to its angelic and evangelistic conceptions.
Submission
Just because you find a hole doesn't mean you have to fill it
To live one's being in the flesh, to feel the vibration of one's power to exist as an animal - nature teaches us this - we must kill, eradicate.
The problem, however, is not to kill, but to kill the good or rather the bad. The difficulty of the man of culture is that he does not dare to murder his enemies, nor his prey (does he even conceive them?) Thus, he is made fatally vulnerable to those who, undoubtedly less delicate and well-educated, dare to do so. The development of a beautiful art considered as an assassination, that is the object and the thing.
SCRAP murders as children imagine killing. The feminineWould the underclass of the organised world know how to kill so that a magical thought could be released and float at ease in our lungs? So that we stop enjoying ordering the universe between those who take and those who are taken, between those who shine and those who fade away, between those who exist and those who dream of them.
Women scorned,
homosexuals beaten up,
children raped,
disabled people,
veiled wheels.
You shouldn't have gotten caught.
Our feminine identity, whatever the most apparently combative may say, is skilfully maintained in inferiority in our eyes, in line with the view of the ancestral world. We like it, having a sky that goes beyond us and envelops us. Constantly the same mould and the same expectations. It's the right place to be. Make me come. No kidding!
Iron filings, insect dust... so we consider ourselves on our hands and knees, rump up, waiting for the warlike annexation. We create the power of the dominant. There's no male good to be had, is there? The mind criticizes, but the behaviour favours. If people did not enjoy domination, they would not be dominated. If the spectators of representation as well as of reality did not wish to admire, they would play without further ado and their gaze would change... the world.
SCRAP page :
Emma, a bloody and laughing Marilyn
Excerpt from So Sade by David Noir ( Available in VOD on Vimeo )
Emma was laughing, but we could not guess what she was laughing about. Her mouth was forming words but their sounds were absorbed into the mass, the luscious mass of her well-fed face, like the satisfied mask of a Gille de Binche. None were clearly audible. I suppose she was still uttering sentences as she always did. It made her laugh. She laughed at herself, despite her black eye. From month to month Emma's face always had a new black eye, a new bruise somewhere in her mouth or around her eye or on her nose. It didn't stop her from smiling, or even laughing out loud. Maybe in a way it even helped him. In any case, we never thought about it. We had got used to that too.
Listen to Emma in Village AudioLet's see.
