pornoterrorismo

PORNOTERRORIST MANIFESTO

If someone dares to say that violence, death, foreign disgrace, natural disasters, and all the bloody trash that substantially feed the stomaches of the millions of people in the media, is PORNOGRAPHY, then I ratify and take delight in it. But I will not allow them to tell me that that kind of pornography cannot turn me on. I still don’t know if they call it pornography to convince us that what is happening in the world is SOMETHING BAD or just simply to desensitize or silence our consciousness, or both simultaneously. In any case, it is something that they slip past us, like almost all grand-scale-manipulation in the system. They try to block the mechanisms that will naturally impulse us to cry inconsolably, to drown us in rage, to excite us or to feel morbidly good, in short, TO REACT.

They try to numb our senses and I want to revive them. That is the mission that I am allocating as an artist, as a poet and as a terrorist. Through the terror that a non-normative body can cause, a non-normative sexual act or a “depraved” sexual tendency in a society where the majority is exposed to strictly the norm, I also pretend to originate a reaction to those whom censer us, those who have marked us as sick, as delinquents, as sons and daughters of bad. But my work principally is focused to those potential allies, the people who know that something is not quite right and yet do not know where and how to begin. So, I am suggesting to just start FUCKING! That is a good way to do it, so that the ones who really get fucked, can be those who attempt to keep the sheep from leaving the heard.

Flocks of hypocritical wankers are there administering our sexual desires, adding moral borders and clinically stabilizing and establishing lawful mechanics on what will excite us. On the contrary, if we don’t comply to their standards of what sexual behavior and what pornography is or is not, then they classify us into lists of mental illnesses or they convert us into elements which representation is invalid or marginal.

Hetero-normative bodies, hetero-normative conducts, perverse fodder of the public majority. Converting, through a camera, into something everyday and mechanical, the gutless body of any person (generally far from this western civilization) that is just as perverse as the compulsive in and out, the cum-shot, the omission of clitoris/prostate and the porcelain fingernails in a lesbic duet. It is obscene and pornographic, but society assumes it as a form of stupidity and as a business. Our sexual practices, our bodies, our sensibilities do not pertain in the structural order and that is what automatically classifies us as the ENEMY.

That is what we are, THE ENEMY. And that is how we should behave. My job is an attempt to take on through art that enemy-role in which society assigns us into and that we should no depreciate but should make us proud. We are monsters, and we need to be dangerous, make to stagger, even just a little bit, the pillar of their most firm beliefs.

I MANIFEST that their form of terrorizing us will not scare me but turn me on and that with that heat of mine I arm hand-grenades and launch them with discretion over their rooftop mansions, their temples, their hospitals, their colleges, their prisons, their robot factories that solely service those “competent” authorities that I so much desire to fuck me in the ass.

I MANIFEST my desire to attack them in that place where it doesn’t seem to hurt, just like they do with us. Get into their panties and lubricate them with the image of a dead child, to get into their shorts and converge them through punches of blood and poems. Give them a well deserved fisting and wring out their prostates until they are forced to ejaculate all the hate, all the rage and all those accumulated repressions. Make them cum without rest until forced to acknowledge that, finally, the experience to feel has been unforgettable.

TRANSFEMINIST MANIFESTO

We call for trans-feminist insurrection:
We come from radical feminism, we are the dykes, the whores, the trans, the immigrants, the blacks, the hetero dissidents… we are the rage of the feminist revolution and we want to bear our teeth; out of the offices of gender and politically correct, and that our desire guides us continuing to be politically incorrect, bothering, rethinking and changing the signification of our mutations. Being just women isn’t enough anymore. We have outgrown “Women” as the political subject of feminism, and it is in itself exclusive, it leaves out the dykes, trans, the whores, the one who wear veils, the ones who earn little and don’t go to the university, the ones who yell, the immigrants without legal resident papers, the fags.
Let’s dynamite the sex and gender binominal as a political practice. Let’s follow the path that we began, “one is not born a woman but becomes one”, let’s continue unmasking the power structure, the division and hierarchy. If we can’t learn that the man/woman difference is a cultural product, just as the hierarchal structure that oppresses us, we reinforce the structure that tyrannizes us: the “man/woman” borders. Everyone produces gender, we produce freedom. Arguments with countless genders…
We call for reinvention based on desire, the fight with our bodies before any totalitarian regime. Our bodies are ours!, as well as their limits, mutations, colors and transactions. We don’t need protection over the decisions our bodies, we transmute our genders, we are what we want to be, transvestites, dykes, super-fems, butches, whores, transgenders, we wear veils and speak Wolof; we are network: furious pack.
We call for insurrection, for the occupation of the streets, to the blogs, to disobedience, to not ask for permission, to generate alliances and structures of our own: let’s not defend ourselves, make them fear us!
We are a reality, we operate in different cities and contexts, we are connected we have common objectives and we won’t be silenced now. Feminism will be trans-feminist or not at all…
We luv you.
The WhoreDykeBlackTransFeminist Network.

POEMS

Metasexual

Pump, Pump, Pump,
electric girl, revive me
because I am dead,
cardiovascular-paralized
with these wild-wild orgasms.

Let your pussy give
mouth-to-mouth to mine,
because there is no oxygen
in the blood which inflames my clit.

Breathe, Breathe, Breathe,
Revitalize my sighs
with your wild creature soul.

Drive your fingers into me until you touch my heart
(you will see it has no beat).

Expand me,
move me,
impale me,
remind me there are no borders between
pain and pleasure,
between sadism and tenderness
make me ejaculate nectar,
darling.

Transborder

My flesh, mi blood, my skin, my kingdom.
Where I reign.

I go out from the preferred expectation,
I walk over the wall of your repulsive border
and with a giant’s step I come in your hospitals,
your clinics, your schools, your operating rooms.

I come into your libraries and I gobble up one by one
all the manuals that you use to give a name
to my emotions.

My skin, my flesh, my blood, my temple.
Where the profanes, the evicted of the faith, the perverts
and the abnormals use to pray.

I hold up your drugstores at gunpoint
and I ingest your solutions for insanes.
But you wont never know that what I do
I do it without believe in your discourse,
without trust in the future that your predictions provide me,
without let you know me.

My cunt, my dick, all my orifices, my orgasm:
where I’ve built a monument to the pleasure which is always well lubricated.
I train hormons as if they were soldiers,
I prepare them to assault your palaces of the prudish love,
and rescue your puppies, mutilated in the name of social welfare.

I’m an actress in your drama and I’ve transfomed it in a comedy,
you wanted me to be Little Red Riding Hood
and I changed the role with the wolf
who was also fucking fed up.

I cross the borders of your own neurosis,
and I install myself exactly where I want to be,
where I excel myself as a mutant annoying insect
that you can’t kill.

My body, my body, MY BODY.
Where I reign, bastards!

Ode to the enemy

I

Like someone who arrives late to a business meeting
the enemy enters an empty conference hall,
smells of perfume and a starched shirt
and has on his face an annoyed look.

It’s possible that he knew before we did
but he arrives late to our last day.

He’s seen his face in the elevator mirror,
it’s the wrinkled face of an elderly man
who didn’t know time had stood still
awaiting steps that were no longer his.

Then, a fat and sinister chrysalis
opens on the belly of a dark woman.
A wing peeks out, we have a yawn, we have our first orgasm,
and a viscous liquid is spilt all over the world
while everything get perfectly lubricated.

We reek of sex.
We have neither shame nor are our tongues broken by fear.
We carry around genitals that we set up and dismantle,
and the firm will to disappoint all expectations and
to demolish everything that was ever expected of us
and we are not,
and we are not.

II

We are the next mutation of the species
and we’ve got Saint John and Nostrodamus in our blood.
A perversion like many others
but strong, undeniable, full of Beauty.

We are the heresy of everything before
turned into mouths, anuses, hands fucking.

They don’t chase us with garlic
stakes or flaming crucifixes,
nor do they fry us at the stake or on electric devices.
They screw-fuck us from offices
where there are always fresh flowers
and a list of our names piled up on the desk.

The stingy enemy squeezes the changing of the guard in its hands,
tries to make us believe that such a thing does not exist.
In spite of everything theirs weapons are obsolete.

An immense crowd of fanatics
kneeling before a rock shaped
like an ancient and useless corpse.
Many others praying to the light of the miraculous cathode tube,
every day millions of shoes travelling
the trajectory that call to desire provides.

Meanwhile we, the mutant cockroaches of the system,
eat at no risk all kinds of insecticides.

We’ll survive their clumsy wrinkled hands
and their attempts to make us forget who we are,
and we will also surviver to their condemning sentences,
their dirty manoeuvres,
their statistics,
their tiresome bureaucracy,
their mountains of archived papers,
and their weather predictions,

The enemy trembles cold in a swing atop a dead olive tree
In the game room of a retirement home
In it’s grave

It’s normal they don’t want to look us in the face
Our faces remind them that their world is history.

Love-gun

Love is a gun without bullets,
but our shitty things are loaded by the devil.

Gunpownder shines like phosphorus
in my clumsy hands,
wet gunpownder in the city without sun.

Logarithmic route for my apocalyptic loves,

El amor es una pistola sin balas,
pero nuestras mierdas las carga el diablo.

Pólvora fosforece entre mis manos torpes,
pólvora mojada en ciudad sin sol.

Trazado aúreo para mis amores apocalípticos,
besos que se pierden en un decimal infinito mientras
yo sigo preguntando ¿quién tiene fuego?

El amor es inofensivo.
Nuestras mierdas las carga el diablo.

Motherfuckers

You motherfuckers,
you, who look at me
from those punishment cells,
from those permanent jobs,
from those shitty rentings,
you, motherfuckers.

I lost the fantanstic virtue
of feeling mercy, and I become,
without want it,
in a motherfucker.

I don’t give a shit about clima change,
the slaughters, the starvation, the species in danger of extinction,
any injustice that doesn’t splash me,
any evil without my name,
I don’t care about.

I have become a monster, and I come up to here
To convince you of my filth.

If some day I felt love for you,
it was because I was stoned,
if I felt devotion it was because of my period,
if I felt consolation, pure fantasy.
The truth is that I don’t feel anything.

Maybe a little bit of hate and a little bit of desire.
To hate you doesn’t mean that I can’t fuck you.

You motherfuckers.
I tell you in this way, without any formalism,
without artifice,
Just like that…

I lost my faith, I’m a lost soul,
I lost the fear of the empty and of the death…

and I don’t want anybody to rescue me.

Without title

If I take out the man,
and I take out the dyke,
and I take out the flame
and I take out one of my eyes,
what remains of me?

I´ve constructed myself with metaphors of “others” and,
stripped of all that doesn’t fit,
I remain skinny and shivering
before a structure which repulses me.

And what if I want to be something different?
What what if I want to pull out this shit that hangs from me
and build myself a vagina?
What if I just want to be bleeding flesh,
flesh that dies if you squeeze it,
if I want to be something useless that doesn´t make sense?

I’m fed up with the cellophane that covers everything,
of the prophilaxis, of the lies, of the gleaming and polished things.

I want to discover what’s under of all this shit that suffocates us,
I want to get my voice back from all of this trash,
I want to yell ¨Fuck it!¨ with my crazy bitch voice

In the end, I have a cunt,
I didn’t choose it but it doesn’t displease me.
I’m the girl who wants it all,
everlasting dissatisfaction,
someone who you can’t trust.

I want to save myself.
I want a paradise where only the disturbed, the transvestites, the “trangenics”
are able to enter.
I want the infidels to burn forever and ever in hell,
but without sex and without flames.

I want revenge,
although I don’t know of what.

I want to save myself,
like everyone else.

Genderless self-violence

Because I love myself
I mistreat myself, beat myself,
I humiliate myself, I call myself an unfaithful slut,
I drag myself by the hair over the living room floor
I give myself shiners.

Because I love myself I’m jealous: of the eyes
that look at me, the hands that touch me,
the dicks that fuck me, the mouths that
bite me.

Because I love myself I abandon myself, and leave myself
Crying in the kitchen, I slam the door,
I go out and party comeback home all fucked up, and brutally rape myself,
And give myself another couple of well given-deserved smacks

Because i love myself I don’t denounce, nor do I complain,
Nor do I tell anyone or ask for help;
I don’t pack bags and leave forever
Because i love myself

Because i love myself I set the house on fire,
Because i love myself I throw acid on my face
I break furniture, I shoot myself in the head
Or I confess it all to the police

Is it that hard to understand?
I killed myself because I was mine.

Imagination
Imagination

My imagination flies like an albatross made of fire.
Lighting as it passes my papers,
my clothes
my fears.

Before, it used to be feline
walked with silent steps
through the night of my dreams
and caressed me with its black and shiny back.

Before, it was a snake.
Slithering around the corners of my soul
on humid afternoons and
laid eggs in the cool holes
of my memory.

Before it used to be a clinging vine,
a theater box full of people,
a whale,
a blender,
a loaf of fresh bread.

Now my imagination is an albatross.
It’s in flames in my thoughts,
my heart, my sex,
my poems.

My imagination has wings since the day I met you
(I think the fire is my own thing)

My vagina

My vagina shudders with pleasure,
I have no more borders to contain you,
just these fragile rough walls.

My vagina claims a revenge which is not mine,
not yours, not ours combined.
My vagina is thirsty for victory
over your wings closed around me.
My vagina becomes a cocoon around your worm-butterfly
and allows you to fly,
even though your wings have long decomposed.

My vagina consists of a magic trick:
if you go shssssssss,
I pull out a rabbit,
whose name is not Venus,
nor Mars, nor Mercury,
and who never eats carrots.

My vagina claims blood,
but not your blood nor mine,
not ours together,
just blood, simply blood,
lamb blood, a moon sacrificed blood.

My killer vagina, like a carnivorous plant,
desires the flies,
to trap between the lips that fortify it
thin insect hearts
and dove wing feathers.

My vagina is dying of loneliness,
like an abandoned wagon,
alone in its hole,
pale in its damp darkness.

Animal

sometimes I’m an animal.
an animal of innards, skin and hormones.
an animal who feeds itself with vaginal discharge, with feromones,
with sheets that stink of sex.

at times, a tender animal as well,
who only finds consolation in a warm hand,
…animal who snuggles up in any soft hole
…love struck animal who resurrects itself among the darkness,
…passionate animal who looks for protection under (even) broken wings.
trembling scared animal, without mother.

the full moon comes out through the bars of my dreadful jail,
I compulsively masturbate like my monkey ancestors did prior to me,
a scream, which hasn´t asked my vocal chords for permission, emerges from my throat,
I cum like a beast,
I soothingly sleep afterwards.

sometimes I rescue my animal,
and my uterus fills up with puppies,
my breasts overflow with milk,
and the hollow of an unresolved female
fills the other side of my bed
(a remedy for full moon side effects should be invented)

The bad guys

The bad guys.
What a great concept!
What a great number of dangerous morons together.

Recently they are everywhere,
they appear underneath the sidewalks,
they lower themselves from the streetlamps,
they emerge from the sewer system,
they fall from the sky.

This is the Apocalypse,
it’s getting closer everyday
while the siege is closing around our heads.
It will come without the seven plagues and without horsemen,
it will come camouflaged among beautiful things,
among the things that we love.

Under the rugs,
inside an ice cube,
behind a sincere smile,
the bad guys.

And then they say that the spics are invading us,
Horror, Horror!
Fortunately, somebody’s children, not ours,
will pay our retirement.
Spics everywhere, Horror, Horror!
They come to steal back all of the gold
that we stole from them 500 years ago,
and they come here drunk and exalted
with the christian faith.

But for the bad guys there are many types of invasions.
The hooligan who vomits fried chicken
and drinks on the street until he falls down
is a special invader, pays special taxes.

You cannot bother him on his trip to paradise island.

Inviolable tourists who are so carefree.
And all of this full of muslims,
what kind of image are we going to give them?
Luckily the gypsies have recycled themselves
in a tourist atraction.

The bad guys from the insides of my stomach,
the bad guys dressed up as my mother,
the bad guys in the string of my tampon,
the bad guys, all over the place.

And I wake up many days thinking
that the bad guys have reached my very bed
to put spies up my ass.
Their sirens also wake up me in the night,
with their secret language.
They are sirens that don´t know how to swim.

The bad guys running through my veins,
through my vertebrae the bad guys,
the bad guys on my fingertips.

Morons. Dangerous. In numbers.

This is the end of the world
(and suicide is also penalized)

I’m not

I’m the degenerate of the night,
without generation or date of birth.
The shame of masturbating in public
disappeared at the exact moment of seeing your lips.

I’m minced flesh and crunchy bones,
even though this white skin that covers me
makes you think that I’m in one piece.

I’m the blood pervert
who doesn´t have any virgin cells,
I’m the vertebra of the drain
whose mother is fog and
whose father is libertinage.

But I’m not a mother
for fear of pedophilia,
I’m not a prostitute
for fear of altruism,
and I’m not a poet
for the fucking fear of emptiness.

Porno version of Poem number 15 of Pablo Neruda

I like when you kiss me as if you were crazy,
With your eyes rolled up and your far away face,
It seems as if you´d forgotten to take your pill
And it seems that a finger has sealed up your wound.

As all desire is filled with my hunger,
With your stealthy tongue, you fill my hunger.
Incomplete larva, you resemble my hunger
And you appear as ninphomania’s word.

I like when you’re licking and you are doing your thing
And you are like rubbing and emitting a murmur.
And you don’t hear me from afar and my hand doesn’t reach you:
Let me cum with your moan.

Let me kiss you with these lips too,
Red like blood, fresh like a fountain.
You are like the night, liquidized and dark,
Your scream is a star scream, so wild and passionate.

I like when you cum because you seem defeated,
Pale and pious as if you were dead.
One slight contact then, at that moment, a whisper is enough.
And I’m horny, horny because it can’t be so.

Sexy violence

You scream like a pig, but you are a sweetcake,
your scathing cum drips over my knuckles
and there is a little blood trail from my lip to your nipple.

If I wanted to be a savage, it would make sense between your legs.
If I wanted to be docile, it would also make sense between your legs.

If I knew how to sing, how many things I would sing…
I would sing that you have glorious tits
and the best asshole in the world,
that your love is not a fantasy for me,
and some other rhythm.

But God hasn´t given me this tongue to be a soprano
and I go around slipping it into pussies,
it´s the best way I know how to use it.

If I knew how to speak, how many things I would say…
I would say that you have a scorpion waist and
poison which expands beyond the sting,
that your skin is suitable for corsetery and
that the needles in your flesh would enter as if it were silk,
I would say that licking you is an art form
and my tongue gets trapped in your name.

But god hasn´t given me this tongue for poetry
and I use it to slide it onto your skin,
it´s the only way I know how to use it.

Not even for the sense of taste
has God given me this tongue,
because your pussy is the only flavour
which is of interest to my tastebuds.

You lie down lustfully before my eyes,
I let my tongue do its thing,
I close my eyes,
I think of your pussy or another pussy alike,
I tense my buttocks and I rub myself on the sheet,
while lemons, flamenco and Baudelaire,
are screaming horribly
from some corner of the house.

ABOUT BDSM

((sorry for the translation, this is all I can do being spanish))

Fragment of my literary proyect, chapter about BDSM: Now that I must express it by writing for first time I don’t know how to begin. A SM session is like a little death and a little rebirth each time. The pseudopodes/tentacles that I throw to my mistress when we are in it are like umbilical cords, specially with shibari, it’s like a deep uterine link. It’s not about trust, it’s more than that. I abandon myself, I leave my will on her and when she takes it I am more free than ever. The will is the worst of the tirannies. Then she is slave of two wills, like in a cage of mirrors , it’s too much beautiful to express it better. And it makes me feel free like if I don’t have anything over my soul, any weight, any anchor. Sometimes I feel myself so much light that only the pain saves me from cosmic evaporation. The pain, the sacred pain. It is like a trance. When it starts use to be deeply unpleasant and that displeasure activates something in my brain that makes me fly so far away. Next, when some stimulus (more pain, a different pain, a caress) makes me return to my body, I find it full of pleasure, my body is the temple of pleasure when I come back to it. The most humilliating thing for me is all the pleasure I get, knowing that is no possible for her to catch me, it’s the shame of my immense pleasure. In exchange for it I give her my most deep submission, but it is always not enough, maybe it is enough, I have no doubts about her pleasure, but I can’t be she to know it better, and I don’t want to know it better, I like to feel ashamed because it’s not usual in me. I am in my side and I can’t exchange it, my hands are not able to cause any kind of pain, and my brain can’t order anything, even to myself. Discipline is something that must come from outside, I could never be a mistress. This is what I think about SM, I don’t think is the only thing that I think about, but is the most important, if my answer is too sort for you, I can speak to you hours and hours about this, but now I can’t put in order my emotions to explain them. SM is a therapy, it’s an accurate pleasure and pain, a hit in the sleep concience. And she, the fact to know her hand in the other side of the rope, makes me feel safer than ever, it’s the most pure gesture of love.

But BDSM is also extremely funny for me, when I am not so trascendental and deep, I take it like a nice way to play, enjoy and make new friends. I don’t like the too-much-serious-BDSM, where the roles and the rules, more than be a practic tool, are borders for the imagination.

I deeply hate people who takes fetish/BDSM aesthetic only as a aesthetic, as a fashion, emptying of meaning something that for me is almost sacred. I hate the “burlesque” thing because it looks to me as a stupid pantomime that don’t put me on at all. I also detest those with a “wicked pin-up” attitude that haven’t received or given a fucking beating in their lifes.

The only thing I dislike is someone touching my face, all the rest is entirely ready for the person who has the necesary attributes to dominate me (and it ins’t soo much, just a little bit of attitude and intelligence, that’s all).