Ode an die anonymen

(Schande über Sie)
Wenn irgend jemand rief Sie mutig
Sie wissen, dass ihr eine Lüge
Falls irgend jemand rief Sie mutig
Sie wissen, dass ihr eine Lüge
Haben Sie jemals das Gefühl, dass die Leute sehen können, über Sie?
Ich weiß, dass Sie nicht-Sie wissen, dass Ihr Betrug leer
und wann fühlen Sie sich wie Ihre Haut ist in Brand
die Hitze Pricking Dir tausend Sandkörner
diese liegt Aufholjagd mit Ihnen
und wenn Ihr Gesicht tatsächlich schmilzt
ein Tag in Kürze
zu zeigen, dass der Zerfall liegt innerhalb
wir werden sehen, dann werden wir
, ist hässlich wie die Sünde!

Ode To Anonymous
(shame on you)

If anyone ever called you brave
you know that it's a lie

If anyone ever called you courageous
you know that it's a lie

DO you ever feel that people cAN see through you?

i know you do-you know your a fraud-empty-rattling around within your tiny mind

and when you feel like your skin is on fire
the heat pricking you like a zillion grains of sand
those lies catching up with you

and when your face actually melts
one day soon

revealing decay, sticky, sweating within

we'll see then shall we
oh yes we'll see

who is ugly as sin!?

Ode To Anonymous Inflil'traitor'

Jamie & Sammy forever

Due to a possible lock down,
Jamie may not
receive his call today.



My girlfriend right,
she's really hard man.
If anybody ever fucks with me I just set Sam on 'um.
She sort's 'um out.
She's amazing.
One time, swear to god, she stabbed me.
Right here. Three times.
No... I deserved it.
I fucked up big time.
Fuck.
Taught me a lesson.. fucken right..
She's mad like.
Totally loves me man!
She's totally fucken amazing...
I mean...another time right..
(sound of telephone intercepts)
that's her now....
is it...?



The familiar recorded message
from HMS Dame Phyllis Frost Women's Prison
aka Deer Park,
asked in a monotone
if I would receive this call.



A quick nod over to Jamie,
whose eyes lunged out toward me
inquisitively;

hop over to interview room one Jamie.
I'll just put you through.

1984

When I left home, my little sister wrote me a letter on her shinny aluminous green writing paper usually reserved for special occasions or times like this, and sent it.



I had only moved out one week before.


Lindsey's careful handwriting told me I had missed out because she had been allowed a chippy for tea that night, but I was lucky, since last night it was Mum’s mince and tatties!




I remember being chuffed to receive my first letter through the letter box of my first flat, but that's not all. Whilst holding in my hands, those slightly tattered sheets of paper inscribed with my sisters words, I felt something that can only be described as clenched from within. Suspended between the lines lay an absence of the other and gripped by a pang of sadness, I turned the volume up and made more toast.

As a young girl I grappled with this thing of gender identification and remember one day actively attempting to change the way in which I walked. One morning as I swaggered along to the bus stop, I practiced walking in my perceived version of a 'feminine' gait and manner. Forever being referred to by old men in the street as 'son', it had never bothered me before. In Scotland old men always give you a wee nod followed with a jaunty, 'You aw right son?' or hen? Though in my case it was always 'son'. This was fine and dandy until one day, (I had recently started secondary school where my peer's began their pressure) I realised my tomboy days where over. Now I needed to 'act' like a girl. To 'act' in a 'feminine' manner. I straightened myself up (??), walked with my knees closer together, took shorter strides, head-up and shoulders back. Needless to say it felt altogether weird and in a voice pitched higher than my usual fog-horn, I approached an old man,
'You ken what the time is mister?'
'Aye, it's ten-past-nine son.'

She remembered how, as a young man, she had insisted that woman must be obedient, chaste, scented, and exquisitely apparelled. "Now I shall have to pay in my own person for those desires," she reflected; "for woman are not (judging by my own short experience of the sex) obedient, chaste, scented, and exquisitely apparelled by nature. They can only attain these graces, without which they may enjoy none of the delights of life, by the most tedious discipline.'

VIRGINIA WOOLFE, Orlando.

what the fuck am I looking at?

As a young girl I grappled with this thing of gender identification and remember one day actively attempting to change the way in which I walked.
One morning as I swaggered along to the bus stop, I practiced walking in my perceived version of a 'feminine' gait and manner. Forever being referred to by old men in the street as 'son', it had never bothered me before. In Scotland old men always give you a wee nod followed with a jaunty, 'You aw right son?' or hen? Though in my case it was always 'son'.



This was fine and dandy until one day I realised that my tomboy days where over. Now I needed to 'act' like a girl. To 'act' in a 'feminine' manner. I straightened myself up, walked with my knees closer together, took shorter strides; head-up and shoulders back.

Needless to say it felt altogether weird and in a voice pitched higher than my usual fog-horn, I approached an old man and said,

"d'you ken what the time is mister?"

'Aye, it's ten-past-nine son.'



The need of human beings to transcend "the personal" is no less profound
than the need to be a person, an individual.

SUSAN SONTAG, "The Pornographic Imagination," 1967

Is it possible, I wonder, to dispel the concept of the male gaze?

Is it possible for us to look at one another not, from the viewpoint of our entrenched ideas, our learned differences in gender; 'female distress and male valour', but, from the view-point of our similarities as human beings?

Normative constructs of 'femininity' derivative of mans idealised representation of the woman, looks at the dichotomy between woman as wife/mother/domestic goddess and adultress/object/prostitute. Laura Mulvey, in her study on looking within the realm of cinema, contextualizes this notion calling it 'the male gaze'.

Mulvey's psychoanalytical essay, 'Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema'(1975), theorizes that the woman depicted in cinema, is constructed as spectacle and symptom and is according to Mulvey, 'the passive object of an active and powerful male gaze'.

I am looking at myself in context to historical representations of women within the visual arts. By looking at how the woman has been represented historically and by investigating the paradigm of the male gaze concept, I have communicated through the language of signifiers and codes in an attempt to subvert past/present representations of the woman.



Echoing ambiguity and altogether absent from feminine or decorative qualities, the subject, the woman, is neither elegant or fashionable. She is indeed stripped from commonly perceived codes of 'womanliness' and thus cannot be reduced to a decorative, beautiful spectacle and object.

Loveliness extreme.
Extra gaiters.
Loveliness extreme.
Sweet Ice-cream.

GERTRUDE STEIN, "Sacred Emily", 1913.

Rrose Selavy

My intention was always to get away from myself, though I knew perfectly well
that I was using myself. Call it a little game between "I" and "me".

MURCEL DUCHAMP, interview, 1962.