“These hands are my father’s hands but smaller”
—Why?, “These Hands”
“My father gave me these hands, fingers
inch-wide and muscular like his”
—Richard Blanco, “My Father, My Hands”
“These hands are my father’s hands these eyes
Excessively veined his eyes”
—Charles Wright, “Congenital”
I know not what I am now.
I know not what I could be.
I know not what I should be.
All I know is the lack of decency according to the common man’s principles.
All I know is the decadence of my overpowering urges that take hold and strangle me.
All I know is the smell of musk that wafts from your pits, your sack, your every pore.
All I know is the desperate need to hide in the shadows to pursue the forbidden fruit that is my sex, that is your flesh, that I have been told no, no, no for so long.
All I know is the games I play that exist to give birth to a confidence no real person can carry.
I know nothing of love songs
Just lust songs
My swan songs to the world.
Rest it upon my shoulder for my conscience is missing
Let it crawl from the depths of hell to the roof of my mouth
Breathe it down into my lungs so I may know new life
So this wellspring of carnal knowledge may be imbibed
For unsentimental education is the most important thing
Not false prophets or paltry illusions we give these bedroom pedestrians.
The cock is a symbol of liberating iconography
It is the flag which I will wave proudly
With framed posters hanging from my bedroom walls.
The cock touches my tainted soul
It transcends simple sins
Lingering like the fondest of mischievous memories.
The cock is a wonder
Full of suck ever-extending bliss
Something truly glorious to behold.
Our bodies will be a battlefield
The only death being La Petit mort.
I took you in my hand – you, your penis.
Swallowed whole this turgid organ filled with stoic exuberance
Filled with vigorous, pumping ecstasy.
I took you in my hand – you, your penis.
Thought how honest it was
Free from mankind’s distorted nature.
I took you in my hand – your, your penis.
Softness turned hardness turned softness again
Fickle like my heart’s desires.
I took you in my hand not knowing
How much hurt you would cause when you let go
When you left me an empty shell
A flaccid yolk splattered like a blood stain
Melted like warm flesh across the pavement.
They sought me out, the tarnished one
The one who fucked freely
The one who enjoyed the taste of life’s sweet nectar (cum)
The one who shamelessly spread his legs for accommodating strangers.
I am hung from the rooftops
I am fed to the dogs
I am burnt at the stake
But I am no killer, no vermin, no witch.
Not a charmer or madonna
Not a player or whore
I am just a man with longings and yearnings
With lusts and deep desires.
You should never fall for a cock
Only beautiful, baby blue eyes.
You should never fall for a cock
Only chiseled jaws carved from marble.
You should never fall for a cock
Only voices, deep and cavernous.
Didn’t you know?
To put a gun in another man’s mouth and pull the trigger in the name
Of war is bravery.
To put a cock in another man’s mouth and shoot your load in the name
Of love is deviancy.
A man should never love a cock
But I love cock and I love you.
This dripping tends to leave me with a tendency
Filled with hopeful histrionics that make sense of nothing.
A pearl-white necklace worth little more than spit or piss
Covers my face with a glaze of broken desire.
Disappointment washes over me more than I can bear
When you fuck me like you care.
Like I’m some sort of virgin school girl.
Like I’m some sort of innocent lamb.
Like I’m some sort of Disney princess.
I need you more when you disgrace me
With affection that resembles a heart
Shaped like a loaded pistol.
Rooted in Chinese Opera, Geste is a dramatic tool, utilising gesture to convey character rather than psychological acting techniques.
In it’s simplest form Brecht used the term Gestus to refer to a strong image, a tableau vivant, that could ecapsulate a scene without words. He also used a similar term, Geste, to refer to the simple strong physical gestures that could be used by an actor to convey or embody a character without having to inhabit the internal reality of a character as an actor following, for example, Stanislavsky’s teachings. Both of these ideas can be discussed under the banner “The Gestus”
So what does this mean for our production of Outbreak? Theory’s all very well but without practical applications it becomes, by turns, the terrifying and tedious contents of textbooks. Well, one way that the Gestus has proved invaluable for us has been as a way of displaying the power relationships between without having to tell the audience everything. Our set is very simple; black, plywood platforms set…
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It is Saturday. I have an appointment at 2.20pm. I don’t know what for.
All I know is this: performance art.
Arrive early at the Art Space and wander for 10 minutes or so.
Appointment in the booth, but booth is occupied.
Two voices. One female. The other male.
2.25pm. Audrey, who I am meeting, pops out, as does the unknown male.
They say goodbye. He leaves. I enter.
My session, appointment, show, whatever…begins.
We talk – I know Audrey from the past.
The past: Christchurch.
Right hand lies open. Fingernails ready to be painted.
Covered in red nail polish. Red like blood. Dark dark dark red.
A table laid out with assorted items. Pick up to 5, she says.
Boost, googly eyes, charcoal, rope. Why?
I don’t know.
She strips. Turns her back towards me.
Her ass is covered in eyes.
Eyes (mine) watching her ass. Her eyes (ass) watch me.
Stare at the ass and the ass stares back at you.
I draw her.
Tick tock…boost fizzes, counting down like an hourglass.
We speak of our art briefly as this goes on.
We both wish for audiences to be less passive.
More… involved.
More… engaged.
More… culpable.
Artaud is mentioned.
Maybe a cinema or theatre of…
Desire.
She hands me the script.
A prescription, perhaps.
A script to live by, perhaps.
A gift, perhaps.
The show is over. Life goes on.
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