domingo, 27 de novembro de 2011
This is a fantasy business, Reverend. You can have any truth you want....Why don't you fuck me? That'll save me...I'm healthy as a horse. I'm fit as a fiddle and ready for cock...I'm Cinderella, Cleopatra, Goldie Hawn, Eva Braun, I'm Little Miss Muffin, I'm Pocahontas, I'm whoever you want me to be, Reverend.
Crimes Of Passion (As Noites de China Blue), de Ken Russell, 1984
Crimes Of Passion (As Noites de China Blue), de Ken Russell, 1984
terça-feira, 22 de novembro de 2011
sexta-feira, 18 de novembro de 2011
Sarah Goodridge, Beauty Revealed (auto-retrato), 1828
Sei os teus seios.
Sei-os de cor.
Para a frente, para cima,
Despontam, alegres, os teus seios.
Mas não ainda triunfais.
Quem comparou os seios que são teus
(Banal imagem) a colinas?
Com donaire avançam os teus seios,
Ó minha embarcação!
Porque não há
Padarias que em vez de pão nos dêem seios
Logo p'la manhã?
Interrogaste, ao espelho, os seios?
Tão tolos os teus seios! Toda a noite
Com inveja um do outro, toda a santa
Quantos seios ficaram por amar?
Seios pasmados, seios lorpas, seios
Como barrigas de glutões!
Seios decrépitos e no entanto belos
Como o que já viveu e fez viver!
Seios inacessíveis e tão altos
Como um orgulho que há-de rebentar
Em desesperadas, quarentonas lágrimas...
Seios fortes como os da Liberdade
-Delacroix- guiando o Povo.
Seios que vão à escola p'ra de lá saírem
Direitinhos p'ra casa...
Seios que deram o bom leite da vida
A vorazes filhos alheios!
Diz-se rijo dum seio que, vencido,
Acaba por vencer...
O amor excessivo dum poeta:
"E hei-de mandar fazer um almanaque
da pele encadernado do teu seio"
Retirar-me para uns seios que me esperam
Há tantos anos, fielmente, na província!
Arrulho de pequenos seios
No peitoril de uma janela
Aberta sobre a vida.
Pisando tudo, até os seios
Em que o amor se exalta e robustece!
Seios adivinhados, entrevistos,
Jamais possuídos, sempre desejados!
"Oculta, pois, oculta esses objectos,
Altares onde fazem sacrifícios
Quantos os vêem com olhos indiscretos"
(Abade de Jazente)
Raimundo Lúlio, a mulher casada
Que cortejaste, que perseguiste
Até entrares, a cavalo, p'la igreja
Onde fora rezar,
Mudou-te a vida quando te mostrou
("É isto que amas?")
De repente a podridão do seio.
Raparigas dos limões a oferecerem
Fruta mais atrevida: inesperados seios...
Uma roda de velhos seios despeitados,
A pretexto de chá...
Engolfo-me num seio até perder
Memória de quem sou...
Quantos seios devorou a guerra, quantos,
Depressa ou devagar, roubou à vida,
À alegria, ao amor e às gulosas
Bocas dos miúdos!
Pouso a cabeça no teu seio
E nenhum desejo me estremece a carne.
Vejo os teus seios, absortos
Sobre um pequeno ser
Jean Gaumy - Klaus Kinski em "L'important c'est d'aimer" de Andrzej Zulawski, 1974
quarta-feira, 16 de novembro de 2011
Les hasards heureux de l'escarpolette, 1767, de Jean-Honoré Fragonard
Como balouça pelos ares no espaço
entre arvoredo que tremula e saias
que lânguidas esvoaçam indiscretas!
Que pernas se entrevêem, e que mais
não se vê o que indiscreto se reclina
no gozo de escondido se mostrar!
Que olhar e que sapato pelos ares,
na luz difusa como névoa ardente
do palpitar de entranhas na folhagem!
Como um jardim se emprenha de volúpia,
torcendo-se nos ramos e nos gestos,
nos dedos que se afilam, e nas sombras!
Que roupas se demoram e constrangem
o sexo e os seios que avolumam presos,
e adivinhados na malícia tensa!
Que estátuas e que muros se balouçam
nessa vertigem de que as cordas são
tão córnea a graça de um feliz marido!
Como balouça, como adeja, como
é galanteio o gesto com que, obsceno,
o amante se deleita olhando apenas!
Como ele a despe e como ela resiste
no olhar que pousa enviesado e arguto
sabendo quantas rendas a rasgar!
Como do mundo nada importa mais!
Jorge de Sena, Metamorfoses, Lisboa, Moraes Editores, 1963
terça-feira, 15 de novembro de 2011
Dublin 15 December 1909
No letter! Now I am sure my girlie is offended at my filthy words. Are you offended, dear, as what I said about your drawers? That is all nonsense, darling. I know they are spotless as your hearth. I know I could lick them all over, frills, legs and bottom. Only I love in my dirty way to think that in a certain part they are soiled. It is all nonsense, too, dear, about buggering you. It is only the dirty sound of the word I like, the idea if a shy beautiful young girl like Nora pulling up her clothes behind and revealing her sweet white girlish drawers in order to excite the dirty fellow she is so fond of; and then letting him stick his dirty red lumpy pole in through the split of her drawers and up up up in the darling little hole between her plump fresh buttocks.
Darling, I came off just now in my trousers so that I am utterly played out. I cannot go to the G.P.O. though I have three letters to post.
To bed - to bed!
Goodnight, Nora mia!
Dublin 16 December 1909
My sweet darling girl At last you write to me! You must have given that naughty little cunt of yours a most ferocious frigging to write me such a disjointed letter. As for me, darling, I am so played out that you would have to lick me for a good hour before I could get a horn stiff enough even to put into you, to say nothing of blocking you. I have done so much and so often that I am afraid to look to see how that thing I had is after all I have done to myself. Darling, please don't fuck me too much when I go back. Fuck all you can out of me for the first night or so but make me get myself cured. The fucking must all be done by you, darling as I am so small and soft now that no girl in Europe except yourself would waste her time trying the job. Fuck me, darling, in as many new ways as your lust will suggest. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold and wind and rain and your boots muddy, either straddling across my legs when I am sitting in a chair and riding me up and down with the frills of your drawers showing and my cock sticking up stiff in your cunt or riding me over the back of the sofa. Fuck me naked with your hat and stockings on only flat on the floor with a crimson flower in your hole behind, riding me like a man with your thighs between mine and your rump very fat. Fuck me in your dressing gown (I hope you have that nice one) with nothing on under it, opening it suddenly and showing me your belly and thighs and back an pulling me on top of you on the kitchen table. Fuck me into you arseways, lying on your face on the bed, with your hair flying loose naked but with a lovely scented pair of pink drawers opened shamelessly behind and half sleeping down over your peeping bum. Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-maid fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand in his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts behind until her own girlish cockey is as stiff as his and suddenly sticking him up in her and riding him.
Basta! Basta per Dio!
I have come now and the foolery is over. Now for your questions!
Get ready. Put some warm-brown-linoleum on the kitchen and hang a pair of red common curtains on the windows at night. Get some kind of a cheap common comfortable armchair for your lazy lover. Do this above all, darling, as I shall not quit that kitchen for a whole week after I arrive, reading, lolling, smoking, and watching you get ready the meals and talking, talking, talking, talking to you. O how supremely happy I shall be! God in heaven, I shall be happy there! I figlioli, il fuoco, una buona mangiata, un caffè nero, un Brasil (cigar), il Piccolo della Sera, e Nora, Nora mia, Norina, Noretta, Noruccia ecc ecc...
Eva and Eileen must sleep together. Get some place for Georgie. I wish Nora and I had two beds for night-work. I am keeping and shall keep my promise, love. Time fly on quickly! I want to go back to my love, my life, my star, my little strange-eyed Ireland!
A hundred thousand kisses, darling!
(cartas de James Joyce)
segunda-feira, 14 de novembro de 2011
Dublin 6 December 1909
I would like you to wear drawers with three or four frills one over the other at the knees and up the thighs and great crimson bows in them, I mean not schoolgirls' drawers with a thin shabby lace border, thigh round the legs and so thin that the flesh shows with a full loose bottom and wide legs, all frills and lace and ribbons, and heavy with perfume so that whenever you show them, whether in pulling up your clothes hastily to do something or cuddling yourself up prettily to be blocked, I can see only a swelling mass of white stuff and frills and so that when I bend down over you to open them and give you a burning lustful kiss on your naughty bare bum I can smell the perfume of your drawers as well as the warm odour of your cunt and the heavy smell of your behind.
Have I shocked you by the dirty things I wrote to you? You think perhaps that my love is a filthy thing. It is, darling, at some moments. I dream of you in filthy poses sometimes. I imagine things so very dirty that I will not write them until I see how you write yourself. The smallest things give me a great cockstand - a whorish movement of your mouth, a little brown stain on the seat of your white drawers, a sudden dirty word spluttered out by your wet lips, a sudden immodest noise made by you behind and then a bad smell slowly curling up out of your backside. At such moments I feel mad to do it in some filthy way, to feel your hot lecherous lips sucking away at me, to fuck between your two rosy-tipped bubbies, to come on your face and squirt it over your hot cheeks and eyes, to stick it between the cheeks of your rump and bugger you.
Basta per stasera!
I hope you got my telegram and understood it.
Goodbye, my darling whom I am trying to degrade and deprave. How on God's earth can you possibly love a thing like me?
O, I am anxious to get your reply, darling!
(carta de James Joyce)
domingo, 13 de novembro de 2011
Michael von Zichy
Dublin 3 December 1909
……., you seem to turn me into a beast. It was you yourself, you naughty shameless girl who first led the way. It was not I who first touched you long ago down at Ringsend. It was you who slid your hand down down inside my trousers and pulled my shirt softly aside and touched my prick with your long tickling fingers and gradually took it all, fat and stiff as it was, into your hand and frigged me slowly until I came off through your fingers, all the time bending over me and gazing at me out of your quiet saintlike eyes. It was your lips too which first uttered an obscene word. I remember well that night in bed in Pola.
Tired of lying under a man one night you tore off your chemise violently and got on top of me to ride me naked. You stuck my prick into your cunt and began to ride me up and down. Perhaps the horn I had was not big enough for you for I remember that you bent down to me face and murmured tenderly "Fuck up, love! Fuck up, love!"
Nora dear, I am dying all day to ask you one or two questions. Let me, dear, for I have told you everything I ever did and so I can ask you in turn. When that person (Vincent Cosgrave) whose heart I long to stop with the click of a revolver put his hand or hands under your skirts did he only tickle you outside or did he put his finger or fingers up into you? If he did, did they go up far enough to touch that little cock at the end of your cunt? Did he touch you behind? Was he a long time tickling you and did you come? Did he ask you to touch him and did you do so? If you did not touch him did he come against you and did you feel it?
Another question, Nora. I know that I was the first man that blocked you but did any man ever frig you? Did that boy (Michael Bodkin) you were fond of ever do it? Tell me now, Nora, truth for truth, honesty for honesty. When you were with him in the dark at night did your fingers never, never unbutton his trousers and slip inside like mice? Did you ever frig him, dear, tell me truly or anyone else? Did you never, never, never feel a man's or a boy's prick in your fingers until you unbuttoned me? If you are not offended do not be afraid to tell me the truth. Darling, darling, tonight I have such a wild lust for your body that if you were here beside me and even if you told me with your lips that half the redheaded louts in the county Galway had had a fuck at you before me I would still rush at you with desire.............................................................
(carta de James Joyce)
sábado, 12 de novembro de 2011
Dublin 2 December 1909
My love for you allows me to pray to the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes or fling you down under me on that softy belly of yours and fuck you up behind, like a hog riding a sow, glorying in the very stink and sweat that rises from your arse, glorying in the open shape of your upturned dress and white girlish drawers and in the confusion of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word, to tremble with love for you at the sounding of some chord or cadence of music or to lie heads and tails with you feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my ballocks or stuck up in me behind and your hot lips sucking off my cock while my head is wedged in between your fat thighs, my hands clutching the round cushions of your bum and my tongue licking ravenously up your rank red cunt. I have taught you almost to swoon at the hearing of my voice singing or murmuring to your soul the passion and sorrow and mystery of life and at the same time have taught you to make filthy signs to me with your lips and tongue, to provoke me by obscene touches and noises, and even to do in my presence the most shameful and filthy act of the body. You remember the day you pulled up your clothes and let me lie under you looking up at you while you did it? Then you were ashamed even to meet my eyes.
You are mine, darling, mine! I love you. All I have written above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before it is over and my true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices. My prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive it has given you when a faint hymn is heard rising in tender pitiful worship of you from the dim cloisters of my heart.
Nora, my faithful darling, my seet-eyed blackguard schoolgirl, be my whore, my mistress, as much as you like (my little frigging mistress! My little fucking whore!) you are always my beautiful wild flower of the hedges, my dark-blue rain-drenched flower.
(carta de James Joyce)