Semi­Opaque leggings, liquorice between teeth

Semi­Opaque leggings, liquorice between teeth 
December 5, 2013 

Time in blizzard. Some time spent watching it take over air. Proliferation of perfect plural seemingly alike white. It is not time to abandon adolescent disparity of two legs, points of stars in snow 

external world of accidence coming down fast, shadowless anti­human riot 

Infant terrible

infant terrible

She is a she. She must be careful and strain herself. When she does things not permitted for girls she is putting something out of balance and finding stability of her own, which is incomprehensible, unsafe and exciting. Norms for girl behavior are very strict, therefore they are fairly simple to break, if one has the nerve to do it and become infant terrible. Punishments will of course be severe, results somewhat expected and the girl will be shut out as she is improper, stupid, intolerable, smelly and dirty, always in trouble for testing limits set by adults. In the end all she tests is herself and where she can go with small gestures, small cracks in reality, cracks made by her that got bigger.

She farts loudly in a restaurant (small farts smell the worst, but bigger farts make a disturbing element in a sophisticated environment). She starts singing in a bus when everyone else is silent, unexpected noise and clearly retarded. She pours milk on the table and strikes the glass out on the parquet leaving a dent on it. Naughty girl, what is wrong with you. Is that all what happens? It does not take much to become a talking topic. She sees woman on a balcony below her and pours water on her head.

A poem for monsters. How much is in you to give? A test.

Can you love an ugly child? Fat, tiny, whiny and useless, suddenly appearing into your life? Is it organic or manufactured, artificial or natural?
Can you love an ugly child who looks like trouble growing with hunger and thirst, who does not belong here or anywhere but needs a place to stay? Whose whole being yells how out of place she is even though she is quietly looking at you.
Can you give affection to a little beast who is an image of you? Maybe forgotten and hidden. Who reminds you of your weaknesses, your desires which you cannot attend to and fulfil because of that visible existence of someone new, an invader, an intruder grabbing you from your gut. Sounds like a leach.
Can you put priorities of your own aside and love someone with two heads and a heart that pounds noise in which nobody can sleep, unconditionally, without saying you owe me?
Screaming, needy and pathetic, noisier and messier. Heads following sudden ideas, not obeying anything said. Someone with three legs, several hands and wide open mouths nonstop.
Can you love an ugly child that needs to be loved more than you could ever imagine, loved more than you love yourself?
Put all your warmth on that tiny body that breaks everything just to try out what happens? How much warmth do you have to spare and what changes?

Language of turquoise

Excavator on a star looks lonely and abandoned. A horse called Flight was difficult to handle. The animal was sizeable and white. Only one who it let ride was a girl and I thought she was the bravest person I had ever met. I use to like to watch them work together in perfect harmony. The abused and hurt horse, beautiful and enraged, and the only one who could touch its white. How are we the same? What is the same? Why do you seek similarity? Why do you want to be safe with people like yourself?

Puta Madre conceptual garden sub specie Aeternitatis, where every deed happens: truth is a bitch.  Say the truth and you will be smacked around. Out-of-place, naturally dislocated.

Nymphaea looked for her earring on living room floor carpet. She said she has bad eyes. Great Horned Owl in her, in her bra was tightly pressured against her skin. Wanted to study her pressure marks, sunken bloodless steps on her, leaps of red. I thought it must have hurt to wear such bra. To wear underwear she did shaping her form. She always had a nightgown for me with a cartoon figure. I loved her furniture. She hung her jewelry on corners of her dressing table with oval shaped mirror. Smelling her bottles, her sheets, her plastic pearls, her things, her and valuables, details, piled magazines in her closet. Hers, language of her. I looked for it through her hanging clothes sitting on the floor. I poured everything that was in the box on the floor. Language of clichés,
language of beauty
language of trauma
language of banality
language of architecture
language of aggression
language of being a child
language of being alive
language of acting out
language of close
language of an old woman
language of dust
language of turquoise. 


En mä, tiedä kannattaako sitä luonnollisuudella ja biologialla ja historialla mitään paljon selitellä, että olemme sellaisia, koska joku on niin säätänyt, eikä säädetystä poiketa. Vanhemmuudesta vielä, se on vaikea juttu, todella. Sitä ei kovin moni hetero osaa. En tiedä, voiko heteroille antaa vanhemmuuden avaimia lainkaan. Jos sukupuolinen suuntautuminen määrää millainen vanhempi on, niin ja millainen lapsesta tulee, mitä voimme päätellä heteroiden vanhemmuutta harjoittavassa maailmassa lopputuloksesta. Hyvässä vanhemmuudessa ei ole kyse rahasta, niinkuin moni luulee. Tai että ei halua kuulla huonoista jutuista lapsensa elämässä. Jos ei ole ketään kelle kertoa elämänsä paskasta, niin se on melko paska tilanne. Heterot vois ryhdistäytyä, ennen kuin on liian myöhäistä. Jos rakastaminen ja välittäminen eivät riitä, eivätkä kiinnosta, millainen elämä ja kokemusmaailma, saati ihmiskuva siitä syntyy. Tai ei ole käsitystä mitä nämä asiat ovat, kuinka niitä toteutetaan ja miksi niitä pitäisi olla koko ajan harjoittamassa. Miehen ja naisen mallit, joilla heterovanhemmuutta puolustetaan, ovat toissijaisia asioita noiden kahden rinnalla. Vakavaa, joo.