Literary Bimbo
Modernist Acclamation

Kofi Fosu Forson

Bimbos are known to be dimwitted.

Embracing a woman who appears concerned with her physical makeup, leaving very little for the imagination would suppose affectation of bimbo.

What would then be the redirect if she spoke and actually sounded interesting, making references to art, literature and music?

Dorothy Parker among her circle was a charming, clever, social critic… As much as she was clever, some would have cleared her off as a merry madam a little lose on bitters.

The word “bimbo” however derivative of chauvinistic nature paints a picture not only of the underpinned guest in an opportune moment blond-wigged and made up. It can also be found in the self-obsessed gentleman who offers carnal knowledge first before and after introduction.

Made present in history the term bimbo was mostly offered a blond woman, pin-up model or woman of certain social disgrace. Literary women on the other hand were appropriate in their distinction. Ayn Rand completes that speculation in her professional disposition and intellectual prowess.

The “bone” that distinguished feminism from post-feminism is much the “pipe” that angles in proportion what was estimated in Warhol and now secures an advantage commonly as practice in medicine, business, politics and art. Male whore is nothing more than a bimbo suit and tied.

Is the literary bimbo free from pronouncing him/herself as sex object or does availability of sex make him/her more domineering. Power then manifested is relevant in sex appeal and not always intellect. Publishing of a book or directing of film would be representable of that.

Intellect and sex in modern discourse perhaps an aphrodisiac, otherwise most would prefer a celebrity’s musculature and power. Where the prototypical Hollywood stature meets money and promiscuity becomes a modern day art pro, visionary and auteur.

Term “starfucker” highlights the enslavement propensity: - that most would do anything to be famous. If not fame there are those who carry on peculiar lifestyle through which they manage finance, livelihood and recognition.

Clearly some practice objectionable behavior underlined mostly by sexual politics: - to then think which is the quicker way to success! It’s a double edged sword what conditions the individual within the art or business ideal.

It is crucial to close a deal given prospects of employment or advancement. That then would suggest operating against one’s ideals and preference. However manageable, there are those who prefer a much clear distinction as opposed determining between power, authority and inexperience.

Literary aspirations always predetermine one’s nature. Some welcome success with defeat. Others claim it as destiny. Overall there are rules made applicable. In order to work within any professional environment one must promote self-respect and dignity. That allows for an honest truth spoken about colleagues and others in question.

There’s the independent market and what otherwise would be termed corporate or Hollywood. Very few are able to walk both lines. Julian Schnabel is one among very few who can claim authority in both markets.

Understandably there’s the rank and file. These are those who manage choices based on money, sex and reputation. In there lies abuse of power, rape of innocence and eventual distinguishing between star and groupie.

Literary bimbo is one and none among these. The character and substance with which a literary or aspiring “game player” promotes himself is based on an individual motto. This would be found to be different in music (hip hop or metal), publishing and film (independent versus corporate).

The bimbo in the literary person would somehow be the persona that encourages a conversation after a round of cocktails, flirts with the opposite sex, secures a role both in business and love, maintaining a disposition in self-identity, masculinity/femininity and supposed stardom.

PHOTO Copyright (c) Noelle Joy Grosso

Fear and Love
Inside The Black Cloak:
Hidden Measures of Default/
Encumbering Beauty

Kofi Fosu Forson

Dark desire isn’t incumbent upon the mind’s hysteria made probable in day to day vice. Commerciality as an example marketed is a resistance to what we experience as fear and love. Subscribing to elements within the picture show, romance novels and celebrity status allow our imagination as lovers broken by desire and encumbering beauty.

The blinding cage or preferable as the black cloak is a metaphor, designable, much the disguise in every behavior. There are assumptions led to think we encourage a darker side. None of this carries weight in what would seem a life of entrepreneurial philanthropy supposing a condition of love in the manifest, not exterior posturing.

Hidden measures of default are circumstances surrounding our inability to persist a higher understanding. The half lives we permit allow for a guarding and preventing from intrusion divisible within the life model. What we post based on reality isn’t confined to humanistic disposition.

Certainly each quotient representing that proverbial animal inside the mind, programmable through moral code, dramatically reveals a persona separate from the original content found in sexual desire, nocturnal dreams, virtual reels and spontaneous behavior as a cause for reaction.

Act of violence and sexual misconduct are narratives which play themselves out, translatable in the primordial psyche. Dominance with no room to ingratiate, two psychological realms dictate power and aggression, determined by transferring of negativity, leaving the human body susceptible.

Desperation isolated brings about love and death. Consequences resulting are neurotic behavior fueled by psychosis and libido. Rape or murder if actualized certifies the damage within the turbulent mind.

Thus then is the difference between the darker spirit and what otherwise becomes glamorized. Human self however stigmatized is capable of one true ideal, dialogue and conference. In doing so, we manage discourse merging beauty and prescience.

Intelligence and foresight therefore encourages each individual to reveal their preeminent self. To then hide, revealing a false self, negotiable as imperfection is a defeatist prospect.

The human animal from birth to death is at a quest for completion and understanding. None of this ever meets the demand in a lifetime.

A biographer would have written the book. A cinematographer told the story.

We would have emerged from the dark into light.

Portrait of Parrot
Lust, Voyeurism and Self-Redemption

Kofi Fosu Forson


Word “lover” is of the embrace.

The technicality which binds us encourages one to seek a partner thereby freeing the self from neurosis. In modern terms we accept this as the norm. The cancelling factor thereby explains reasons why most if not all are captivated by love as disease.

Envision a parrot inside a cage. This abnormal pet is then the persona that we as lovers are programmed to be. At a disadvantage the parrot observes potential partners walk in and out.

Seldom do we manage an understanding behind who we are and ultimately what defines us in that role. What we claim are manifestations prescribed potentially as drug.

If the parrot in its mild euphoria claims an identity based on whatever dialogue and situations encouraged before him he then becomes product to that environment. Lover would then be a designed existence based on mother/father figure, societal norms and the interpreting of ones identity.

To engage in act of love…the crush in every being!

Hunger, lust, desire are basis for our survival. A longing would best express need for nourishment. Lust has probabilities bordering an intervention to will against as if by force of nature summon onto another reality ones hope and desire…the attraction and brilliance in another.

Lust then by nature is the most emphatic form of desire. It carries over in brilliant light what we seek in another. As predisposition, the human travels in a subconscious reality. If given towards the act of love, he gravitates without notion and/or by determination to the opposite gender.

In the virtual world, people live off the fancy of others based on intellect and sex. This brings about notions of fantasy and movement of light travelling through virtual reality.

Lustful desire then remains evident within a conscious space where one meditates on an image alongside a profile resulting in an exchange of text casual in the everyday variety. It never reaches fulfilment outside of potentiality surmised throughout transatlantic hook-ups or intense revelations depicting sexuality based on a spiritual and intellectual vibe.

How do we render ourselves as “lovers” with regards to modernity? Voyeuristically conscience revolves around the lives made functionable in the immediate world wide internet.

Is it then possible to harbour a conventional relationship and still be able to lust?

Livelihood bases itself on continuity. In doing so, we command a need for variety of things. Most of them are circumscribed by gender and sex. The greatest challenge would be to have it all (the fruit) and seek (pulp) in another.

Modern romance has inspired the female allowing for the inclusion of multiple partners, none of which has to do with lust…that undeniable desire. It’s more an excuse, a pointless and greedy hump, and not willingly embracing love.

What a person of intellect and sex seeks in lust is ability to protect the qualifying feeling of love, predicament found in an artist’s relationship with a muse or the circumstances surrounding marriage and infidelity.

In this the virtual age, best it exist in conscience, a means of deceit and contempt, not a drive towards abnormality.

Velvet Revolver
Kofi Fosu Forson

Early mornings during rush hour when you sit across from the appropriate person with a sexual default much time is spent wrestling thoughts and images about power and control.

Before him was a Seige-Seige punk femme fetal, red obnoxious hair in a parted ‘fro bound by a white leather trench coat, black and white striped leggings and black boots. Her hands were secured inside the length of pockets with legs crossed. As he made his face familiar she looked sideways, constantly blinking. His glance was immediate and confrontational. Noticing she was uncomfortable he backed off, adjusting himself.

He turned to look at her, imagining her breasts. Somehow he felt they were fully developed with a wide circle of pink flesh surrounding the nipples which protruded as miniature cones. It wasn’t an intentional provocation. His attention was placed around her yet he kept envisioning himself sucking her breast full-mouthed.

She uncrossed her legs. He stared at the passenger sitting next to her and then back at her. She coughed quietly watching reflections in the mirror. He did the same altering his thinking all together.

Scandinavian politics had left him since his betrothal to a local woman. He finds himself in a foreign country needing to escape.

Football by standard was religion. His teammates made the rounds. He always had a girlfriend. Having had to keep his promise he has become neurotic, seeking conversations with young Latin women wanting to buy them off from their parents or seducing the delivery boys into giving him a hand job.

The woman has since taken out her Ipod lost in a wall of sound. He looks at her, sharp and tight, then again inspecting the reflection in the mirror, turning his attention away. The passenger sitting next to her in turn watches him. He once again maintains composure, avoiding eye-contact with the woman.

Several students walk into the subway car chattering. For the moment the woman is obscured. He catches a glimpse every now and then straining his eyes to find her in-between the motioning bodies, people leaving and entering. On his mind are thoughts of making love. He notices her adjusting the Ipod, looking around as if she could actually hear them in his fantasy.

The subway car is crowded at a certain stop. Many force their way in. The man sits in embarrassment, desperate and helpless. He imagines himself and the woman trapped in a suicide bar where people come to drink themselves to death.

Pointing a gun he forces her into a corner making her expose breasts warm and soft. The gun in hand, pointed, he fondles her breasts with the other hand. She inches lower to perform on him, lips locked, welcoming the strength of cock in her mouth.

Refraining from the fantasy, he turns his attention on the woman. When their two eyes meet, she immediately hurries out the train onto the platform. He sits in a daze, mouth open, turning to look at the woman through the window.

Moments pass. He resumes the fantasy in which he dominates the woman on the bar, making love to her at will, removing his cock from about the pussy, spreading it open in admiration to begin again, entering and exiting to finally out of stress and strain cum on her face.

I-id-Enigma
Modern Lovers Handbook

Kofi Fosu Forson

The yuppie writer was given an unfair burial.

The term Bad Boy made applicable to the literary author owns a link to Norman Mailer, Henry Miller and William Burroughs. Two writers termed yuppie Brett Easton Ellis and Jay MClnerny owned the name "bad boy" based on the allure given the trend-setting lifestyle surrounding these two writers at a time when New York endured a burgeoning late-night culture.

They owned a certain sophistication found best and reminiscent of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Tom Wolfe. In tailored suits they were featured on magazine covers and saw the fortune of having their novels made into successful Hollywood films. They were modern lovers.

The "I" in every proclamation dictates authority. Less served are the idiosyncrasies which determine who is truly behind the unobjectionable "I". This very pronoun represents the immediate presence of those quick to use it as a form of reproach or disclosure.

In theatre we find Julius Caesar displaying the mindset of a person who governs. Much can be said in these our political times when senators and representatives incorporate their intensions along with their affirmation by using the "I" for effect.

Who is the I-id-Enigma? At its psychological centre are there not many influences that determine or undermine who we are as human, animal, schizoid? The human condition labours on pointlessness. Whatever merits this understanding is usually prolonged in the life process. We don't all subscribe to a governing philosophy. Much the difference in our finger prints such is the parallel in how we approach the certainty of death.

The act of love brings to life new birth. To secure this very life the act of love takes on complex interpretations. Understandable are the differences within gender culture. That indeed we are different species can be made normal in light of the summation we live in a genderless society. That is by rule a philosophy.

Woman gives birth. Husband stands outside talking on a wireless. There’s the rub…

There are aspects of love which an individual must guard against. Some of them are generational warfare, gender politics and fraternizing. The male and female symbol ratified as genderless and androgyny in defeat is an idea the individual embraces based on personal beliefs. Style overall structured within society’s depeche mode usually fits into a subculture allowing for a better connection between male/female dynamics.

Fraternizing would then present a sticking point causing one to place in high order people with whom they associate. Friends would then be labelled in order of importance. The very fact of love would warrant a need to please those found among social circles. They tend to range from childhood friends, sorority brothers and sisters and others who have climbed the corporate ladder having endured gender and sexual politics.

Within generational warfare are those who use their seniority or philosophical and cultural experience as an advantage. This has breeched a category as in mature and teen where middle-aged men and women date those ten to twenty years younger. The politics hereby allows older men and women to relive their youth. While the younger ones gain a sense of expertise. However there are bouts of jealousy, misunderstanding and confrontations.

That indeed language is text, men as well as women are keen in recognizing and operating based on the I-id-Enigma whereby women are structured by their body parts, men approach them not so much out of desire but insatiable hunger.

This very feeling of longing need be reinterpreted to benefit the interaction between men and women. Much the cause for time and evolution, women sense a libidinal fury among their gender.

Artists speak la langue de conscience sexuelle. It will determine a future interaction between artists and politicians. If not much like Vaclav Havel, artists need to find their way in politics to affect implementations of moral conduct, perhaps at least a re-ordering of beauty, conscience and love.

EXCERPT FROM NOVEL GORILLA HEAD
By Kofi Fosu Forson

Majorie appears from her necessary post-sleep adjustments with a towel covering her private portions. She burns her pupils into mine. It’s the cue, about the unwritten rule, to give her privacy. I trudge out of the room to prepare breakfast. The apartment has certainly settled from the effects of the days before.

In the kitchen I slice an avocado in fine pieces and not caring about time, wait for a loaf of French bread to heat up. When it’s ready, each item of food adorns a tray accompanying me back into the bedroom. A tea kettle comes to a whistle just as the door opens. Marjorie rushes out of the room still wearing the towel around her waist.

What did Dracula on the wall think of us last night? My furry skin and Marjorie’s blonde wig.

Marjorie returns with a pot of tea, hot on her palms. In the frenzy of it all, she secures it on the chest of drawers.

"You must have something decent for me to put on."
"I don’t suppose you want to leave here as Marilyn Monroe."

She hops into the bathroom after picking out a shirt from my personal collection. I remove the gorilla suit, slip on a pair of slacks and a white V-neck and proceed with the cups of tea. Marjorie joins me on the bed, vibrant and determined. I begin by serving her some avocado with bread. It’s very Ghanaian. Was this bequeathed to us by the British or could it be an African Queen mother’s idea of an appetizer?

Dracula on the wall, what would you do in this situation?

In the past, Marjorie has wondered about the relevance of Ghana’s history to my life in the modern day. I’ve always dodged the issue. Most often, history is made up of names we choose to remember or forget. Those that remain with me are Super O.D., Opiah Mensah and the traditional television culture that prepared me for a more vast culture in The States.

"What do you love the most about your independence from the British?" Marjorie inquires.
"Sipping on a cup of Twinings Tea, dunking my bread. If spread elaborately with butter, after dunking, it’s fun to watch the butter floating over the tea. Organisms come to mind."
"Surely, you have more important things to think about."
"Yeah. Water, leaves and dough."

Lying next to me, Marjorie is easily a conspirator of woman-hood, a Venus of Urbino. Marjorie’s voice could have been fashioned after an F.B.I. agent , carefully throated, pushed out of strong lungs. With technique, she spreads the avocado evenly on the bread, possibly gravitating towards the precision of a beautician. Her refusing to place the food in her mouth is for me such a disappointing resignation. The candidness of the bread, white and unaffected being cradled by forklike fingers, charges into her mouth. Splendidly the jaws rotate, cycle after cycle. Saliva sends the bread down in a swallow, followed by a kiss of the Twining Tea cup. Marjorie sips away and the crush of sun filling the room brings much delight to the completion of my early meal.

"My love of bread should be a suggestion," Marjorie dictates.
"Suggestion of what?"
"Virginity, Mother Mary. Of the belief that I should never be interrogated for answers I choose not to give."
"It’s about your father, isn’t it?"
"I dare to classify that as personal. Still, I would like for you to come along on a visit to my mother’s."

Marjorie has acquired a comfort in my clothing, smoothing her hands over it. Ironically, the uneasy feeling on her face is a reaction to the realms of the day. Her mother is Felice Tittleton. She lives in Long Island. Marjorie expects her share of fireworks today. We gather the utensils and redefine ourselves. I had not much of a chance to woo her anyway. We conduct a dishwashing session best fit for potential roommates. Afterwards we head back to the bedroom where we take turns dressing in the bathroom. I have the most genderless attire. Either that or Marjorie accepts her newfound manhood in my denim, wrinkled blazer and army boots.

Photo:Sarianna Sabbarese

Bangkok
Kofi Fosu Forson

Sadu had auctioned off a painting by his late wife. The money therefore afforded him the trip to promote his latest book, a collection of photographs featuring lovers. As he stood inside the bookstore alongside his friend, Mark, a fuck-film writer, Sadu seemed elegant yet embittered. He had sworn off the lifestyle of his friend. Indeed his wife Exene was dead and Lamour, their only child, was far removed from the fanciful and electric passion with which he created and carried on.

The evening crowd assembled before a table where Sadu sat well dressed. His eyes kept falling on a young woman wearing eye-glasses. She sat next to a man who seemed too polite to be her boyfriend. As is well-founded in the game of gender politics opposites attract. A seemingly good natured woman which she appeared to be should fall for a gentle Ben or some one with a hunky-bearded-look. He was more a Buddy Holly.

The young woman with the eye-glasses was first to ask a question. She wanted to know if the peculiarity of photographing lovers was something that brought an arousal out of him. Meaning did he ever find it favorable to sleep with his models. Sadu thought for a moment then he told the story of Evangeline.

There had always been a motto which he followed. His models signed a contract explaining in clear terms that he was absolutely by no means able to partake in the frivolity his models engaged in. After all they went from foreplay to actual lovemaking while Sadu patiently sat and chose opportune moments to photograph them.

At the end of the night Sadu autographed the books. People walked up and bought copies. Others opted for a photograph with him. The woman and her supposed boyfriend came up and introduced themselves. They neither wanted a photograph nor a copy of the book. Instead the woman and her boyfriend offered to be his models for the night.

He was staying at a hotel further downtown. Mark chose to drive them there but knowing full well what shenanigans the woman and her partner had imagined, Sadu and his new accompaniment excused themselves from Mark and strolled among the evening’s revelers en-route to dinner at a restaurant.

They found a comfortable seating arrangement at an established eating place where they sat and ordered appropriate cuisine for a late night. The conversations wandered from trips around the world to sex. The two lovers were exhibitionists, ambitiously hoping for Sadu to do a book specifically about them. Given what they wore he had an idea as to how their musculature from body to breasts was defined.

At the hotel Sadu and the couple sat and drank wine and further established themselves as friends for the evening. At the appropriate moment Sadu asked them to undress. They took their clothes off, moving closer to the bed as if choreographed.

Their motions were soft. She was running her fingers over his arms. Soon there after, they kissed. Sadu noticed as the gentleman’s dick began to rise. He looked over at the side towards the bag with his camera. Retrieving it he quickly started snapping frame after frame, watching as the lovers went from fondling to touching each others parts.

The gentleman mounted his open lips on her breasts massaging them with tongue. She looked defiantly at the camera. Sadu obliged. The view of her derriere from the back with the male companion staring into the camera was a potential shot. She sat on him bouncing to a rhythm as he cradled her hips. She rotated as he pulled and pushed her back and forth.

He bent over her penetrating continuously while gripping the back of her neck forcing his way in and out, soon after placing her on the side entering as her leg angled in the air. He sat up. Her body above him, he secured his cock inside, lifting her up and down, stopping to grip her breasts vigorously squeezing, falling back as she took control maintaining pressure, all the while readying an expression for the camera. The lovers rotated from position to position wanting an immediate orgasm, screeching in a worrisome call, yearning and grunting.

Sadu had had enough of the intensity. With the woman moaning in the background, he stepped into the bathroom and unzipped his pants. He stood there admiring his dick when all he came in there to do was pee. When he walked back into the room he noticed the two lovers precariously picking up their clothes as they ran naked out of the room.

Sadu sat inspecting the pictures he had just taken. He didn’t know if he had been blind-sided or that he fucked and wasn’t able to cum.

MODERNISM and Gender Roles

An Interview with Vadis Turner By Kofi Forson

http://whitehotmagazine.com/whitehot_articles.cfm?id=1571

Domesticity has familiarly been ordained in the works founded and traditionally marketed by women. Technology and corporate consumption has long since dismissed the care with which women approached handicrafts, knitting and craft work. Vadis Turner, Tennessee born and current New York City artist, revamps the notion of handmade objects as they are incorporated in a defining and contradiction of conventional gender roles. Her mixed media pieces achieve an intricate, colorful and at times elegant pronouncement on matters feminine and are reverentially transcendental.

Marksman Defacto
Prognostication of the Self-Identity

Kofi Fosu Forson

The third eye: - what possibilities can manifest from singularly claiming a personal right to envision the probabilities of what is, then to predetermine what comes thereafter and the reality that existed before.

There is certain majesty to the nothingness of what we percieve as sensible and the indiscriminate thoughts that surround us. Making a distinction between what is wrong or right, meaningful or led to conjecture has more to do with intuition than the surmising of sanity meeting insanity.

Sensibility is an innate understanding based on discipline and counteracting what principles have been established heretofore within the familial code, society and government. Morality as relevant bends the curve enabling the individual decided wisdom which results in the identifying of the self and issues pertinent to his development.

Each person has a trusting identity which uniquely separates them from others. It defies all forces of inclusion. Much of this helps maintain a cognitive distinction. Irreplaceable are the fundamental aspects of ones personality. These then qualify each individual as circumventing the cycle made imaginable by the universe.

Circumstances surrounding the human experience point at indecisiveness found within the variables of choice, thought and action. At its core many forces prevent procuring and managing matters concerning our destiny. A marksman's disposition would cause one to aim at the focal point eliminating any further distractions. But through imagination alone our divided selves form a quandary.

We then oblige by self-possession, upholding beauty, narcissism, intellect, destitution and vice. They form a false ideology. The inability to function accordingly given abnormality present in most lives isn’t fear, will or drive. That’s expected in most humans. It’s more the undertaking one must undergo to face the greater fears of desire, success and love.

Painting (c)Laura Conde

The Amorphous Male
Pithecanthropus Erectus

Kofi Fosu Forson

Boxer would be best definitive of the male. The gentleman further and professionally reprises the role as pugilist knowing of its science and rule.

Circumstances bring the macho fisted, less-gloved in the streets of Mexico to fight, form an opinion on who governs within a moment of ill-dispute. For it is not the man made definitive as “street” based on his walks of life.

Torture as in emotional turmoil need not be rendered in a gang-fight, drug bust or rape. The primordial mind is capable of surrendering to an escapade found in serial killers, dictatorship and government.

Who are we that bring to life foetus born to lead a challenge best deserved of a conqueror knowingly life itself is more than gift; it’s miraculous. Where are those who merge this complicated effort not to merely survive but ascend beyond proportions set aside for those who dare? In defeat and victory we summon this challenge.

Wherefore do we sport in deciding who is king or merely man? Does manhood suppose physical and emotional strength? What becomes of a person who has no monetary gain? Is he less the victim and more the conscientiously free?

There are suppositions in life. One must deliver unto oneself the ordained manifesto. To what principles does one ascribe? When does politics refrain from art and do they form a consequence with science and music to implicate genius. Is that then a means of disillusionment or a clever way of describing Goethe?

Art is never the scientific method. It’s the very way of meditating on nothingness. But with every query is the history behind the undertaking. To suppose a pen and paper, brush with paint is to kill by sword, death at war. We are not children at play. Such is the hindrance in today’s society where to pupil requires a gun. Credibility is gained by senseless death. Isn’t the precarious delivery of an artistic expression an excuse not to murder?

When then is art a premeditated means of expression and earns its merit as an occupation? Were we not all children once ready at play crayons in hand debating on colors, shape and form? Was this a path towards destiny or does innocence beget curiosity?

Experience warrants the character of every male. The hunter in nature knows a precise hand and eye coordination. The painter at heart is open to the world. Depending on temperament he finds a vision. The writer marks with punctuality thoughts and equations.

How then do we suppose the resolve with which an abstract expressionist manages the thought process from the minimalist divide of an avant-garde filmmaker? Does an accomplished jazz improvisation bear similarities to the redundancy of a rock and roll song?

These require theoretical interpretations coming to terms with the notion and understanding behind the creative process. Assuming the standards and artistic movement relevant in each medium we can magnify in peculiarities and uniqueness, the musician from the photographer, the dancer from the choreographer.

Art then becomes construct, a decided business with which we mark conclusions drawn from our pithecanthropical existence neared evolution through time, emerging as creative beasts, pronounceable as architects of misfortune from which we establish language, vernacular, enabling communication, semiology, translating signifiers through advertisement, cinema, art culture and the continuous motion emerging as dignified, an entity onto all others where we prolong by will alone the innate ability to conference.

Wittgenstein

Kofi Fosu Forson

Wittgenstein. I had never heard of Wittgenstein. They were a rock band he said and he was the bassist. Didn’t care to know what type of music they played. I was on some dyslexic sex shit I paid enough money for and I was feeling pretty good…Pretty good enuff to be noticed in this fuckin’ dive dump of a cash bar…ya know like every one here is well off, yeah like intellect is money and it comes in pounds and yen as well. But get caught up on some shit about mathematics and philosophy ya get the name Wittgenstein as a name of a band.

Didn’t know if he was shittin’ me or not but he kissed like a mean grocer. Picture a fuckin’ joogie at the market slippin them shits in a brown paper bag but he does it with style. I mean one after the other…tit-fuck, dick-suck, tit-fuck, dick-suck. Sex is good like that. I definitely wanted to fuck him. Wasn’t sure if he liked what I was wearing. I had on the charcoal-black proper. It fits, meaning whatever the occasion. This was a perfect call, the charcoal black dress, my stiffs, can’t get my feet in ‘em but when I do I strut.

He was cool kinda like that Jagger thing you get with the Brits. Stick-fit that thought in your brain and think about a lanky fella with bones for a body. That means fine prick, right?! Whatever, at least he had a prick. Felt sorry for some of these other boys. Bastard wouldn’t place his Remi on the bar. He kept it hangin’ sip after sip, turning to look away, back at me with those lips to say, “Get drunk. I wanna fuck.”

Yeah he was a bassist. He had a poster of Paul Simonon in his bedroom. He immediately took off all his clothes to the bone. I watched as his cock saluted me. His body was tight to the muscle from ribcage to abs. His head of hair wasn’t wig but had that effect and I looked down at his prick hair it looked a mess, uncombed but good bush. So he stood there looking at me and he went with his hand like this…like what about that dress. Are ya gonna take it off? I couldn’t believe it...

This strong piece of ass was going to stick his hard dick in my cunt and make me cum. The water moisture in my pussy was almost making a sound with all that rubbing against each other. I had one leg over the other as I took off the stiffs one by one. I fell back on the bed and lifted the charcoal dress up above my thighs exposing my candle-white panties. I wear them when I want to lose my virginity for the fiftieth time. He came over and pulled them off my body, proceeding with the middle finger inserting it in and out of me while the thumb and the next finger rubbed my clit.

Yeah! Fuck yeah! Right darling now look me in the eye as you do this. Yeah! Oooh yeah!
You do what for a living now… I see you as a cock who will make me cum tonight. Bitch! Fuck! Like wow…Fuck me…Please…please.

He stuck his fingers in his mouth then rubbed them over his cock. I had my legs spread wide separating my pussy with my fingers. When he entered me it felt right. It was the perfect fit. We were in it for sure. My hands caressed him as he went in and out of me.

Fuck me! Bitch! Fuck me!

He had me by both legs as he cycled his way in and out of me. I took my time to finger my clit, rubbing it faster and faster as he fucked me in an alternate motion. Is that not it?!

The rhythmic pressure of two alternate motions to form a symmetric balance is conducive to the determining factor from both points wanting a conclusion defined by its dimension therefore giving in to the relevance of what is taking place.

We were fucking. All I wanted to do was cum. He bent over my nipples, barely sucking them while fucking me. He massaged my breasts as he fucked. I was hot all over. Our eyes met. I knew in that moment I was about to cum. His pressure point increased. My breath got shorter and shorter. I started to scream. He kept fucking me. I was giving in to him. He gripped me tight. I came.

I softly pushed him off me. I reached down to his cock. I gave it a jerk and began to suck him off. It felt good in my mouth, sucking hard, stopping to jerk it. He was breathing heavy. He came. I squeezed every drop of cum from his cock.

He lit a candle. I said for what.

Good wax.

(EXCERPT FROM NOVEL GORILLA HEAD)

By Kofi Fosu Forson

So honestly, what if I were a gorilla, blessed with savoir-faire, since being a vampire is Roberto’s destiny. He is an accomplished strategist, the one and only vampiri. In the past he had an entourage of women following him around. It all started as a collegiate prank when costumed as Dracula, he gained attention from people he would otherwise have given an offensive stare. Women labeled as trollops were his ideal. He never thought much of the chaste, saving them for sarcasm. It is an advantage he has always had over me: how to be pompous and attract unwanted attention. Then again, there’s tonight and the prospects of Halloween, but even that encompasses a fancy that fleetingly lasts a day. If I truly were a gorilla, I might entertain prospects of pugilism and its governing rules in order to prevent homicide. It is a wonderful game. All I have to do is show up and my presence will be felt. First impressions are so important. The thought of being a gorilla is on my mind. I reframe my personality to fit into the gorilla suit. I’ve had it since the days of art balls and frolicking at Rhode Island School of Design. It is not a hailing of Halloween, but a way to convict myself of failing to live prosperously. In essence it’s a jail. When I put on the suit, I survive the ordeal with tightened belly, a twisted grin, and heavy breathing. It won’t be long before I make my way out the door onto the streets where other re-defined personalities are roaming and wanting attention.

Trans Beirut Erotica
Kofi Fosu Forson

Elegantly new because water purifies you know. Cleanses feet of sandal soot, frees cuticles of modern nail polish, separates lint from the belly button, adds moisture to the vaginal cavity and wets the skin to then dry within the comfort of laundered towels.

Beirut would then be the place to call on evenings like this ‘cause he’d be waking up getting ready for another day of briefings, teleprompting and interviews. But tonight he was here in Landover waiting for her to come to bed. She walked into the room with a towel covering her cleavage and mid-section. Another towel towered over her head. Standing by the doorway she looked at him as he sat bare-chested on the bed reading a newspaper. She smiled the kind of smile that let him know she was happy to have him there with her. She had worried over him and tonight they were together alone.

“Carrie, I’ve been assigned a post in Nicaragua.”

“And who’ll be doing the dishes while you’re gone?”

Lamenting about her days alone without him, she moved closer to the edge of the bed and sat looking away from him. Her hands were placed flat on the bed. She looked down at her fingers, blinked, thought for a moment and let out a long breath.

Removing the towel covering her waist, she entered the bathroom and brought with her a bottle of lotion. She stood before him, rubbing the lotion all over her body, around her arms, legs and thighs. Her fingers pushed back the towel covering her head. She tilted it to the side and fussed with her hair. He kept on reading the newspaper. She remained silent, watching him.

He appeared distant, quietly adjusting the newspaper to another page. The light from the lamp fell over him. He looked important, the reading glasses and his poise, focused on what he was reading. Within the dead air, he cleared his throat, removed his glasses, looked over at her and asked her to come closer.

The bed sheets covered the lower part of his body. Her back facing, she inched closer to him. He toyed with the strands of her hair, combing it through with his fingers.

“It’s not getting any easier, Carrie.”

She glanced up at him, with her eyes blinking, turning around to face him.

“Where would we be without each other?”


She took his fingers and raised them to her lips. She rubbed her lips over them. His fingers were long and thin. She sucked on them, one after the other, sucking until the finger disappeared into her mouth. She secured her body on the bed, her head on the pillow, one arm folded under her head and the other embracing him as he moved from her breasts to her navel, kissing her.

Kissing with open mouths, they groped each other, breathing, circling as their bodies formed in rotation. He pulled his weight off her, separating her legs. She was wet. He placed his tongue over her clitoris, licking and sucking. His mouth completely covered her, licking, sucking and fingering. She closed her eyes, rubbing her breasts and moaning.

He grabbed her legs and raised them in the air, securing them over his shoulders. He then held onto his prick putting it inside of her. She immediately lifted her head off the pillow and let out a hot sigh. He rammed it in continuously. His arms long, palms flat on the bed, his head bobbing from looking at the wall and onto her face. She looked up at him with her mouth open, letting in air as he rocked her, gently, building into a crescendo, separating her legs wider, keeping the intense pace, steady and effortless…pushing his love into her, as the moaning increased in sound.

He turned her around onto her knees. He went in from there, muscling his way into her, pushing, digging with dick into the music of her pussy. She was breathing, feeling his prick separating and entering her. Their bodies remained a vision of light and fantasy.

She the girl on top, gyrating counterclockwise, her buttocks bouncing off his prick, up and down dancing as she pants, body slanted slightly, faster the momentum, she lets out one hot sigh after the other. He brings his fingers to fore rubbing her clitoris as she thunders above him. She turns around to face him, resuming pressure. She raises her buttocks inches above bouncing off his prick.

She feels a momentum up and down her spine. She trembles, whispering his name repeatedly, maintaining the rhythm of sex as she builds up speed, whispering his name.

Her pussy tightens. She screams out loud, arching her back, collapsing onto him to kiss him softly, resting her head on his chest.

(EXCERPT FROM NOVEL GORILLA HEAD)
By Kofi Fosu Forson

The Julia Child tapes are worn out and so the images are often dizzying, yet my unimaginative response reveals an abundance of teeth like Jimmy Carter in his heyday. Not so much the Jimmy Carter in suit and tie as he addressed The State but the Jimmy Carter being ridiculed in the black and white pages of daily journals; venues for immortalized heroes. Jimmy Carter, Mickey Mouse and Adidas were early influences. By rule, among my friends back home, Mickey Mouse is virgin, Jimmy Carter loved peanuts and Adidas was the choice of footwear. I wonder if Julia Child in her international stature feels content with her fame. The television is momentarily snowy. Somehow I can still see Julia's pudgy form. I don't ever want to be in the public eye sooner than expected, a caricature of all that defines me. I would like to adjust my fly and not have the whole world looking. What would seem hilarious about Julia decked in kente selling mangoes would be her ability to feed the children of Nima. Julia Child is every nourished child's grandmother, and her dresses reflect her age. Glamour has never been my claim to fame. It is more the weight my words carry. In fact, Dracula is the ultimate in G.Q., much like my friend, Roberto. We have been friends since college, and he has always been hung up on seduction, walking the halls of Rhode Island School of Design as a pseudo-vampire dressed in black. Would if I could change his name to Roberto: The Italian Vampire Balducci. He claims a grip that deadens most pale necks.

(EXCEPRT FROM NOVEL GORILLA HEAD)

By Kofi Fosu Forson

The first time I was introduced to Gwen was on graduation day when several people gathered at Roberto's apartment. His apartment had every item that should have been in the collection of a diabolical artist, from decaying swords to corsets and veils, not to mention a collection of cigarette lighters featuring imitation guns. Gwen couldn't have been more lurid in her colors-- her gorgeous red hair bound by a caramel colored hair clip. A view from the ceiling would have made her into a ceremonious tree, given the declension of colors: a red blouse, green belt and blue shoes. It must have been an example of Roberto's imagination and the first sign of his control over Gwen. A would be psychiatrist would have chosen the charcoal grey color of winter or the professionalism of autumn colors. Despite Gwen's allure, she convinced me of her perfect addition to Roberto's renewed charm. I had my perceptions and she neither met them nor did anything to change them. The truncated relationships Roberto had been involved in reformed into a loving partnership with Gwen. That night they held hands and affectionately kissed. Roberto's role as a vampire with black lipstick supposedly came to an end. He made a vow never to return home, where his tirades started, unless his family needed him. He continues to exhibit a no-nonsense masculinity and yet finds it in himself to laugh at his imperfections and what would otherwise seem bare-boned, knuckled and fisted.

CONFESSIONS:
Introducing Laura Conde

(Untitled)
Laura Conde

I asked him to stay away from me,
But he put his hand inside my blouse

If you take me to the limit,
and you assault me like a prey
And I feel that we are both,
the prey and the hunter
Then we are two monsters,
trying to find a little pleasure
It´s been suffering for so much time.

I asked him to stay away from me,
But he put his hand inside my blouse
My skin burned and I break my promise
as you avoid to smoke or drink but you fail.

Today we have fun,
And you enjoy so much watching how you excite me when you´re holding my neck so hard,
pushing my head against you,
your member in my throat.
Then everything acquires sense,
Each hit from your cock is brutal, just as life.
My mouth is full of heat and energy leaving from you,
filling every space, calming my anxiety.

I asked you to stay away from me,
But you put your hand inside my blouse
My skin burned and I break my promise
I´ll drink you and smoke you til the end.

Everything excites me.
I am my sexual toy I always dreamed.
Some graze makes my skin burning with fire
and turns me an animal.
I feel like a doll of my own,
looking for what turns me crazy and expands me, like a drug.
I have fourteen years and I secretly masturbate
Rubbing myself against each object, each edge of the bed.
Gasping, obsessed with doing it once again,
terrified about they find me.

I asked him to stay away from me,
But he put his hand inside my blouse
My skin burned and I break my promise
as you avoid to smoke or drink but you fail.

Speaks as if he knows everything
Its aggressiveness excites me,
makes my blood burn
There is no control, there is no moment
Strong and violent candy and sexy
My exotic and elegant pet
I want to smell you and touch you all I can
To enjoy
I hide your offensive to keep enjoying
We clung to the practice of the usual in order to feel normal
Where are your edges
I only want to suck your cock
I only want to feel you inside me
I only want you to finish in my mouth.

21st Century Sex

(...As Part of Gaynor Evelyn Sweeney's BIO Commodities Project)

Kofi Fosu Forson

Sex in the 21st Century has seen a discreetness overshadowing the underbelly of what is virtual reality and the unrealness of reality, that nothingness is indeed everything. Much of this is governed by socio-politics, what one would deem a gentrification. In most societies and cities there’s been a constant charge to rid of multiculturalism, immigration and concentrated art communities. There is an upside and a downside. Remarkably society carries with it a newness expressed in money. That is the labeling of society, its economy and infrastructure. What tends to dominate society therefore is the removal of culture. The elitist as in intellect and sex, art and money have been downsized to a cultureless more power prone soceity of moneyed people.

The 1980’s bore sex as “blue”. It was the choice color given the radical and pedastrian atitude towards sex. This was actioned in what were sex shops and as was obvious in New York City, a whole concentrated area in Times Square was devoted to sexual activity. Cable television also saw the rise of pornographic channels and programming. Society had therefore been influenced without purpose by sex. That is to say it was available not as a form of consummerism, which was obvious but as a part of the norm. The result of AIDS made it all the more worse.

Then began the movement of conservatism and the Christian Right. That the cruel intentions to end free speech decades ego had grown to affect sex. It proved itself in court cases such as those that included Larry Flynt, publisher of Hustler magazine and famed photographer, Robert Mapplelthorpe. The issues at hand were morality, civility and evolution. Given the high-crime, drug and sex culture of most neighborhoods as a low economy gave way to poverty, sex as a conclusion was overpowered as vice, disease associated with illegal drugs, which raised the crime of prostitution and drug dealing.

New York City is an example of a city which used excruciating tactics to rid itself of the burgening culture of sex and drugs and in doing so art suffers. But in truth the city has taken on a level of clandestine intellectual and sexual environment.

What sex is at the moment and it’s never been better is the most admirable and pleasurable text it’s ever been in history. How is sex definable as text and how is it pleasurable? Well for example, texting, the act of using the telephone to communicate with a partner short texts has been responsible for many interludes between partners.

As text, sex communicates an idea, which is transferable through male/female gender and sexual politics. The signifiers are the circumstances with which brings both parties together. For example two women go to a dance recital. At the end of the performance they seduce a male dancer into coming home with them. They end up doing it three-way. The same can be said for a woman who draws the attention of two men at a bar. The three-way then becomes accomplished when the woman recieves the penises of both men in her anus and vagina.

The world-wide-internet has paved the way for much of this activity such as fecal exchange, mature sex between older women and younger men, Asian sadomasochism, interracial sex and extreme images of men with incredible protruding musculature and women who literrally drink sperm. Preferably, all of this is accepted as it is part of the virtual word and that to venture further requires one’s undenirable ability to extract the norm from the abnormal. Certainly there are two different worlds decided in the real and the virtual. Entry into virtual reality is an encouragement of life as an existence marked by fear, intelligence, sexual desire… To be human, one has to be subhuman or superhuman. By knowing this the compromise is made.

As in the temporal and spiritual, a decided emotional quality is given to texts exchanged between partners. Two emails were exchanged by two partners. Somehow they both felt an incredible amount of sexual desire in reading the email. Temporally, a second defines the edit in each exchange. Communication hasn’t been this prolific and almost accurate. Understandably a lot is lost in the determination and understanding and interpreting of most text virtually.

The humanistic variables which bring two people together is defined indeed by BIOScience. The deconstruction of this notion would only encourage what we now know as the “alien,” the foreign identity made up of one’s genetic structure, fears and desires. The human is but an intellectual animal. He knows only what he has imbibed. This marks a hybrid identity, temporality and spatiality and the physical culture that brings about torture and education, self or academic. Understanding the human as unique is in accordance with the individual and the person.

The genetic order and disorder of a person is masked by an illusion of fear and light within the cyber environment. It is embraced or disregarded by the spirituality within text. In the seeking of information, the individual embraces ideas that are comporable to his identity. This can be decided in a photograph, amongst other recognition of self. The response within each exchange has more to do with contentment and self-admiration. Once understood, it is more normal to accept the flow of communication. The human notion of love is the torch one uses to lead him/herself through the stream of the unknown. To fall in love would then be the mirroring of another through familiar sentiments such as an intense reaction, physical or emtional.

Love, sex and reproduction is ultimately an urge in every human. The call for this is comfort, family element and the initial drive to procreate. There has been a difference in the family structure over the years. Men and women opt for a life singularly distant from the nuclear family. The nothingness factor enables people to be adventurous.

To deconstruct the body is a venture undertaken by the individual at times psychological and spiritual. BIOScience brings it to a whole new front adeptly pinpointing the structure of the human which determines the biological rammifications by which the individual conducts and serves as person. Much of this fails to affect the human in cyber relations because once again the human is an intellectual animal. Some fair better as animals and others as human.

For the deconstruction of humans through BIOScience to be relative in virtual reality, it would have to be redeemed as a co-editorial experiment. Virtual reality and the biology of the individual are at odds as it is not the human that ventures into cyberspace. It is the conscience.

In cyberspace, the human is a livewire, exposed and underexposed.

(EXCERPT FROM NOVEL GORILLA HEAD)

INTRO:

Kakamotobi brought fear into my childhood. Sounds of their drums could be heard from afar during the month of December. It was a festive month, a time for celebrating. In a town called Osu, the Kakamotobi masqueraded on stilts, wearing dazzling outfits. They came to entertain. Instead of sharing in the joy, we were afraid. I lived in the Airport Residential Flats with my family and like the other neighborhood boys and girls, I hid whenever “Kakamotobi scares you but it doesn’t catch you” was uttered. I knelt in front of my window, two flights above and watched them dance in an area surrounded by hedges and trees. The colors of their costumes were so bright. It disturbed me to see the intricate designs and shapes painted on their masks and bodies. The reality of it all; the rhythms, men and women dancing, made me tremble. This was our Carnival, Rio and Fat Tuesday all in one. These men, dressed in a glory of colors imitating Ananse folklore and even, surrealistically, the white man, appeared to be characters out of a nightmare. Their faces were obscured by huge masks. To see a charismatic figure twenty feet tall with a mask simulating the face of a white person and speaking Ga was enough to send a shock up my spine. It did. From shimmery to flash, their clothing formed an assemblage of go-go colors, red, blue, yellow, green to gold. Not one but five: each shook in a separate fever, twisting his knees, shaking his hips, gyrating under some spell. Together, they were forbearers of what the New Year promised, their celebration bringing the past year to an excruciating halt. Slowly they would come and when drums became loud enough, we would scatter.

(Authored by Kofi Fosu Forson)

Dear Mr. Kink,

For once, I would appreciate your machismo if it were exemplified in a room with heavy luminance, painting adorning walls with monochromatic figures and black roses scattered all over, perhaps a portrait of Jesus disguised as the devil. I know of your one and very publicized phobia. My mother's snapshot is usually face down when I remove my trousers to display my throbbing goat. Would you be willing to undress your women instead of your one-night-stand approach to sex? I like sadism, but not as an entity. I wish you would change your ways. Gwen Applebaum is your ultimate victim. I'm not a priest and I hate to slip into a pair of God-shoes to advise you on what to do once you've entered the hour that spells "F.U.C.K. F.E.S.T."

You fail to see your partner's cry for affection: an ingratiating moment when you could perfect your tongue-kissing. I don't trust you engage in cunnilingus even though I favor the practice as a better way to draw blood if the woman has arrived at a period of such display.

You call yourself a sex symbol. It adds more truth to my perception of sex symbols as misleading. But the need to fantasize is welcomed. I dream of a falling movie star with one last wish-- Marilyn. 'Nuff said.

Sincerely,
The word pimp

(Excerpt from GORILLA HEAD )

Mein Name war John Travolta

Kofi Fosu Forson

(Translated by Elena Federici)

Das Dezimalsystemist das Mass von Heute
So sagen sie in ihrer algebraischen Sprache
Als Knaben Strichmaennchen Pornografie fertigbrachten
Niemals sich um erschossene Praesidenten kuemmernd
Unsere Zukunft war in Koofern Geisel genommen
Um “Jimmy Carter” in Buchstaben-Suppen zu schreiben
Heir, Mickey Maus is offfiziell eine Jungfrau.

Flugzueg’s Film Leinwand bebte wie eine Disco
Irgendwo zwischen Aufschnitt war ich italienisch
Mein Name war John Travolta, nur fuer diesen Tag
Sinnliche Wolken dem DC-10 Schwanz folgend
Auf Kettenraucherde Gebaude zurueck zufuehrend
Fahrstuehle ueber meine Respektlosigkeit lachend
Zu denken ich haette eine Heimat teure Heimat gefunden wo
Knoepfe druecken fast wie Perkolatoren war.

Das Haus-Personal machte zusammen Musik
Die Ausgelassenheit willkommend – Travolta ist Afrikaner
In einem grauen Polyester-Anzug sich nach Keksen sehnend
Die britische Art: was, vonmeinem Englisch, halten Sir?
Oh liebe Queen-Mutter, Kolonialismus ist tot
Es wird genug Tee fuer alle geben.
Doppeldecker Busse tanzen in London
Hier, bloekende Lkws in der Nacht buchstabieren Schlaflosigkeit

Fernseh Dramas weichen Kugeln von Dogmas aus
Evangelisten halten Formeln fuer Erloesung
Mein Episkopalischer Glaube von Playboy bestimmt
Was Sonntagsschule war, jetzt im Zopf
Sommersprossig, die Schwaenzerei gegeben, faltete ich
Von einer Durchschnitt “1” bis zu der Liste des Psychiaters.
Rohrschach Erinnerungen waren faechtende Kaninchen.
Lang lebe die Karriere welche keine Zeit angiebt.

Adieu Saturday Night Fever
Hallo Ordinaere Leute

Language and the Modern Woman
la Femme et le Chien

Kofi Fosu Forson

Titian’s Venus of Urbino begot De Kooning’s Woman 1. The purpose was to deconstruct the female. Much is due the fault of evolution given the propensity in philosophy, gender structure and an overall development in sexual politics.

Fashion invariably known as style has been given an awareness all through history. That the fig leaf covering the pubic area on Adam and Eve’s body should leave no doubt in questioning the system under which much of who we are is reconstructed and never given a true enhancement.

There is however a notion which defines the personal sense found in how we dress and accessorize. It’s reflective of an inner curiosity to impress another, startle the public, mask our feelings or reveal a cultural and formative code.

Understandably and with semiotics, we are all privy to the same circumvention that which stimulates our need for clothes. The written text as in Vogue helps one surmise what is the day’s trend. It has carried over through to other fashion magazines where haut couture and present day wear are systematically given a form of articulation making known by pattern and design fashion designers and their catalogue.

Mention of a name and one is made familiar with a designer’s truest sense, Gautier and Valentino. On the Red Carpet a woman expresses her nature given her choice of gown and by what designer. This has carried over into society where celebrities inspire women on what they wear.

It once was that the word and style of the street channeled into the fashion industry what was marketed and sold. This was heavily due to street culture as in graffiti, early hip hop and singularly the voice placed upon individuals.

Women were at an advantage when they took from and helped inspire each other on accessorizing, making use of color and texture. Cinema and pop culture would later be interchangeable with how these clothes were marketed to the general public.

Gender politics would therefore determine how men and women coordinated a lifestyle and reaffirmed the commonality or differences between what is accepted as courtship or “meat market.”

Over the years a particular certainty has been divulged in the roles women play, from frontier women to activists, mothers to porn stars. When women like Cicciolina and Candida Royalle are given a voice in sex and politics, a pattern is determined whether women are re-establishing themselves circumstantially as libidinal or have yet to reinstitute the definition of what is sex.

Dismissably, that very act ingrained in the mind has undergone a manifestation and however sensitized we are as a culture, we’ve been desensitized and somehow 9/11 brought to fore circumstances pertaining to love and death, the equation of which is sex.

What sex is now has become a celebration or crowing glory of ones psychological and sexual abuse, intellect and power or gender warfare. Love doesn’t exist in its intimacy. It’s manufactured. If by two people in a human representation most see it as exceptional. Otherwise a lot is done to secure false notions and perceptions.

Clearly enough, the sexual personae within the modern woman has reached an explosive point. What can be estimated from this bears more relevance to female orgasmic pleasure than what suffrage did for women.

A woman and her multiple lovers doesn’t express love and romance as it gives off the notion that the physical male body thrusting perhaps trivializes what love means and is in actuality all a foregone conclusion.

The exaggerated perception in what leads to marriage or good sex is all expressed in the faces of men on Sunday afternoons escorting their significant others as if they were dogs walking the streets, through cafes and shopping malls, expressing to the world that they have survived. They have managed to find a woman.

Given the existences in the virtual and real, most men know for themselves who they are and what they want. The playground that is love, sex and romance continues to be represented by an exceptional crowd; mostly those secure financially and are at a wherewithal to claim a role as lover or future partner in marriage.

Women have found an awakening within themselves as sexual dynamos. Evolution played a part, although it was unfortunately misguided by politics, pornography as an everyday topic, also found in the nature of a bored housewife or teenaged girl or the subtexts revolving around race and generational conflicts.

If a woman is to be president of the free world, much of her profile would eventually be relegated to her role as sex symbol.

Hillary Clinton or Carla Bruni?

Nuff Said.

Cinema Brut
Blind Existence / Virtual Reel

Kofi Fosu Forson

The authenticity of the fool is marked by conditioning. With no where left to stand, he attempts the greatest possible act--- that being himself isn’t a choice, it’s a necessity.

If you rented an apartment that had a prerequisite of living opposite an in house bull dog, would you comply? Knowing full well that the dog was dangerous, would you be willing to adapt to this animal’s needs in hope of changing its demeanor to take advantage of an affordable living situation?

This is a premise for Cinema Brut, a cinematic approach to the conveying of urban life using metaphors, dogmas, surreality and the visceral depicting the circumstances surrounding the options one is confronted with which momentarily defines who we are and challenges our character for life.

The aesthetics surrounding this are gender and fashion, artist and muse, sexual politics and emotional and physical torture. We as a subculture look to our forefathers and others who have helped carve a culture of the sardonic, miserable, haunted and enthused, forever glowing among the mid-city jubilee.

Cinema Brut is the authenticizing of life lived in urban mania in its actuality only given a form of sensationalism and compromising art-effect. What it becomes is exploring the traditional circumstances of life in urban culture represented within the facets of disillusionment, aestheticism, visceral texts both violent and sexual and an understanding bordering closure.

This allows for representation of the minds of a defeated culture whether emotionally, intellectually or sexually to share with the world how the experience in an urban setting is manipulated and allows for the embracing of matters both good and evil.

The basis of this foundation and structure is deterioration as in the inability to process society’s information. Urban culture dismisses the linearity of a supposed life-line. One’s existence is marked by the moment. It furthers a decided hopelessness curable only through immediate gratification. In this circumstance it’s made applicable to art.

What are the aesthetics of this existence? How is art and sex relevant? Does art exist as graffiti and is sex rape or managed as pleasure, driven by machismo, prostitution, muse, model, incest, aggression, murder or death?

Within this subscription one is led to wonder about one’s lifestyle and habitude. Is it camouflaged as urban or does one venture out safeguarded in uniqueness guided by individuality and personal expression?

Is there a contradiction between art and urban culture? How can the artist exist mildly or pronouncedly within the urban traces of music, sex, drugs and violence? There is a sense of the artist as homosexual, psycho, pedophile… The balancing of this and the emergence of the artist as an individual is given a premise along with the existing brutality.

Cinema as such has to refer to Scorcese’s Mean Streets and Bunuel’s Belle du Jour. They manage to capture the allure of sex and violence that which is in a sense the marketing of a particular kind of urban drug, adrenaline, exposed in a beat down, murder or gang-bang. The breakdown in any ghetto results in violence one way or another. The marketing of this is stereotyped which serves as pleasure for a society.

Indeed adrenaline in this case is brought about in the manifestation of the narrative. Somehow the digital video approaches a rush felt in the use of drugs or otherwise.

What becomes of the virtual reel is an example of the digital video imagined conscientiously. The mind is capable of revolving spontaneous movies reminiscent of sexual and violent fantasies. In these movies one is able to remote in turn the speed of motion, although some how it’s captivated as a production.

The difference between the virtual reel and a fantasy is that the video of the reel is qualified in a caption or box inside the mind. It takes on manners of film, manufacturing of lights, shade and colors. There’s that eventual grain and somehow it’s not caught up in time. It’s packaged as history. However one can hardly replay it as before.

Fantasy is envisioned as such. It’s immediate and it takes place in time. It lacks the ability to fast-forward or rewind. The moment has a feeling of excitement realized as sensational. The reel inspires something close to amazement.

Is it possible in this reality to hear a person moan and smell the scent of body?

In the modern sense sitting in reality’s (un)reality thinking and talking is somehow comparable to time spent in a romp. Irrespectively the virtual reel with all its colors and sounds is probably safer and more stimulating.

Urban reality needs the body. It commits to it in violence and sex, otherwise it has no purpose. Virtual reality disposes of the body and is left with conscience. The body then remains afloat. In the virtual reel the body takes on a celluloid form becoming hyperreal.

Our blind existence encourages a sense of development and formation but with extreme caution it is necessary to explore life’s adventures within the real and virtual making possible a world of cruelty tolerable within one’s imagination using signifiers of love and death.

The precept of any artist’s development is the interpreting of love and aggression. Whereas The Pre-Raphaelites represented a nurturing of love, Abstract Expressionism as a concentrated physical act of painting was violent and then rendered as controlled vehemence in the official and titled work of art.

The regard for this in an urban setting is language, whether definable as “street,” philosophy, art, semiotics… the purpose then becomes managing to embrace and in a sophisticated reality questioning reality’s (un)reality by forming a world for oneself based on escape and observation.

Interview with Phoebe Legere published by Whitehot Magazine

http://whitehotmagazine.com/whitehot_articles.cfm?id=1435

Title: Call for Submissions to Cyber Society Series by Gaynor Evelyn Sweeney

(Text: Kofi Fosu Forson)

Statement concerning JPEG for Cyber Society Series: Love is chemical and it manifests through the symptoms surrounding fear and desire. This element cannot be actualized within the human experience alone. Although the sex act becomes the pivotal cause and effect for diverging the focus of love into a strain for anger, mistrust, hatred and circumstance. Furthermore given the examples of sex acts such as BDSM, fecal exchange and other body fluids, sexuality remains solely as the avenue where humans are free to experiment on the subjectivity of love and desire. Cyber societies allow for the placement and identifying of ones sexual preferences and in doing so it recognizes a newfound origin to what was simply sacred.

Cyber Culture is definitive by space here insofar. But within that realm is a form of subterfuge made necessary as an existence. Led throughout this managed livability is the conscience. It pinpoints ones maneuverability, spread out this very notion of virtual reality.

Human in its physical form is a machine, well-oiled dispirited machine. Modern society favors a repressed, suppressed human form inundated with information too full to digest. These are made ready to a culture that serves under a marionette principle, only the fullness of this is realized in a non-progressive stature where to advance is a call for vices either indicative of stagnancy or the libido, gambling and pornography among them.

It can then be realized that the body is constantly in transition. The relevance to which one finds themselves in a virtual state is that of continuance. The human cycle benefits no one, thusly in a virtual state much of this is transformed into a nothingness which as a result is everything. Nothing is everything as philosophy is the ingratiating of the unknown to benefit ones soul.

The human body is a ball of energy. This coincides with the waves of energy attacking the body. This merges as spirit, karma and psyche. The walk of life guarantees no protection from such warfare. It manifests daily through operations but made cancelable in personal relations, as in family, friends and lovers. The masking of these forces can be found in the aura of a person. With this one encapsulates all that they are with a single look in the eye, touch or smile.

The body however is celebrated as bone and flesh. Decisive by biology, it manages in all its levels of physiology and psychology. The sex act alone is the division which embraces the body as central to erogenous zones; simply put the one true actual source of pleasure. For this reason man and woman beget the triumph and faculties of genderisation.

Man seldom lifts the pillar nor does the woman embrace only good fortune. The circumstances defining gender structure in the modern age what at once was silly is now a demand. There are no stereotypes of the male and female, at least not enough to complete the definition.

Love on line is driven by the urge. There’s a strain which has to do with little association with archetypes from the media and pop culture. It is built on insecurities and immediacy which is ultimately satisfied by the push of a button.

Love in reality relies on consumption, lust, deceit or human function. As humans we conform to an idea. We don’t settle for less. But none of it is ever guaranteed and so we compromise, the fraction of which serves as the balance of love.

From the boardroom to the bedroom, it is clear as in science who is male and who is female. The upside is that there is a brilliant objectification qualifying the simplicity and necessity of two or more lovers, distinctly grouped as male or female performing on each other acts of love and hunger. Sex is no crown. But the patented charm with which lovers experience sexual heat and increasingly grow conscious to the point of inevitable orgasm is their circumstance.

Much of this newness and knowingness draws people to cyberspace. In this existence there’s a form of discreetness. There are those who foul or indeed commit crimes. It is here where partners can hide and commit to acts in the virtual sense.

The representation of what is virtual is the spiritual and emotional association made to something other than human in the physical form therefore can be rendered as an idea. An idea gives off infinite possibilities which causes the participant to need and form an opinion. This opinion is based on the qualifications of the idea and this grows due to the senses and imagination.

As it stands genderising in the virtual state is a completion of what otherwise are lost emotions, sexual lust, similarities, associations and that constant need to be on the edge of desperation, fear and desire.

Texting definable as text is an immediate way to communicate. Live chatting is of the same vain. Emailing carries with it a waiting period. Cell-phone conversations carry a random and hyper sense of illusion being able to call in ridiculous, pertinent and strange circumstances.

Texting is the most abnormal form of dialogue, either determined by the manic-panic frenzy with which most people text or the lack of secrecy most people experience in texting. It is never truly driven by literary means. Most of it is summed up in catch phrases and meaningfully captures the original thought and not much care is given to how it’s expressed.

Live chatting is an example of immediate messages being transformed from one person to another via a keyboard of a computer. This is essentially driven by intellectual light. Depending on the participants it can make for as true to light investigation on the energies of two humans interacting and almost touching transatlantically or otherwise.

The email is the most valuable because of the concentrated amount of thought. The downside is the waiting period. Relationships can be built via the email. Projects can be assembled. It serves for purposes both professional and personal.

What these forms of modern technology do for the circumstances surrounding male and female relations is that they encourage communication. Profoundly immediacy is given to the real state of mind having undergone a virtual state.

This counteraction benefits the human by all causes refines and replenishes the individual state as it circumvents in matters deemed relevant to the human as both flesh and blood and as a discipline, a conscience, from nothing to infinity.

Title: Male Gender Philanthropy of XY Chromosomes: Call for Sperm Donations by Artist Gaynor Evelyn Sweeney…

(Text: Kofi Fosu Forson)

Statement concerning JPeg for Sperm Donation:

If sperm were the true and essential element which helps form and start a family, women wouldn't need men and men wouldn't be of any reference point if not for their sperm. In the birthing process women need sperm in order to fertilize the egg. What then becomes of the masculine ideal as in providing for or entertainment of... A lesbian couple best exemplifies this as the relationship between the two female partners is exemplary of romantic, emotional and physical love. What neccessitates their future as parents is the penis. Figuratively this is represented in a dildo. It underscores the role of one female as masculine. Somehow it belittles the role of the male in a heterosexual relationship. This also makes way for adoption which overall renders the penis as toy and sperm as delicacy, if not an involvement in the life process.

A mature sperm (spermatozoon) is a complex and highly specialized cell, genetically programmed, and unique in both function and shape. Its production — spermatogenesis — involves cell divisions and reorganization of chromosomal material, which generates genetic diversity. After extensive cell modelling it eventually becomes mobile and capable of penetrating and fertilizing an egg. (Answers.com)

Sperm as a form of ejaculation is certainly pronounceable as delicacy in the modernist example of bodily functions tantamount as secretions made presentable in the abnormality of sex.

The introduction of pornography to a soon to be determined ostracized group was the culmination of what was to be the commercialization of pussy, what was vagina and is therefore to be crucified as cunt. Much has been glorified in this the nature of birth and death. There isn’t however a sense of academic representation heretofore which would have simplified sperm as something substantive recognized as fluid and only fluid responsible for the fertilizing of the female egg.

In between male and female scruples, moments are allocated for sharing in spit, shit and cum. Why would one be rejected to a Victorian courtesy when in this the modern age women drink sperm, paste it onto bread and eat it, receive it with a direction or misdirection to the face as it remains creamy and laughable, juvenile and stupid.

The operative word “fertilize” is made pertinent to sperm normally during intercourse. With the availability of sperm donors, a different norm is made functionable both as scientific and organic. The individual male’s hybridity and genetic structure makes the qualification of the donated sperm similar to an anecdote. It carries with it a history, a summation of an existence, potent in its molecular build up, refined to generate a life, furthering the cycle of he/she, I/Me… You/It!

Sperm or cum as it is known profanely is cancelable within the realms of masturbation and prevention of pregnancy. Condoms are the rage in the very exercising of sexual conscience. Governed by an excruciatingly extreme sex culture, sperm supposes the merit of water.

Thusly, we are defined by gender. The male ejaculates and makes possible the birth of a child. What if the female supposed the power of the penis? In a lesbian household the dominant lover would seemingly warrant such a title. Is the sperm in this a society torn between morality and consciousness, made ready in orgiastic lifestyles, distancing from the nuclear family necessary as an ingredient within the birth quotient?

Certainly two lovers making love for the benefit of procuring a child would accentuate the importance of the male ejaculate. Manipulating the male sex organ or “jacking off” in an otherwise rather crude manner is an acceptable form of deprivation from the intimate contact between two humans.

What this becomes is a continuous acceptance of psycho-sexual anomalies which neutralizes the importance sperm supposes.

Sperm donation is a necessitated venture made affordable by the philanthropic disposition. To give of sperm for scientific purposes merits a classification of the male as “Les Hommes Futur.”

As subcultures go much is anticipated from certain men who make futile matter of such genetic relevance. Releasing the sperm as conclusion drawn from sexual angst may result in pleasure. Absurdly, sperm is conscionably written off as waste.

What if then much of it was contained in an ongoing experiment? What would be the psychology of the donor? Is this a lucrative procedure or the willingness to gain contentment as a contributor to history or maintain a persona as degenerated?