Work in Progess by Faye Runaway

Yugo, I go An Imaginary Memoir

preface
"Reports of rape in the former Yugoslavia have brought much deserved and long overdue international attention to the issue of rape in war. While other abuses, such as murder and other forms of torture have long been denounced as war crimes, rape has been downplayed as an unfortunate but inevitable side effect of sending men to war. In fact, wartime rape has never been limited to a certain era or a particular part of the world. Rape has long been mischaracterized and dismissed by military and political leaders-in other words, those in the position to stop it- as a private crime, a sexual act, the ignoble conduct of the occasional soldier, or, worse still, it has been accepted precisely because it is so commonplace." (Thomas & Ralph, Rape in war: the case of Bosnia)

Chapter 1
Welcome to Rape Camp (shit and blood)


Eloine and Nanshe clung like ribbons. The Reddish man, the one with heavy eyebrows and a forward gait, knuckled his hand against his belly.
Instantly their wrists throbbed. Their bodies shirked upwards at the shoulders, pullind down the chin, the eyes. Pain followed them into their ears, urethras stinging.

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Eloine. (Ehl-Wahn) Eloine would walk in tight, short steps. When it was ready, when it did come, she'd stick two fingers in her rectum, slowly. Careful not to split open the wound, she crouched with her pelvis tucked under, like her mother did when she checked herself in the mirror, one leg hiked up. Oily lumps coated her fingers, which she'd smear on her breasts, her face and vagina. All the places they wanted. When blood came, she repeated this anointing.
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The two moved like nervous, wet fleas. Wings heavy, slithering in weak circles of fear, tipsy from malnutrition. Nanshe always made little noises first.

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Nanshe. (NOAN-shh) Nanshe prayed loudly when she cried, since she was young. She lost two teeth this way, her first time. She learned to mouth the words silently, since they pulled her lips into those hallowed shapes, words like caves to hide in. This they beat from her face. She had a tiny frame. After four or six in one night, her lower belly poked hard, rude on her hips, sometimes for a week after. She began to fake sleeping so she could say her prayers in the early am. Now, when they wanted her, she could pass out cold. They called it the sickness. Those that liked a chase and struggle lost interest, and the others did not exist for her. This technique bought her wounds healing time, highly coveted, now that two dozen girls have died off. As the camp shrunk, everything became a tool or weapon.
The Fence.
The rusted web, a patterned laugh at their despair, an iron curtain mocking their dreams, gloating with freedom in its corners, the Fence became the place where arms rested. Fingers cramped and tugged the screen, a dug-out.Nanshe missed her sister, a twin. When it rained, she searched potholes for the mirror. Look at our hair, she'd ask the water's skin. Still, it was redeeming to visit with her. They'd play a secret game quietly, with little motion. When the guards came close, she'd push dirt into the hole with her toe. They'd steal her joy if they could.
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They evaded as if there was somewhere to go, somewhere that was not here, which was everywhere, all the time. He played on this, patting his imaginary pocket-watch. He owned Time, all time belonged to him. He never used weapons, and always entered from behind. He himself was bone poor, shoving the dusty dirt in their mouths and eyes, one hand always on their necks. Filthy fucking cunt. eat the fuckin dirt, you shit in this fuckin soil. Nasty bitch you like being dirty, eat this shit you fuckin whore put it in your mouth.Always the talking with the shoving, pushing the red dirt into the shocked, open mouth. Tears turned the iron dust into paint, appropriate for war. This is how they started calling him the Red one. They'd cry and tried to pull their shaking lips over their teeth to make the hole smaller, to slow the avalanche. This almost always made noise. Somehow the shoving and cursing and sounds make his dick hard, but the gagging whimper always made him come. He wore a costume, a poor man dressed in power.

Eloine and Nanshe clung like ribbons. The Reddish man, the one with heavy eyebrows and a forward gait, knuckled his hand against his belly.
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chapter 2 coming soon......

Efgeezus in "Chill...."

Im Ya Teacha

Healthy Violence

ULA Show at The Rotunda: Frisky Walrus

The Frisky Walrus (a dedication to Frank Walsh)

the frisky walrus
by free-da-baster
“a hot new number all the kids are doin!"

part 1.
the top nine and a half ways to tell the difference between
a real poem and a fake poem

1. real poems practice iambic pentameter without a license.
fake poems dry hump, are rigid and leave you feeling sore.
and not in a good way

2. real poems pull the trigger on your waking life, leave gray matter sprawled across your bed sheets (we don't clean easy febreezy)
fake poems are day jobs.

3. a real poem sticks its hand into your stomach and wraps it's fingers around your intestines, your burps smell like punch-lines; hot gassy face-rape.
fake poems are pink and purple, low-fat low-impact and made a' unicorns.
they give my brain corns. of boredom.
(no one wants to hear polished plastic soundscapes mthfka!)

4. real poems don't tell you how to raise yo child, get right with god, or who to trust. they make quality time a religion, they pray in stereo, and play feelings in
surround-sound.
fake poems are like fuckin-boots-- only good for some nasty foul shit, like chafing, stabbing, or a dirty sanchez! generally they're better off left deep in your closet like Governor McGreevy, the ability to suck your own dick, your baby jesus butt plugs, shitting your pants, that you can braid your pubes, your bulimia barf jars

5. real poems look like your fridge when you haven't been home for 3 months.
fake poems rub the wrong way like a too-tight rubber on a soft dick pokin a
dry pussy. a skinless, pretty lie that fails to penetrate, a sock in the pants,
a plague o' both your testicles!

6. fake poems fake orgasms! fake smiles, fake interest, fake injury, fake-number yer ass, fake baby, fake happiness, fake you-out with a fake hand-off or a hand-job. fake letters, vowels, sounds, words, spaces and silence.
(how the fuck do you fake silence?)
real poems are house parties

7. fake poems bite their own tongue, real poems swallow yours.

8. real poems aren't afraid to cry, fight, or ask for help.
fake poems tattle.
real pomes call their posse.

9. real poems are agnostic. fake poems worship capitalism.
real poems hustle art. fake poems solicit consumers.

9 1/2. fake poems are trust funds. real poems are couch change and street tips.

(the tenth reason was confiscated by the legion of decency and is being held by finger-cuffs in tipper gore's hatbox/garter belt drawer, waiting to be sacrificed in the dawn of the apocalypse)

fakes are for kids muthafkrs!
(a plague o' both your testicles!)