alpha male

You added a piece to the vision today
addendum to paradigmatic gendered performance
you walking into your living room
my back to you in front of your fireplace
wearing the illusion you selected for me
obedience to your idealized objectification
long black wig with curls hanging over my downturned face like a veil
jezebel smudges and stains across lips, eyes, cheeks
my arms crossed in the front concealing breasts
my head down
me staring at the crease in your slacks
you staring at the curve of my spine
my ass and thighs barely encased
a shimmering black and gold micro dress and five-inch heels
your thickly veined hands sliding over then under to pull up the hem
the windowpanes shine unnatural light in the silent dark room
vertigo descends upon me as I glance at the streetlights below outside
we are both trembling

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ignored crisis

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mid 80s era memory from Atlanta
neighbor died in his apt
lonely grad student from GA Tech
mid June heat and flies did their work
the smell of death walking nearby
dozen eggs long expired exploding
as breath of life liquified and melted
like gaslight unlit in a room with locked windows
no one noticed his silence or absence
until the smell reached beyond his walls
the slow creep of rot ignored by us all

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free spirited #30Days

53 years
free spirited Black woman
through
decades of shaming
decades of gaslighting
for it yes
but
live long enough
you won’t care
just be concerned for
and have empathy for
others
not just yourself
but also
not without yourself.

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Dr. Cherie Ann Turpin aka
free spirited Black woman

Almost that time #30Days

May will be a mix of flash fiction and flash poetry via my #30Days  challenge.  Let me know if  you are down for it!

May 1, 2020 is the starting day.

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rush hour flood, or heart storm

i know what
that feels like
moments of distress
abandonment
in a rush hour crowd
that feels like
walking
through mind storms
flooded by sorrow
unspoken
ignoring
voices in the wind
a need to be not seen
well meant but alien
well wishes but unknown
i know this
runs like
water in a creek.

blur cars dew drops

riptide dream

panic swell drag
roiling memories
buried under deep sea
now a swirling riptide
as I swim towards shore
grateful to not drown
as I am pulled closer
towards morning light

photography of body of water

feel me #30days

rush of you
like a wave
inside me
may drown me
like a bag full of marbles
hanging over the side of my bed
my neck is rubber
I bend my torso likewise
breath of victory moves within me
like a troubling storm swelling
you meet my rolling contractions
riding your fiery chariot
with relentless heat

eye of the storm image from outer space

trade off

how much

of ourselves

are we willing

to give up

to suppress

to silence

to ignore

for respectability

depending on

what the self is?

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Subject of desire [retrofit]

what is desire
if denial of desire becomes in of itself
a desire?
for you/I cannot be acknowledged to exist as a desiring subject
and you think you may both drown
not enough time to think or project
not enough time to believe anything else but pleasure
not enough guilt to walk away
not enough mercy to know when clear becomes red
not enough control to hear the safe word
we both struggle to see
before the breaking of morning
when you/I know in these few seconds left
love is possible.

flower roses red roses bloom

aubade #30days

anodic aurora approaching
celestial waves rising
dancing with the sun

2016-06-25 20.12.02

crux #30days

eight years
in a bubble
flying high
above treetops
above crowds
floating among
you
all
spinning
yarn balls
of sound and sight
memory string
emotion
no anchor
no certainty
no touch
alone

blue bubble calamity clean

Guess it’s about that time for stories…. #30days

Now that I’ve gotten a couple of poems or working efforts at poems out my head, time to build a short short story aka flash fiction. Give me a day and a strange dream to pull it off.

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Ripening #30days

Colorful midnight
spasmodic soundbite
distilled sunning
rose water singing
bright light running
still emerging

shallow focus photography of pink rose

Does my writing persist in talking about topics you prefer me to not mention?

Read “Laugh of the Medusa” by Helene Cixous, and get an understanding of how my feminism works, why I embraced the idea of women’s writing moving beyond reinforcing heteronormative, male-centered, binary, phallocentric gender performance, why it is so importance for the liberation of women and men from these limits that women and especially Black women write ourselves into the revolution, and of course, look for opportunities to disrupt the dominant paradigm currently chopping us into soylent green.

This is what a feminist looks like.

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clitoral strains #30days

an eventide tour into the wind of arousal
running on cornbread and long island tea
a lively car made from a bed needing no gas
climbing hills with green love engine throbbing
like a clitoral kitten moaning cannabic heat
a thundershower however hard it tries
still persists as water falling

animal cat face close up feline

30 Days in June–that’s right, a relaunch!

Could the mind float and bounce
in a sea of THC like a sexy toy
quantum entangled orgasmic conjoining
in a pink box?

shallow focus photography of pink rose

So, this month will be a hodge-podge of science fiction aka Afrofuturism, strange poetry, autobiography, magical tales, stories of the heart. Let the #30Days writing venture begin! Oh, and look for my next podcast June 12 with Ronald Mason–more poetry and spoken word topics to cover! Brand is strong, so help me keep the lights on in this crib–> DONATE!

Possible themes?

sky space dark galaxy

According to the Washington Post, UFOs are a reality for our military pilots and have been for some time. Why do I get the sense that we are about to learn that we are not the only ones watching our planet become a trash bin for greedy politicians and billionaires?  At least one of my flash fiction stories and at least one poem will dip into ideas about ufos, humanity, and care of our planet Gaia aka Earth.  I like spinning reality into fiction, so look for a flash fiction story to be posted on this site describing a strange object appearing in the summer night sky on I-384 (Connecticut) late at night…….we are not alone.

earth space cosmos

Oops for May 2019

My 30 day writing stunt was a bust–grades, meetings, and health got in the way. So I will relaunch in June for 2019, and I will start off with a couple of podcasts, one of which will be focused on poetry coming from me and a guest who has a poetic voice not often heard or seen.  My tongue is still healing but it’s no longer as swollen, thank you very much. The bruise on my thigh is fading quickly.  No, not healing from bike riding issue–just gave away my bike–just a fainting spell from perimenopause.

Yeah…….ever kind of feel like this is the now, as in now is the time to get your best work out there, to do your best while you can still do it, while your mind, spirit, and body are still allowing you to say it do it be it in that moment or those moments? This is what 50-something feels like to me. Time to get those books floating in my head out of me, those brilliant crazy courses planned out and launched, dreams becoming reality. So I keep running into these essays about people losing it, getting it back, etc.etc., and I’m like, what the fuck am I waiting for?

So……some may say I skipped the motherhood part from maiden and went straight to crone, but I say I am a Mother in my classroom and to the collective. I could say that I am not quite ready to say I am crone for a couple of reasons, but then again, could it be that one can be maid, lover, mother, and crone in one space? Sometimes we occupy these roles as needed. Some of us didn’t become mothers for whatever reason–our magick remains potent, our poetry far reaching.

Watch this space in June.  Support my brand:  https://cash.app/$drcat

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A note about writing and a welcome to #30days2019 #30days

Couldn’t decide whether to land on love, lust, magic, or on Saturn for that first story.

Results?

I did a hybrid with a healthy dose of THC. Won’t blow your back out, but it will make you wonder if this is part of a longer tale. Could be.  Go read it and tell me if it turned you on or if it turned you off.

Or if it turned you out.

Meanwhile, we will return to the Girlfriend Experience AI, vampires, werewolves, and witches. We might even see a few aliens show up in a sex dungeon looking for love. I really do want to write about a woman who sees everyone on the planet completely nude.

If you stay still long enough, you can see everything.

 

Look for new stories and poetry to show up tomorrow.  Meanwhile, go support my brand here –> $drcat

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There are no spells for love or evolution

Does not feel right in this moment to go back to the routine.

…not quite Phorzhicoan anymore, am I?  Something else… 

Just feeling a bit faint, a bit warm in a hot flash sense.  So different in my youth when it really was more of a singularity in my approach, feed, and departure. I like drifting among groups of happy people and casually drawing out the essence of human fun–dancing, laughing, chatting, sweetness of joyful living.  Phorzhicoa feeding need not be in dark, lonely spaces, but can be in the midst of the action, as long as some semblance of an exchange is met to dampen suspicions of most, save for those few humans gifted with discernment.

As I slowly matured the hunt ceased to be a hunt for many and emerged as a search for one.

Doesn’t seem to feel right tonight to just jump in and feast. Phorzhicoan spells work like anesthesia on the conscious mind, and from what I can see through my Phorzhicoan eyes, our spells tend to bend towards imposing a coma-like state on the targeted object of focus.  Communion remains elusive and distant, and upon awakening, the object departs.  The feeding process itself ends and we move on.  My search for one turned me from this path.

There are no spells or works for this feeling here, and as such, this must be a true exchange that begins with the meeting of eyes.

Given what I’ve sensed, it seems more satisfying to engage in an exchange.  In other words, connect.  Something that could feel mutually consensual and aware as the energy and fluids pass back and forth in those moments before the room melts in hallucinogenic glory of all the Gods passing through you like a flock of birds.  At the departure of the initial wave of pleasure comes the recognition and welcoming of two spirits in communion.  Humans who have not crossed into Phorzhicoan space call this love.  Phorzhicoans like me who progress beyond the feeding dance call this evolution.

There are no spells for love or evolution.

First wave is like a tongue caress.

Friday night. Late. 20 years ago I’d be in Hartford, New Haven, Providence, Boston, or NYC. A bit thinner then. Minidress, blond dreds, 3-inch heels, commando–you know it! And you asked me why I don’t have a husband or kids? My 30s was a time to enjoy grad school and late night clubbing–though if I was still up to it, I could do that now in DC. It’s different, though, the whole scene, my age, my attitude. I like fun–dancing, laughing, chatting. Doesn’t seem to feel right here. But far be it from me to suggest that one should not laugh, dance, sing, or chat during a time of war. And yes, my friends, we are at war. We were born into it. Party for your life, Muffins.  This #30Days aka #30storiesin30days will carry some of these idea strings into fictional landscapes, along with a few revisits to landscapes discovered during previous 30 day journeys.  The erotic never left, but you already know this truth.

Watch this spot.

#30days

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Almost that time…

…for flash fiction, the #30days writing challenge I started with a very good friend of mine who writes science fiction.  Last year I decided to infuse some poetry into this challenge, a flash poetry edginess to inspire me to dive deeper.

You never know what or who you may find wandering the imaginary streets of my fictional landscapes these days…guess you’ll have to read them to find out.

See you soon, readers and fans.

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Poems are like a box of clothes never worn from your brain

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I think my brain treats my poetry writing sessions as an exercise in unpacking boxes from the attic and every once in a while finding a good classic cookbook, or a lovely set of dishes never used. Or a dress worn just once and it still fits. Or even an old, raunchy paperback novel, like The Story of O.

I think I had once of these month long sessions of unpacking some really raunchy novels, and given what I just dreamed last night, I think that analogy fits like a ball gag. Someone asked me about teaching The Story of O by Pauline Reage, a work that should not be taught without matching it with the French Feminisms anthology that tears it to pieces. I pretty much view Reage, du Sade, and other erotic writers of the 18th through the latter 20th century attempting to expel the Church’s repression of sexuality—but not the misogyny that came along with the repression. How is it in the 21st century we are still dealing with repression, misogyny, and fear of female desire?

I did not dream of finding wedding dresses in my closet. I have many more stories and poems to unpack and put on a table to shine or toss. Some of them sound like fragments from a raunchy novel. It’s my way of getting my brain out of writers block as I finish my other writing gig for a deadline later this month. I wouldn’t say it’s better than sex, but given the level of frustration that summer brings me (it’s warm, so I exercise and that definitely gets me aroused), writing about these things helps chase away writers block and depression over my summer blues over my lack of companionship. Love and lust really do matter for us writers—at least for me it does. And vibrators don’t inspire 5000 word chapters. Or epic poems.

Enjoy your morning commute.

thinking of your cock right now

Sunday rain
coffee and buns
reading news
waiting for Sun.

Whew! Thank goodness it’s Friday June 1!

Well folk, this year’s May 30 day challenge is now officially at an end, but not my creative writing. As I am on a deadline for completing a chapter for an anthology on digital humanities plus doing grant workshops to prep for a larger grant on the same topic I will be taking a break for a couple of weeks.  Do read this month’s work—it will be part of a book. I will be back to expand on these works and with new short fiction this summer as I build my manuscript. Please do click on my PayPal button to support me and the build of my collection. And let me what you want more of. Tell your friends to come read my work too.

Thank you for being a very engaged and active audience!

Love, Cherie Ann Turpin aka Afrofuturism Scholar

 

seeing you see me see you see me see you

watching you watch me
as you look for that moment
when i don’t see you
watching me
and as i see you
seeing me see you
it is good to see you.

Consent part two

Consent matters
consent means
you ask
i ask
dont assume
dont just walk in
without asking
consent means
you consider
more than just
your space
your desires
your plans
your fantasies
your expectations
your needs
because anything else
renders
my voice
my feelings
my space
my dreams
my needs
invisible
consent means
you ask
before touching
my coat
my shoulder
my breasts
before
filling my space
filling my place
filling my face
consent means
you ask
because
you assuming
i say no
i say yes
based on
what you heard
about me
what you think
about my politics
about my opinion
of you
of your motivations
of your character
that are
are unknown until
you ask
says you dont
give a fuck
about me beyond
what you think
you can do to me
regardless
of injury or horror
your singularity
of your assumptions
do to
my body
my feelings
my soul
as you wreak damage
and dispose of me
even well intended
without asking
without consent
brings it all to
destructive ends
consent means
you acknowlege
you do not own me
you are not entitled
you are not a predator
you ask
because you see me
because you see my humanity
consent means
real possibilities
of dreams and desires
mutually fulfilled.

Consent part one

Never asked
Want to know the difference
between men and women
Who want to fuck
Who are feeling you
Women ask
what is the difference
between vanilla and bdsm couples
bdsm people discuss
write out
Boundaries
Limits
Safewords
What do
heteronormative vanilla
respectability addicted couples
use for safe words
Not a thing
Heterosexual men don’t
Recognize them as real
Never asked

trust

my father once told me
not to trust you
i trusted you enough
to tell you what he said
and your face changed
as if an arrow pierced you
i trust you enough to realize
i needed time to understand
why it hurt you
how it hurt you
when you believed
i did not trust you
when you thought
how i thought
you could not be trusted
but i do trust you
just as the empath in me
trusted the truth
of the unintended wound
of my words on your spirit
just as the karmic pull
of Saturn Retrograde demands
that i make amends
and apologise
for hurting you
just as the way i
now feel
impels me to say
trust me.

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time for a new bed

haunted space
empty
this is a bed
that needed to go
ten years ago
beds keep memories
beds soak up sorrow
bad breakups
every single fight
every drop of semen
every drop of blood
every drop of urine
every tear
not wiped away or scrubbed
every dream
every nightmare
every moment of
anger
joy
horror
fear
depression
you thought lost
or forgotten
echoes of orgasms
you thought
best not spoken of
every lover
every spouse
real or imagined
soaked in fabric
you did not realize
consumed your
parts of beingness
left in the ether
of the past
and like shoes
over worn and torn
it must be replaced.

This is really happening.

Cum to you
Come to you
Cum on you
Come on you
Cum in you
Come in you
Cum to me
Come to me
Cum on me
Come on me
Come in me
Cum in me
Cum off me
Come off me
You cum
You come
I cum
I come
We cum
We come
You
I
We
Cum
Come
Arrive
Appear
Happen
Explode
Here
Now.

fire rite

are you the you
spoken of
spoken to
spoken with
as i sing
during spring?

are you the you
you walking in
you crossing threshold
you behind me
you without sound
you waiting for me
that expectant smile
you without sound
you hiding intent
as i face you?

the healing came last night

sage on fire
smoking
swirling
washing my rooms
lingering
chasing out demons
welcoming love
healing all spaces
i was tipsy with spirit

lift

you told me everything
before you spoke again
though until you
first spoke
i had not known anything
but what i felt

photo tell

crinkling eyes
revealing
faint warmth
masking
depth of heat
depth of intent
dark rose hip lips
gapped open
caressing air
teeth unclenched
yet meeting
cheeks unstrained
as you smile for me

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talking to you for real this moment

continue
saying that
and me yours
no mistake here
i yours
no mistake here
you listened
i saw that
in you
and
value you
you asking
you valuing
you seeking
me regaining
my voice
continue
to be
exactly
who you are
what you are
i owe you
much i wish
to give

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heated meet

familiar walk
a well-worn path
in well-traveled dirt
hard packed density
rock hard
summer sun not yet heating
spring cold land
meet me near Litha
with naked feet
and bare oak.

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inside you

pain
a small flame fueled
ever so quietly by
ether of hope

pain
sorrow and loss
weight of the past
that never completely fades

pain
misunderstood or mistakes
you carry it in silence

pain
you are after all
human.

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Who is the “you” and “I” in my poetry?

So, if you happen to know me, you may be wondering if I’m talking about you, or someone close to me or you.

The answer is no.

Yes.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Who gives a fuck?

I’m writing about human experience and what we endure while living on this planet. I do include my twisted imagination and twisted reality and twisted feelings. I’m pretty strange in my flesh n blood world, so if my writing makes you feel a bit uncomfortable, welcome to my world. I might write about you one day. Let the world beware, said Catherine Tramell.

The Month is almost up. Not sure I feel like doing this in June. Holla at me and tell me.

Oh, and I’ve been holding back a bit. Look for me to just get straight up weird these last days.

tell me how this works for you

not sure
what you meant
when
you said
you learned
how to channel
your feelings
how that happened to happen
how that would not happen
to all emotional fruit
when
you seem challenged
to express any feeling
or let
your face reveal
truth from
your heart
much less
your mouth
it stays trapped
behind
your eyes
caged in
your tongue
behind your teeth
or was that the point
you were making
to hide and bury
and pray that
when
you finally
dug it up it
wasn’t dust
or worse
forgot it was
there?

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