Um comediante japonês, absolutamente maluco, tenta convencer a fábrica de brinquedos a produzir uma versão gay, logicamente inspirada nele, do maior sucesso da fábrica. Abaixo, apenas a primeira parte. A segunda parte, inacreditável, vc pode procurar no youtube. Absolutamente hilário!!
17 maio 2008
Moby Dick
Ah! A Edição nova da Cosac Naif.... eu quero!!! Mas a questão é: há um relacionamento gay de Ismael com Quiqueg? Além de ler o livro, uma fonte pode ser o artigo do prof. Robert Martin, no site glbtq (link lá embaixo!), que vc pode ler aqui. Só não reproduzo porque é muito extenso, seis páginas. Vale a viagem!
16 maio 2008
Movimento Bear
Movimento bear, mercado, gênero. Americano, claro, mas reflete por aqui, de muitas formas. Ainda no site glbtq, que merece sempre a consulta. A foto, bom, a foto....
Antonio Cícero
ECO
A pele salgada daquele surfista
parece doce de leite condensado.
Como seu olhar, o mar é narcisista
e, na vista de um, o outro é espelhado;
e embora, quando ele dança sobre as cristas,
goste de atrair olhares extraviados
de banhistas distraídos ou artistas,
é claro que o mar é seu único amado.
Ei-lo molhado em pé na areia: folgado,
ao pôr-do-sol tem de um lado a prancha em riste
e usa do outro uma gata e um brinco e assiste
serenamente ao horizonte inflamado
e a brisa o alisa e enfim ele não resiste
à beleza e diz “sinistro!” e ouve eco ao lado.
[Do livro Guardar]
10 maio 2008
The Food of Love
I could never sing. In the grade-school operetta
I sat dark offstage and clattered coconut shells.
I was the cavalry coming, unmusical, lonely.
For five years I played the piano and metronome.
I read Deerslayer in small print while I waited for my lesson,
and threw up after the recital at the Leopold Hotel.
I went to a liberal college, but I never learned
how to sit on the floor or help the sweet folk song forward.
My partridge had lice, and its pear-tree had cut-worm blight.
Yes, this song is for you. In your childhood a clear falsetto,
now you sing along in the bars, naming old songs for me.
Even drunk. you chirrup; birds branch in your every voice.
It's for you, what I never sing. So i hope if ever
you reach, in the night, for a music that is not there
because you need food, or philosophy, or bail,
you'll remember to hear the noise that a man might make
if he were an amateur, clattering coconut shells,
if he were the cavalry, tone-deaf but on its way.
(Poema de William Dickey, em "Love Speaks its name - gay and lesbian love poems, p. 155)
I sat dark offstage and clattered coconut shells.
I was the cavalry coming, unmusical, lonely.
For five years I played the piano and metronome.
I read Deerslayer in small print while I waited for my lesson,
and threw up after the recital at the Leopold Hotel.
I went to a liberal college, but I never learned
how to sit on the floor or help the sweet folk song forward.
My partridge had lice, and its pear-tree had cut-worm blight.
Yes, this song is for you. In your childhood a clear falsetto,
now you sing along in the bars, naming old songs for me.
Even drunk. you chirrup; birds branch in your every voice.
It's for you, what I never sing. So i hope if ever
you reach, in the night, for a music that is not there
because you need food, or philosophy, or bail,
you'll remember to hear the noise that a man might make
if he were an amateur, clattering coconut shells,
if he were the cavalry, tone-deaf but on its way.
(Poema de William Dickey, em "Love Speaks its name - gay and lesbian love poems, p. 155)
03 maio 2008
Cena Espanhola
País que prova que é possível acompanhar os novos tempos, sem perder a personalidade!
União afetiva, previdência, leis sérias que protegem e não afagam, uma cena desprovida de preocupação com rótulos, enfim, o país quase ideal!Ah!! A Espanha!
Uma dica do teatro que anda por lá:O grupo Madrilenho Labirinto XXI (Laberinto XXI) é considerado pelos resenhistas e críticos como um vento de frescor na cena teatral espanhola.Sexo, irreverência, iconoclastia total....
02 maio 2008
Hector Tito Alvares
The Birth of the Political Angel
Oceans, as if space were
apples,
the scent of oranges,
marcos naked
fields and fields of clear grey-blue,
lilac on white.
the chalk
hills and breasts filled with milk
images, blue crystal in the snow,
indians in the snow
indians in the snow
bleached, clean flakes on the white linen (original Mind)
or paint/blood
applied with the grace of the greeks;
graceful lines in the snow
gay patterns in the sun's labyrinth
upright, green stems bleeding,
his firm thigh
in the sun
how men with men are one
my loving when
well, men are as flowers,
pebbles in the stream, not boulders
when pablo as
surrendering in the snow
flowing off the white pages
coming, buttermilk dripping on tissue paper
forfeiting muscles and metal teeth
balls and power, metallic balls
shining chrome in the snow
in the powdered universe of northern lights Mts.
and opening his warmth as if space were,
every pine were his.
latino, blond, and grey eyes tender
colored shells on the cuban sand, moist.
Breath,
as with marcos breathing gently;s ians
Indians in the Alps on the north country.
blue
coming, clear brooks
blocks of sparkling ice
Lorca, crying in the snow
(como un gallo)
stalactites and stalagmites
and phalloi carved out of cave walls
ancient space for living: sculpting, painting, fucking, thinking
ancient grace of brotherly embrace
in the blanched snow
in the snow
men loving men
as if your own bodies were space enough
"Oh, words and spices are for the dead, anyway!"
(1974)
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