Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Monday, June 29, 2009


click on image to read.

the female zoo

Wednesday, June 24, 2009


So i walked past a certain moment in life.
I woke up to want.
to want to feel the sunrise.
for a 160 mornings later.
So I waited for the sun to set and commence a certain closure.
Coming in with a gentle touch of numbness,
the moon reminded me of an intimate hand that use to go under my skin.
The type of hand that i longed to know.
The type of hand that doesn't love.

So I- Female changed a certain perspective in life.
The mirror that use to reflect me beyond my bed,
is moved right towards the window.
Reflecting something distant.

So, like this i can myself,
Take the truth with me in sweet silent exile.
where the truth is,
a softhearted hush of a female.

the female zoo

Tuesday, June 23, 2009


The first intimation she received that her plea had been denied was when she was led at daybreak from her cell in the Saint-Lazare prison to a waiting automobile and then rushed to the barracks where the firing squad awaited her.

Never once had the iron will of the beautiful woman failed her. Father Arbaux, accompanied by two sisters of charity, Captain Bouchardon, and Maitre Clunet, her lawyer, entered her cell, where she was still sleeping - a calm, untroubled sleep, it was remarked by the turnkeys and trusties.

The sisters gently shook her. She arose and was told that her hour had come.

'May I write two letters?' was all she asked.

Consent was given immediately by Captain Bouchardon, and pen, ink, paper, and envelopes were given to her.

She seated herself at the edge of the bed and wrote the letters with feverish haste. She handed them over to the custody of her lawyer.

Then she drew on her stockings, black, silken, filmy things, grotesque in the circumstances. She placed her high-heeled slippers on her feet and tied the silken ribbons over her insteps.

She arose and took the long black velvet cloak, edged around the bottom with fur and with a huge square fur collar hanging down the back, from a hook over the head of her bed. She placed this cloak over the heavy silk kimono which she had been wearing over her nightdress.

Her wealth of black hair was still coiled about her head in braids. She put on a large, flapping black felt hat with a black silk ribbon and bow. Slowly and indifferently, it seemed, she pulled on a pair of black kid gloves. Then she said calmly: 'I am ready.'

The party slowly filed out of her cell to the waiting automobile.

The car sped through the heart of the sleeping city. It was scarcely half-past five in the morning and the sun was not yet fully up.

Clear across Paris the car whirled to the Caserne de Vincennes, the barracks of the old fort which the Germans stormed in 1870.

The troops were already drawn up for the execution. The twelve Zouaves, forming the firing squad, stood in line, their rifles at ease. A subofficer stood behind them, sword drawn.

The automobile stopped, and the party descended, Mata Hari last. The party walked straight to the spot, where a little hummock of earth reared itself seven or eight feet high and afforded a background for such bullets as might miss the human target.

As Father Arbaux spoke with the condemned woman, a French officer approached, carrying a white cloth.

'The blindfold,' he whispered to the nuns who stood there and handed it to them.

'Must I wear that?' asked Mata Hari, turning to her lawyer, as her eyes glimpsed the blindfold.

Maitre Clunet turned interrogatively to the French officer.

'If Madame prefers not, it makes no difference,' replied the officer, hurriedly turning away.

Mata Hari was not bound and she was not blindfolded. She stood gazing steadfastly at her executioners, when the priest, the nuns, and her lawyer stepped away from her.

The officer in command of the firing squad, who had been watching his men like a hawk that none might examine his rifle and try to find out whether he was destined to fire the blank cartridge which was in the breech of one rifle, seemed relieved that the business would soon be over.

A sharp, crackling command and the file of twelve men assumed rigid positions at attention. Another command, and their rifles were at their shoulders; each man gazed down his barrel at the breast of the woman which was the target.

She did not move a muscle.

The underofficer in charge had moved to a position where from the corners of their eyes they could see him. His sword was extended in the air.

It dropped. The sun - by this time up - flashed on the burnished blade as it described an arc in falling. Simultaneously the sound of the volley rang out. Flame and a tiny puff of greyish smoke issued from the muzzle of each rifle. Automatically the men dropped their arms.

At the report Mata Hari fell. She did not die as actors and moving picture stars would have us believe that people die when they are shot. She did not throw up her hands nor did she plunge straight forward or straight back.

Instead she seemed to collapse. Slowly, inertly, she settled to her knees, her head up always, and without the slightest change of expression on her face. For the fraction of a second it seemed she tottered there, on her knees, gazing directly at those who had taken her life. Then she fell backward, bending at the waist, with her legs doubled up beneath her. She lay prone, motionless, with her face turned towards the sky.

A non-commissioned officer, who accompanied a lieutenant, drew his revolver from the big, black holster strapped about his waist. Bending over, he placed the muzzle of the revolver almost - but not quite - against the left temple of the spy. He pulled the trigger, and the bullet tore into the brain of the woman.

Mata Hari was surely dead.
—Henry Wales, International News Service, 19 October 1917

Saturday, June 20, 2009


the female zoo

Friday, June 19, 2009


Her fingernails engrave something you can see changing in her.
The walls begin to sink in deep layers of forgiveness.
You, You secretly look at her in her own nature.
In nothingness she floats in a dreamlike moment of self closure.
Allowing herself to tranquilize in isolated weight and texture,
Her hands remain vigilant.
Following the movement of her nails,
male is able to capture reality.
the male seeks in her a path of individual travel,
the female desperately parts in an ocean of virgin red blood.
Colliding her nails against concrete,
This is what the male captures.
when not allowed.
a female,
in permanent beauty.

the female zoo

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Friday, June 12, 2009


The doctor told me the antibiotics will affect my stomach.
That there will be a moment of whiteness.
Another piece of advice, the doctor told me the truth will affect my stomach.
He went on telling me that there will be a moment of fluidity.
pale and tearful.
I have to tell you something.
That there is a moment in which I / Female will affect your stomach.

the female zoo

Thursday, June 11, 2009


The repetition of seeing myself falling into bed.
slowly looking up at the ceiling.
as i loose that moment in complete.
the second i take to descend.
closer to the nest of white.
my hair carefully loosing itself in motion.
i can only picture this so steady.
i can feel this gradual fall in beauty.
i can only escape the touch of my mind.
take me slowly.
find me raw.
the repetition of seeing myself falling into bed.
pacific and silenced.
farther than ever before.

the female zoo

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Tuesday, June 9, 2009


the female zoo