« Posts tagged Spoken Word Text


I have tired of my face pressed
to the windowpane staring watching
waiting gazing at this bloody month
of winter unwinding itself before me
pumping lost love letters and
lipstick stains on private parts
in its flow I
have tired
of it
I am tired
so I shamelessly step
from a life lived by
scrupulous selection into
the apocalyptic fury
outside inside: a
cinematic panshot
the remains of myself given over
to frosty pink lipglossed hookers skirting
about in see-through blouses and
micro spandex wrappers slit
to the curve of ass cheeks jiggling in
twenty-five dollar anticipation of
some john who’d like a snack to eat
I’m the only one who seems to
be paying either attention or them
and I want to brush my teeth
brushing off a Suzy Wrong with
a flyspecked complexion who
can barely speak English
pleading “you want sucky-
fucky?” and poking her
chopsticked fingers at me
my boots shuffle by
dry on chipped concrete the
sidewalk cracks resembling
veins lonely for someone’s teeth
I make it to my fluorescent-
lit mailbox and
laugh as if I’m mocking
the whole codependent
romantic notion, trying to
pretend I don’t know damn
well that yesterday’s date
was February thirteenth
Valentine’s Day licks its
vampire chops and
drools ropes of red tar like
severed arteries
my stomach churns with
nervousness as I stick
my mailbox with the stake-
shaped key and twist
and turn and
peek inside its
guts there’s
an offering of a single
square piece of paper which
I yank out like an abortion
and head back across
the street toting
the casket of red death
beneath my arm and
grinning shit at the call girls’ hissing
“Here, kitty kitty” my
thoughts are frisky-frenzied and
distant my heart races with
all the possibilities of an empty-
cornered envelope
the intoxication of remembrances
an address to return to and
memories to address
with an abbreviated
version of a smirk curled
in the corners of my mouth
I shove my thumbnail unseal
pry but what I find
inside yanks my tongue
out and smashes
my ribcage from the
impact of that pot-bellied bastard
cupid sprawled out on
a generic greeting card
the message “I’ve got an eye
on your sweet tooth, Valentine”

streamlined in the shape of
an arrow and “Best Wishes
from Dr. Stepka, d.d.”
thing-or-other down
at the bottom the
sweet slogan in script letters
words that
curl and close themselves
around me:
all my living breathing something
turning nothing, empty-
gutted like last year’s
heart-shaped cardboard box,
a shell that once housed
chocolate treats now
graveyard of past lovers and friends
packed to the hilt
I stiffen with the ghostlike
reminder that love
is a noose
dimly or definitely or
disguised like
those letters of “Best
are lies
in peppermint-colored curlicued drag
to drag a sucker in but
then again I’ve
never even cared about
the trumped-up sweetheart
scene, have always known that
bit is
no disease for me
I head towards my
place, cut out
scissor-stepping hard and
brisk and cold
a rapid streak so
quick I can’t unveil or even see
the emptiness of dark mascara-
clustered eyes surrounding couldn’t
can’t be anything
like me
I step
feel the whirring of flared nostrils
step and
force a smile
I step
sway my arms as if I’ve got snake-
eyes beneath my sleeves
because being sincere
solves nothing
I step and
step and make
it to my stoop and
solve my problem of the moment
by leaving it behind:
Valentine’s Day a past
now passed
shot down like
this gunpowder night that
sighs with its
softbound sounds from the gutter
wheezes coughs and
spits out a slit-
stained backdrop for
a crumbling city
St. Valentine’s a
myth forgotten a
false belief outgrown
like training bras or hopes
for true love treadmarked
by the sole of my shoes
that step
I step and
for a second before I kiss
the delusion smack-dab on the lips,
I am afoot with
reaching my remembrances
dressed to the teeth
in fabulous


Clint Catalyst, from the book Cottonmouth Kisses

Thanks to Beauty Nursed on Darkness for the post!
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Review of Cottonmouth Kisses — Bizarre Magazine (UK)

April 2001

[ Many thanks to Cathi Unsworth
and, of course, to Bizarre magazine ! ]

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Spoken Word Text

“To Push Away Or Clutch” — Spoken Word by Clint Catalyst


No, I don’t hit every line in the prose-poem verbatim.

Yes, I wrote it. It’s ancient history, actually…but I chose the piece as a ‘sampling of my wares’–so to speak–because it’s self-contained and just under the 10 minute mark.

BACKGROUND INFO: This performance was filmed on the day that basically determined whether or not I’d have a sample of my art hanging in “>The Andy Warhol Museum. By “hanging,” I mean via 50 inch flat-screen monitor complete with bitchen sound system, by which with my monologue screened on endless repeat. [The experience of entering the room on opening night and hearing my far-from-soothing voice ricochet around the institution’s pristine white walls? Surreal. Sublime . . . and ______________ ]

That Once-In-A-Lifetime pressure paired with 5 1/2 single-spaced pages of text to memorize?

I’m just glad I pulled it off…
Though of course, I’m exponentially more grateful to Glenn Kaino, who’s the reason my work and I were even featured in the reknown Pittsburgh museum. Short of the long: including me as one his “Uberstars” in Transformer: The Work Of Glenn Kaino an 8-year retrospective of his sculpture/photography.

Catalottalisp was “served, and proper” from May 3 – August 31st, 2008, thanks to Mr. kaino and the curators’ hospitality.

This clip would not exist without the camera skills of Nhat Nguyen and editing prowess of Diego Garza.


Wardrobe by Jared Gold

Hair cut and color by Luis Payne of Hairroin Salon

† † †

Hairroin Salon, Hollywood’s white-hot epicenter of cool, is owned and run by scissormeister Janine Jarman.

† † †

For the image on exhibit, however?

Hair styling/color by Irene Urias of Hairroin;
make-up by Stacey Hummell.

(Watch for the “end result” of Kaino’s portrait of Clint, as taken by Polaroid Big Shot

in the compendium

The Work of Glenn Kaino: Communicating Rooks,

scheduled for an June 2009 release through the premier art publishing house, Hatje Cantz:


Effing PROPS, all y’all!

x o x

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I am powder
pressed tight and zip
locked in micro baggies
I am promises for
perfection and for
ever lined up blown
away or torn
like cotton
I am cut with
all the wrong
words and
fervent manic stirrings
wave the red flag
put up your caution
signs I
am dangerous
with my lab con-
structed wings and
the way I come
unhinged like a
screen door

[ From Cottonmouth Kisses ]