Hidden treasures discovered while digging through Frank Moore's huge archives.

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NONI DOES EXIST!

Frank wrote this poem about Noni Howard for the event, Voices From The Underground, which featured contributors to his zine, THE CHEROTIC (r)EVOLUTIONARY:

Voices From The Underground

Friday, June 27, 1997 7:30 p.m. at Modern Times at 968 Valencia Street in San Francisco, California.

THE CHEROTIC (r)EVOLUTIONARY, a zine of all possibilities, presents VOICES FROM THE UNDERGROUND, an evening of readings and music by a wide range of agents of cultural subversion … featuring Dorothy Jesse Beagle, Barbara Golden, Noni Howard, Jack & Adelle Foley, K. Atchley, Frank Moore … plus special surprise guests. If that is not enough, everyone will get an autographed xeroxed piece of art by LaBash!

NONI DOES EXIST!

By FRANK MOORE,
June 23, 1997

Everybody here has secret identities
of superheros terrorists criminals artists.
Everybody here is in disguise.
Everybody here is intimate friends of the well-known.
Everybody here has a secret cave of great influence.
But nobody ever expects/suspects.
We are that good!

But there is a legion, a myth, an old wife’s tale…
Noni.
If you travel deep into the underground,
you will come to the cross roads between pleasure and torture.
Here you’ll find Noni,
the taboo queen.
Gravel voice of hard drink
that can fray your skin off
layer by layer
with beautiful sandpaper words
which give you orgasms of pleasure
while making you bleed.
They say she is a nightmare creature
that can rip your balls off to your cries of delight,
rip them so gently.

They say she has unspeakable secrets 
and slaves of both sexes and even satan
herself bows down to Noni!

And they say this wild creature Noni comes out
of her dungeon cave into normalcy to walk among us
in disguise.

I never listen to what they say.
But I believe,
hope,
that Noni does exist…
nightmare risk taboo queen.
I’m searching for her…you, Noni!


Then Noni wrote this poem in 2001 for Frank:

FRANK DOES EXIST
For Frank Moore

dressed in the colours of the earth
your mind swells my imagination/

Prophet, Poet, Producer
of the blossoming flowers
of our eternal youth

you are there
to celebrate every
awakening.

such joy that we live for !

to see every moment
bend, twist, explode
into EONS of light

your thought makes
it all happen.

You are the thought
and the happening
at once.

you

are there

already.

Noni Howard
3/23/01
For Frank Moore

Within The Living Shadows

August 1, 2003
for Linda Smith


oh, the cool living
within the shade
of the big oak!
The girl swinging
On a high branch
Looks down
And sees my bright
Pink and yellow petals,
Jumps down
to smell me
And lies beside me
To listen to the music
Of the oak leaves
Playing with the summer breeze.

All my life
I have been sheltered
By my friend the oak,
Being protected from
Hard rain,
Gusts of cold wind,
And hot sun,
So that my gentle beauty
Can grow
strong & bright
Within the circle
Of vibrating shade…
Refreshing shadows
of living together,
Rooted together
Within just being together.
Ah, my friend,
The oak tree!


“Koala Bear”, oil on canvas, 22” x 30”, 1975 by Frank Moore

From the book Skin Passion by Frank Moore.

out of isolation

a mat is on the otherwise bare performing area. harsh bright lights. jim lies in his world of the mat.
 
I lie here in my universe of the mat, my bed. I always have been here lying in my universe forever, forever. My mat, my pillow, my sheet, my blanket…for countless force-fed meals, enemas, baths, shaves, haircuts, pissed-on sheets…many many harsh-lighted days, many, many semi-dark nights. Outside my universe there are bony fingers, blotch-skin creatures. Sometimes they invaded my universe…the sickly-sweet smelling ones. They “take care of me”…they handle me like they handle my pillow. Their voices are high, loud, flat. Sometimes they lie on beds beside mine, moaning and crying for alone many many, then they get quiet and others of them carry the still ones away. There are always new ones, but they are always the same. There are different bony fingers who invade my universe, who strip me, probe me stretch me until it hurts…do strange things to me like rubbing ice on my body then brushing me hard. They talk to me in funny ways…loud and flat. They say, “We are doing this for your own good.” They don’t think I understand what they are saying. I don’t understand most of their words. But I understand enough, I understand I am not a Mister, a Mrs., a Miss, a Nurse, a Doctor. I understand I am not bony fingers. They can keep their universe of bony fingers. I am not going out of my universe of the mat. I understand enough. A long long, when I cried out, they made me numb. I do not like being numb. In my universe of the mat, I am not numb. But they said crying out was not “appropriate behavior”. I do not think appropriate behavior is good.
 
Everything that is not appropriate behavior makes me feel. But I understand enough to stop crying when the bony fingers are around. Stop making any sound, any move when they are around. They stopped making me numb. I understand enough. I discovered a way of rubbing myself that makes me warm, makes me feel good. Bony fingers slapped me away from feeling good. Not appropriate behavior. I understand enough. I do appropriate behavior in the harsh light when they are around. I am still, quiet. In my universe of the mat. I do not even look into their world. I am busy creating within me. But when the harsh light goes and the semi-darkness comes…when only the still or moaning bony fingers are around…I move, I laugh, I cry, I rub my body and good feeling comes. Not so loud or so much that the harsh light, the bony fingers, and their numbness come back. But just enough. And by rubbing, I know I am not bony fingers.
 
In the harsh light, they treat me just like my pillow. They change me just like they change my pillow. Always fast like they need to move on. Sometimes, the special bony fingers, the prodders, stand over me and say I should come into their universe, what they are doing to me will help me. They talk like they talk to my pillow. Why should I want to go into their world of greys, where everyone wears white? In my universe of the mat, I lie on smooth warm softness and create the brightest colors and the sweetest sounds to surround me. But I am not worried. Bony fingers never really believe I ever can enter their universe.
 
I only wish I was not the only soft fingers…I wish there was another soft fingers in my universe of the mat…someone to share in the bright colors and sweet sounds…someone I could laugh with, cry with, move with, share good feeling with…someone who would be with me on the mat, touch me not like touching my pillow, not like pulling things out of me or to make me different. But just because we are the only soft fingers in the universe of the mat.
 
There is a new prodder. Do not look at bony fingers. But catch sight of same white. Miss Roberts talking to a pillow called Mr. Merrill. Same words about “to make you better”. But sound of voice is somehow different, softer. The touch is still changing the pillow of me. But not bony fingers! I sneak a peak. Same white, but different. The skin is soft like my skin. The smell is almost like my smell. Almost enough to try to open my universe to this new soft fingers. But words came, the same words as bony fingers. The prodding soft fingers strips me bare just like she is changing the pillow of me. Easier to probe my pillow of a body. The prodding fingers does the same hurting “make you better” exercises on me as the other bony fingers before. And then the going somewhere else fast. And the touching the pillow of me, instead of touching me.
 
When the soft fingers and the harsh light were gone, I cried louder than before. I do not care if they make me numb. Maybe numbness is better if soft fingers are the same as bony fingers, if soft fingers also want me to go into grey and white, if soft fingers does not want to be with me, then numbness is better.
 
Soft fingers keeps coming back. At first, rushing to somewhere else, trying to pull me into the grey universe. I know how to fight against that bony fingers trick. But I like her soft warm skin touching me…like my soft warm sheet under me. Sometime soft fingers forgets about helping me, about making me a better person. For that moment we are the only ones in the universe…together. Then soft fingers remembers the bony fingers and starts touching me like a pillow again.
 
But the moments of being together grow. I like when she forgets and makes mistakes and comes closer into my world. I like when she just sits on my mat…on our mat…and just looks at me, just listens to me. I feel more and more like I can show her my moves, show her my sounds. I like when soft fingers became Jane and I became Jim. I like when Jane just lies on the mat and we just look at each other, listen to each other, even when we really don’t understand what meaning…but we feel. I like it when Jane starts making her own noises, not just bony words. I like when Jane holds my hand. I like when Jane comes into my world of dim light, when she wears colors bright, soft, smooth flowing…not bony fingers white…and even her hair is flowing strangely soft. I like when Jane comes wearing the colors soft even in the harsh light. I like when Jane makes the harsh light go away for a while, when Jane rocks me, when Jane rubs my head. I like when Jane slowly takes all the colors off. She is soft everywhere. She lies next to me on the mat. She makes soft sounds and soft moves, just like me. She is just like me now. Two soft fingers on the mat. I like when Jane lets me rub Jane’s back, when Jane calls me Jim. I like it when we are in our universe of the mat sharing not appropriate behavior…laughing, crying, making good feeling come. Rocking or holding hands made different good feelings come together, making soft sounds together, together making good feelings come.
 
But suddenly Jane was gone. I was alone in happiness. Jane would come back into the happiness with me on the mat. So I was happy.
 
But when Jane came the next day, she was in bony white. Jane had become like bony fingers again. She said what we were doing was not appropriate behavior. She used words like romance and sexual that I did not understand. Jane left. The numbness came back without the bony fingers giving me anything.
 
Jane came back as bony fingers. I kept rising out of the numbness in hope whenever Jane came, but then fell deeper and deeper.
 
Jane came. I could not hold the crying back. I cried in the harsh light. Then Jane cried too. She made the harsh light go away. She came back into our universe of the mat and rocked me. Jane told me to teach her the noises and the moves of our universe of the mat. Now I have another soft fingers, Jane, on the mat, in the universe with me, together with me.
 
Together we can expand the universe beyond the mat. Jane can bring other soft fingers in. The bony fingers begin to fade. I can see, begin to see colors beyond the mat, begin to hear laughter beyond the mat. Jane says she and I together will explore the universe that is outside. She and I are happy.
 
THE END
 
© Frank Moore 1986-2002


From the book Chapped Lap by Frank Moore, published by Inter-Relations.


Read about the history of the “Out of Isolation” video here:
http://eroplay.org/history-of-out-of-isolation-video/

Out of Isolation complete video:

About K.A.

Frank wrote this poem about/for Kenneth Atchley (K.A.) right before the “Voices from the Underground” event on June 27, 1997 at Modern Times Bookstore in San Francisco. It was read as K.A.’s introduction before his performance. From the poster:

THE CHEROTIC (r)EVOLUTIONARY, a zine of all possibilities, presents VOICES FROM THE UNDERGROUND, an evening of readings and music by a wide range of agents of cultural subversion … featuring Dorothy Jesse Beagle, Barbara Golden, Noni Howard, Jack & Adelle Foley, K. Atchley, Frank Moore … plus special surprise guests. If that is not enough, everyone will get an autographed xeroxed piece of art by LaBash!

Frank had published one of K.A.’s written pieces in his zine, The Cherotic (r)Evolutionary. K.A. also played with the Cherotic All-Stars several times and even travelled to Seattle to perform with Frank in 1996.


About K.A.

June 23, 1997

A southern gentleman,
gentle being,
creates a noise fountain,
a gate to a dark erotic motel
of razor blade cutting blonde
white skin in love.
Time going backwards
into a shamanistic perverseness,
floating back into a pipeline
of a sustained note, a sexy machine whine,
strangely human, strangely divine.

This gentleman puts pictures in my head
too taboo.

This gentleman with his noises super real spray
opens up caverns of possibilities
like a knife ripping open a child’s belly.

And I always have wondered
what is in southern comfort!
A gentle spirit unbounded.


“Voices from the Underground” poster by LaBash
Poster by LaBash for Seattle performances in 1996.

The poem “About K.A.” was published in Skin Passion: poetry and paintings by Frank Moore.

Who Says?

A poem by George Kauffman published in the Anderson Valley Advertiser, Boonville, CA 95415, June 11, 1997.


Who Says?

-for Frank Moore

She took off all her clothes,
then she took off her skin.
I had never seen such bones!
Her legs crushed me while her
tongue darted out of her skull.
I got out of my skin
and we made love. Who says
there’s no life after death?
-George Kauffman


River Vision

by Frank Moore, Sunday, March 21, 1999


People sometimes ask,
“Where is your work heading?
What do you want to do next?”

It is not my work.
It is not my choice.

For me,
it is not a question
of a next thing.
It is a growing,
evolving vision.
I am carried along
in this vision
of life,
of art.
A performance does not have
a beginning
or an end.
It is just
a tiny bit
of the vision.
The vision braids
around itself,
flowing on. I do not know
where the vision
is taking me. I have not been down
this vision before.

One thing’s for sure. We humans
are not the end
of evolution.


“Sunset Rise”, digital painting, 2010 by Frank Moore

Family Friendly Poetry Reading

by Frank Moore, Saturday, April 06, 2002


A family friendly poetry reading?
Really?
Do you mean like READERS’ DIGEST?
MMMM…
I suppose some poets would go along with it…
The kind in READERS’ DIGEST
The kind who don’t see
Don’t mind
The command
For “self” censorship
Tucked neatly in the warmly caramel apple
Phrase
Of FAMILY FRIENDLY
There ain’t no “self” censorship
You are censoring art,
Words,
Intensity,
Truths,
The Audience
Down into nice mellow
Fascism

I suppose some are willing to accept this….
The kind who don’t question
Questions like
Which family?
It definitely ain’t my family
Not any of the expanding rings
Of my family
In fact
It is down right hostile
To my human tribal family
Which teaches our kids
How to use words
To communicate with all kinds of people
In all kinds of contexts
Openly
Deeply
Freely
Exploring all life
With a passionate honesty,
Sitting together
In the yummy smelling kitchen
Of Life
Sitting together
Around the tribal fires
Generations sitting together
Passing the talking stick around
Telling their stories
Revealing their desires and fears,
Wisdom and folly
Exploring myths…
Listening and telling
Into the center of respect and acceptance…
All the family listening
All tell
In their own ways…
Silly little sister
Wise grandma
Hot angry brother
Mother finding new words
Dad listening to family voices…
All beyond taboos
In this sacred ritual of telling.

I don’t really know what to make of this
Hostile FAMILY FRIENDLY…
Ok,
I do.
This is making poetry,
All art,
Into a hallmark lapdog
Of the brainwashing “socialization”
Of little lily and billy
Reinforcing SCHOOL/CHURCH/CORPORATE shallow
Dogma,
Using us poets
To be the shallow virus dogma carriers,
Thinking
FAMILY FRIENDLY can ever be
Anything but enforced shallow reality
On everyone

Sure,
When I read at schools
I play by THE RULES
Not because of the kids

But to get into the brainwashing camps
To slip the kids
A subversive potion of
Words/ideas/images

But shoot me
If I ever read at a FAMILY/KIDS FRIENDLY POETRY READING…
No…
Shoot the fascist’s parents!

Think fast!
A loving couple lovingly f…

In your head,
What did you hear for F?

Did I just cross the line?

Hope so!


“Innocent”, oil on canvas, 36” x 36”, 1981 by Frank Moore
“Trixie”, oil on canvas, 36” x 36”, 1979 by Frank Moore
“Superman”, oil on canvas, 35” x 68”, 1976

From the book, Skin Passion: Poems and Paintings by Frank Moore.

i came to play

Poetry Bash, Fort Mason, San Francisco 1988. Photo by Linda Mac.

I came to play!
Came to the table
to play
I don’t care what I have
to do
to get a seat
at the table

I play every hand
dealt to me
not really caring about
winning or losing
or about skill…
just playing hands
to stay in the game

Yes, I am a dangerous player,
keep on playing

I came to play!
Came to bed
not to fuck you
but
to melt with you enjoying
mutual surrender
washing pleasure
swept away into oneness
exploring skin from the inside,
beyond time,
beyond self,
into the fun of being
into exploring
the furry cozy sweating love
that can’t be confined to the bed,
but claims the whole life
as its playpen
I came to play
to mix things up
to see what unexpected
will appear,
to jam
with playmates,
to lose ourselves
within one another,
within the playing,
the dancing,
the touching,
the music…
into listening
and melting

I came to play…
playing life the best way I can…
always playing against the house,
against the odds…
not a smart player…
never in competition…
just keep my eye
on the ball,
on each hand,
on following
the every move
of Lady Luck

I came to play…
often in the lonely fields
beyond taboo,
breaking thru THE WALL
to new possibilities…
but I am a team player…
always looking for playmates
to get muddy or sweaty with…
because…
truth be told…
playing with myself
for myself
has never been fun,
only lonely

I came to play
with colors, noises, realities, bodies, words, characters, limits, dreams, images,
life, death, symbols, magic…
and with you

I came to play
and I’m a dangerous player
because I don’t play
for money,
fame,
power,
or from anger,
bitterness,
hatred,
emptiness,
or to win…
so I can’t lose
can’t be beaten!

I came to play
to play
just for fun
….just to change everything!

I came to play…
after all…
I want to play with you…
we are mammals,
after all!


© 2000, Frank Moore

From Frank’s book Chapped Lap:
http://www.eroplay.com/chappedlap/index.html

Art of Reshaping Reality

Abstract by Frank Moore, 1996

by Frank Moore
March 24, 1999

There are all kinds of art.
There is art that calms,
art that pacifies,
art that sells,
art that decorates,
art that entertains.

But what I am
committed to is
art as a battle,
an underground war
against fragmentation.
The battle is on all realities.

The controllers
have always tried
to fragment us.
Fragment us
from each other.
Imprison us
in islands of sex,
color,
religion,
politics,
classes,
labels,
etc.,
etc.,
etc.,
etc.,
etc.
they fragment
our inner worlds,
they blow
our individual realities apart,
and play the pieces
against one another.
They are us,
or a part of us.
They are the controllers,
the politicians,
the sexists,
the women’s libbers,
the pornographers,
the censors,
the moralists,
the church,
the media,
the businessmen,
educators,
the victims
and the powerful.

They are us.
They have divided us
from our power,
from our beauty,
from our lust for life
and pleasure.
They have divided us
from most of reality –
divided dying from living –
sex from living,
sex from pleasure.
We are kept in
boxes of fear,
of mistrust.
We are kept waiting –
kept waiting
to do what
we want –
waiting
for enough money,
enough schooling,
for everything to be right.
We are kept waiting
and protecting
and hiding
and suffering.

This is the time
to do battle
with the boxes.

As artists,
our tools
are magic,
our bodies,
taboos,
and dreams.

This kind of art
can be bubbles of childhood –
hidden places
where you can play and explore –
it is the kids’ under-the-covers world,
the playhouse,
the treehouse,
the cave,
behind the barn,
playing doctor,
cars at drive-ins
before going all the way,
Huck Finn’s raft,
tepees.
People are afraid
of this area of
lusty exploring
that they think
they have out-grown
— but they are sucked into it.

But this kind of art
can have a more
heavy-duty
magical side to it
that shocks,
offends,
and breaks new ground.
This side is what is locked in,
the subconscious,
the womb,
the underground,
hell/heaven,
pleasure/torture,
the coffin,
the grave,
birth/death/rebirth,
dream/nightmare,
the hidden world
of taboos.

Artists of this breed
need to be
warriors who are willing
to go into the areas of taboo,
willing to push
beyond where
it is comfortable
and safe
to explore
and build
a larger zone
of safeness.
They need to be
idealists,
willing to live ideals.

The Dance Without Dancers

“Falling in Love”, digital painting by Frank Moore, 2010

THE DANCE WITHOUT DANCERS
Frank Moore
2011

What we have here is
only the first smell of fresh magic.
Matter is hollow tubes
containing fibers
of packets of possibilities.
Matter is symbol,
is metaphor
containing possibilities.
These packets shape matter.
These packets, in turn,
are reshaped by
each body /object
they pass through.
We are affected
by the stars,
and the stars
are affected
by us.
We affect the Tarot cards
and the I Ching coins
we cast.
The physicists affect
the subatomic particles
they observe.

By reshaping
these inner packets,
the material reality is reshaped.

The inner rivers of possibilities
are two way on the linear level.
The magical effects are always
two way.
The light of the sun warms us;
but we affect the sun through
the same channel.

We have entered the level
of the dynamic web
of relationships
in which the individual
does not exist.
In place of the individual,
there appear points
of personal responsibility
in a dance.

It is not the sun that warms,
nor is it us who are warmed.
It is the dance of no dancers,
the dance of relationships
that warms,
and that is warmed.

Reality creation
is a dance.
We are the dancers.
But in truth,
it is a dance
without dancers.
If we really take
on personal responsibility
for the dance,
we surrender to the dance,
give up individual “control,”
give up individual linking
with the results.
By taking on the personal responsibility
for the dance,
we are the dance.
We melt with the dance.
We are only the dance.
We admit these facts.
It is not a question
of becoming,
but of remembering
and admitting.
It is a question
of being,
living,
dancing lustfully,
without controls
or limits
in responsibility.

The life dance
is beyond morals
or limits.
It joyfully digs
into the dance
to the juicy black core.