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

Tag: Chapped Lap (page 1 of 2)

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.
© 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:

Out of Isolation complete video:

rings of orgasms

rub me deeply into you
lose myself into you
rub my cock, hard or soft,
on your pleasure bone,
feeling hairy prickling pleasure
clicking up the intensity
deep inside by balls,
a deep laugh is tickling
its way from deep inside my belly,
a heart sob is pushing outward from my throat.
rings of orgasms,
each melting into the next…
not climaxes…
not charlie horse ends
with a shared cigarette…
but a daisy chain of orgasms
everlasting, neverending.
smell your skin
breathe you deeply into me.
suck me deeply so i am now a part of you,
so we are no more,
so we are one body
rubbing melting skin
goose bumps chills skin orgasms.
orgasm is death within pleasure
where control…even who we are…
and we float skin rubbing at
the heart of the universe,
our combined body orgasm pumping out
visions and dreams and life and light.
within the rings of orgasm,
we are the universal heart
pumping magic,
nursing everything.
we were conceived within orgasm.
we were brought into this world
within the birth orgasm.
we were nursed from mother’s orgasm.
we will go out in the orgasm of death.
live within,
dream within,
love within
the rings of orgasm.
rub me deeply into you
lose myself into you
rub my cock, hard or soft,
on your pleasure bone,
feeling hairy prickling pleasure
clicking up the intensity
deep inside by balls,
a deep laugh is tickling
its way from deep inside my belly,
a heart sob is pushing outward from my throat.
rings of orgasms,
each melting into the next…
© 1993 Frank Moore

Artwork by LaBash

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

you ain’t no deer

Frank wrote this poem for one his students, Teresa …

you ain’t no deer

Frankly, my dear,
You ain’t no deer!
No coy thing,
Fragile, timid,
Ready to run
At any sound…
Ready to run away
Into fearful hiding!
You are a Molly Bloom
Blooming giggling deep belly lust!
Ale drinking
Pipe smoking
Pushing my hand deep inside you
After waiting amused
For us others to pick up
And join you
In a lusty jam!
Legs wide open,
Eyes trusting,
Yours is a fleshy universe,
On stage
In rapture trance
Musical warmth flowing
From sucking joy!
And I ain’t no deer hunter,
My dear!
© Frank Moore 10/14/2000


Teresa is a Featured Artist on Frank’s website:

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

their cuddling cocoon

she sits nude beside him, talking to him, with one hand rubbing him, with her other hand guiding his hand rubbing on her pussy….relax ritual, peaceful.
he curls his body around hers. licks her leg. she starts rocking, pressing his rubbing hand more firmly to her for pleasure, rocking in pleasure.
he pulls her down beside him, half on him, his leg sliding in between her legs, moving it gently to create the same warm creamy dreamy turn-on in her as her rubbing hand is creating in him. giggling licking ears, biting necks, belly deep, heart deep sounds of joy leak out of the both of them. emotional sounds of relief of having each other. kissing deeply, her hips moving, her hand rubbing, his nose in her armpit, then his tongue. she moves up, letting his tongue follow the curve of her breast to the nipple.
he pulls her all the way on top of him. he licks and sucks and enjoys and explores deeply every part of her body as she slowly slides upward. she rocks in licking pleasure. deep pleasure sound duet.
now, she begins her own downward journey of licking kissing exploring of his body. he rubs her back and head. she takes her time when she reaches his cock rubbing kissing licking. he pulls her back up to kiss, to look in her eyes. belly rubbing on belly. rocking together, giggling together, hips moving slowly passionately. two bodies with skin of warming wax, melting together into one body.
she sits up on him and rocks back and forth on his responding body, rubbing into body laughing. sometimes they look far into each other’s eyes. other times they are two kids taking their first roller-coaster ride. sometimes they just close their eyes, surrendering to the tides of moaning pleasure. his hands play with her tits, belly, and pussy. she turns around on him so that she can rub his legs and feet as she rocks on him. he rubs her back with his spastic hands.
but all of a sudden, giggling he pulls her down beside him, facing away from him, so he can give her a proper deluxe back massage using not only his hands, but also his head, chin, mouth, elbows. almost like a classical pianist, playing her body. all the while, his cock firmly rubs against her butt.
she turns toward him, taking him in her arms, wrapping her legs around him, pulling him close deep within their cuddling cocoon, to talk about how they can always be together in their small warm world.
© Frank Moore 04/15/1995

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


Flaming hair,
flaming voice
singing belting raging the blues,
singing setting things right for the people,
belting it, the spirit, out beyond her voice,
flaming her voice hoarse beyond linear limits.

Listen very closely, carefully,
focus on her breasts
as she leads you by the arm
through an ever changing nonlinear maze
of stories, connections, names, human passions.
You’ll need this focus point to surrender.

She, Jesse, can and will lead you
skipping and dancing
into the heart of all things,
of all matters.

She has lived and danced
upon this liquid lusty path,
has lived deep hard soft in the
not-so-clear/clean/pure waters
of humanity
long before,
and will long after,

So surrender to the mad woman,
to the senile bag lady,
to the peter pan child…
fall into her time warp hole…
fall into Jesse,
and you’ll be falling
into wisdom deep and warm!

© Frank Moore 6/23/1997

From the book Chapped Lap by Frank Moore.

Dorothy Jesse Beagle is a Featured Artist on eroplay.com.

Her performance on Frank Moore’s Shaman’s Den, May 16, 1999.

The Whole Note Series was hosted by Dorothy Jesse Beagle at the Beanery in Oakland, California:

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
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…
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,
or from anger,
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:


Frank’s mom, Connie.

Connie completed the fading into death
this afternoon.
She has always lived in her young mind,
always was a black sheep,
raising black sheep,
always wanted to know,
always hungry for education,
Deaf to CAN’T,
to dumb rules!

No time for social frills,
no time for BS,
no time for limits.
Just time for deadpan joy of just everyday,
for no-nonsense love,
for pushing and demanding for
She bit,
or pretended not to hear,
just going for what’s right
like a tank…
running you over.

You were a fool
if you believed
her mcgoo act!
Hero? Yes!
Always growing beyond
working in a doctor’s office,
after getting a college education,
after the leaving of Jim,
threatened by his black sleep wife,
after pushing me onto THE REAL WORLD,
after raising Jerry and me,
after getting out of Utah as a free thinker!

Just taking Tums and aspirins,
Connie at 79 lived a very rich life…
always young in life…
now always
will be young!

Jerry and I are so lucky
to be in the black sheep family of

 © Frank Moore 5/19/2000

a rant on an open mike

the open mike
is the most democratic channel…
well maybe except for hyde park sproul soapbox freedom.
anyone can sign up
to step up to bat,
step up to the mike
and into the sacred belljar
where art poetry is free to expose truth,
free to use whatever it takes,
whatever style it takes to expose truth…
that is, until your given time runs out
and hooks you around the neck and yanks you
from the belljar stage.
but in the belljar channel
you are in danger testing, crying, being so sucking bad that both
you and they curse your birth, sharing found ideas, listening to
the silence and the polite clapping greeting your bombs or to your
ravings of rage that hit too close to home, messing up the nice
polite parlor.

entering the open mike belljar is a leap into uncontrolled
possibilities, uncomfortable quest through good bad boring
embarrassing and sometimes magical.

nobody owns the belljar,
except when you are in the channel,
in the pipe behind the mike,
holding the modern talking stick
until it is time to pass it on to the next.
but the talking stick is everyone’s,
for anyone with something to express.
if one is banned, censored, from holding the talking stick
just to punish, just to protect a neat fragile nice order,
we all are banished from the sacred talking stick which becomes
just a cock that we rub.

i get worried if my words and images fit through veins clogged with fatty taboos of polite appropriate of comfortability.

i get worried…is the art that small that it fits through that pinhole of a hole…so small that nudes on the walls, words on telephone poles, any shift in the social power structure threatens the very reality fabric.

i’m too proud to admit the art poetry is that small. so my art becomes a roto-rooting balloon covered in razors tipped in draino acid, pushing pressuring uncomfortable unsocial grinding against the grain until the killer fatty clots of taboos burst out the other end and go down the drain like trouble.

i don’t really go after the hitlers, the mccarthys, the helms, or their brown shirts.

they are just limp-dicked power-junkies with swiss-cheese egos, each hole filled with inferiority. they are just moons with no power light of themselves, just reflecting fear.

no, i go after the nice people who never asked where the trains were going, boxcars filled with people. didn’t have to. only suspected, only heard rumors…after all, the general is a friend. never said, excuse me, i am a jew too, a jap too, a gay too, i’ve negro blood running in my body, aids too. i’m a commie who took home movies of our nude kids. so better put me on that train too. better put us all on that train. there ain’t no train big enough!

i go after the nice people who keep going to work after seeing their friends missing, after hearing rumors of blacklist and blackball. must write something about that subject to THE TIMES. he used to be such a pleasant fellow…but now he is a whining paranoid…not a sort to have to tea. he is like a wet messy fart. not in my backyard!

yes, i go after nice people. but my time in the belljar is about over.
so i’ll leave you with this. what is happening in your backyard is what really matters. so be sure to weed!

© 1995 Frank Moore

Art is a Bitch

Nude Stacy by Frank Moore

Someone asked:

1. What were the THREE MOST IMPORTANT things you did to get a break and start moving toward recognition as a performance artist?

2. While you were moving toward getting to where you needed to go, how did you make enough money to survive while not taking away TOO much time and energy from your creative work?

3. How do you spend your days now, mostly? e.g., approximately what percentage of each day is spent writing, marketing yourself, planning shows, arranging tours, scoping out and applying for grants, bringing in outside income, acting as a mentor to other artists, etc.?

4. What do you love MOST about doing what you do now?

5. What do you HATE most about doing what you do now?

I can only answer
art is not a career
not a money maker
but a money taker
an addiction,
a life long master
who does not give
a flying fuck
loves, hates,
what I want to do,
where I want to go

the artist’s job is to surrender,
to follow, to melt into art

making money is easy
but the river of art rarely flows
naturally that way
without damming the river up

so keep your day job
get a day job you like doing
because art is your mistress of night
& you ain’t her pimp
she’ll take your money & time
she will take you into the basement
of the unseen

you’ll get old with her
attending her needs
rocking on the porch with her
no goals, no plans, no marketing,
no rush.

Just rocking, just surprises everyday,
just people dropping by,
just floating without knowing,
just doing, just suffering, just enjoying.
Just following.

Just trust the bitch art!

© Frank Moore 03/20/1999

mutation is evolution

you foolish idiot!
You want to make
You want to cure
all crips,
slow ones
and all other impractical
different looking
strange mutations
you fool!

How to condemn the human species
to extinction!

the game of evolution is
change by experimentation.

We freaks are the experimenters

the name of the game
is flexibly adapting
risking into the unknown newness
of uncontrolled future
we crips,
we misfits have always been the adapters,
the leapers

I’m not wasting my time
talking to you about magic and such
just about evolution

if you don’t need us crips,
us misfits
if you don’t need us no more…
our advice is
don’t breathe deep
in your air-tight coffin
of normalcy
and move very slowly
very carefully
in your thin-skinned world
of ever increasing fragility

oh yeah…
good luck!

© Frank Moore 04/23/1999

“Mutation Is Evolution” poem by Frank Moore
Read by Annie Krist

A segment from the web video series LET ME BE FRANK, Episode 7, “Nonfilms”.
Website for the series: http://frankadelic.com/