Podcasts about faggots

A NEW PERFORMANCE BY MORGAN BASSICHISWITH ORIGINAL MATERIAL BY FRANK MAYADIRECTED BY SAM PINKLETONMUSICAL RECREATIONS BY NATASHA JACOBSSCENIC RECREATION BY ELI WOODS HARRISONOctober 25–26, 2024In a desperate attempt to prove they can think about someone other than themself, Morgan Bassichis revisits queer comedian, musician, and performance artist Frank Maya's 1987 show, Frank Maya Talks. Maya was among the “first out gay comedians on network television” and on the precipice of mainstream success before his death from AIDS-related complications in 1995. This new “solo” performance humbly attempts to ensure Maya's legacy is no longer overlooked while also resolving the bottomless queer search for laughter in times of crisis and for fame and father figures and intense attachment dynamics no matter how fleeting.https://www.morganbassichis.com/ MORGAN BASSICHIS (They/Them) is a comedian, musician, and writer who has been called “a tall child or, well, a big bird” by The Nation and “fiercely hilarious” by The New Yorker. Their past performances include A Crowded Field (Abrons Arts Center, 2023), Questions to Ask Beforehand (Bridget Donahue, 2022), Don't Rain On My Bat Mitzvah (co-created with Ira Khonen Temple, Creative Time, 2021), Nibbling the Hand that Feeds Me (Whitney Museum, NYC, 2019), Klezmer for Beginners (co-created with Ethan Philbrick, Abrons Arts Center, NYC, 2019), Damned If You Duet (The Kitchen, NYC, 2018), More Protest Songs! (Danspace Project, NYC, 2018), and The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions: The Musical (co-created with TM Davy, DonChristian Jones, Michi Ilona Osato, and Una Aya Osato, New Museum, NYC, 2017).

Helen Eisenbach is a novelist, satirist, playwright, theatre director, screenwriter, journalist and editor. Her books include the novel Loonglow and the how-to/cry for help Lesbianism Made Easy, both published shamelessly ahead of their time and now available as ebooks with Open Road Media. Her plays have been produced in NYC, San Francisco, Chicago, and Edinburgh Festival Fringe. As a book editor, she founded the Plume line of LGBTQ fiction and nonfiction, where she published the subject of today's podcast, Larry Kramer, among others (mostly now dead!); she was also Editorial Director at Arbor House, where she founded a line of trade paperbacks, and Editor in Chief of Alyson Publications on its transition to a mainstream publisher under the Advocate magazine's rule. She was Executive Editor of the late beloved queer weekly magazine QW (where she published Rosanne's first ever queer interview); literary editor of the L.A. magazine Dot 429; an editor at the copy desk of Entertainment Weekly and Time Magazine. In theatre, she assisted writer/director Dick Scanlan, director Michael Mayer and Sherie Rene Scott on the play Whorl Inside a Loop as script editorial supervisor, seeing it from workshop to Off Broadway production for 2ND Stage Theatre; she was also researcher for Scanlan and composer Carmel Dean on their Edna St. Vincent Millay musical Renascence. Helen's reviews, profiles and interviews have appeared in New York magazine, LitHub, the Village Voice, Time Out NY, Newsday, Writer's Digest, The New York Times, Interview, the Daily News, HuffPost, Salon and other tasteful publications. Larry Kramer was a playwright, author, film producer, public health advocate, and gay rights activist. In 1978, Kramer introduced a controversial and confrontational style in his novel FAGGOTS, which earned mixed reviews and emphatic denunciations from elements within the gay community for Kramer's portrayal of what he characterized as shallow, promiscuous gay relationships in the 1970s. Kramer witnessed the spread of the disease known as  Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome (AIDS) among his friends in 1980. He co-founded the Gay Men's Health Crisis  (GMHC), which has become the world's largest private organization assisting people living with AIDS. His political activism continued with the founding of the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power   (ACT UP) in 1987, an influential direct action protest organization with the aim of gaining more public action to fight the AIDS crisis. ACT UP has been widely credited with changing public health policy and the perception of people living with AIDS , and with raising awareness of HIV and AIDS-related diseases.His play The Normal Heart was produced by Joseph Papp at The Public Theater in New York City in 1985. He died from pneumonia on May 27,2020  

A dramatic reading by Jason Louv of the 1819 poem "The Fall of Hyperion—A Dream" by John Keats, set to music by Jason. Not uncommon for the 19th century, it is awash in occult and Hermetic symbolism.  Show Links Magick.Me Magick.Me's Fast-Growing YouTube Channel: Like and Subscribe!!!   The full text of the poem follows: "The Fall of Hyperion—A Dream" John Keats CANTO I Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave A paradise for a sect; the savage too From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep Guesses at Heaven; pity these have not Trac'd upon vellum or wild Indian leaf The shadows of melodious utterance. But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die; For Poesy alone can tell her dreams, With the fine spell of words alone can save Imagination from the sable charm And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, 'Thou art no Poet may'st not tell thy dreams?' Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. Whether the dream now purpos'd to rehearse Be poet's or fanatic's will be known When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave. Methought I stood where trees of every clime, Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech, With plantain, and spice blossoms, made a screen; In neighbourhood of fountains, by the noise Soft showering in my ears, and, by the touch Of scent, not far from roses. Turning round I saw an arbour with a drooping roof Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms, Like floral censers swinging light in air; Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits, Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal By angel tasted or our Mother Eve; For empty shells were scattered on the grass, And grape stalks but half bare, and remnants more, Sweet smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know. Still was more plenty than the fabled horn Thrice emptied could pour forth, at banqueting For Proserpine return'd to her own fields, Where the white heifers low. And appetite More yearning than on earth I ever felt Growing within, I ate deliciously; And, after not long, thirsted, for thereby Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took, And, pledging all the mortals of the world, And all the dead whose names are in our lips, Drank. That full draught is parent of my theme. No Asian poppy nor elixir fine Of the soon fading jealous Caliphat, No poison gender'd in close monkish cell To thin the scarlet conclave of old men, Could so have rapt unwilling life away. Among the fragrant husks and berries crush'd, Upon the grass I struggled hard against The domineering potion; but in vain: The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sunk Like a Silenus on an antique vase. How long I slumber'd 'tis a chance to guess. When sense of life return'd, I started up As if with wings; but the fair trees were gone, The mossy mound and arbour were no more: I look'd around upon the carved sides Of an old sanctuary with roof august, Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds Might spread beneath, as o'er the stars of heaven; So old the place was, I remember'd none The like upon the earth: what I had seen Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent towers, The superannuations of sunk realms, Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and winds, Seem'd but the faulture of decrepit things To that eternal domed monument. Upon the marble at my feet there lay Store of strange vessels and large draperies, Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove, Or in that place the moth could not corrupt, So white the linen, so, in some, distinct Ran imageries from a sombre loom. All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay Robes, golden tongs, censer and chafing dish, Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries. Turning from these with awe, once more I rais'd My eyes to fathom the space every way; The embossed roof, the silent massy range Of columns north and south, ending in mist Of nothing, then to eastward, where black gates Were shut against the sunrise evermore. Then to the west I look'd, and saw far off An image, huge of feature as a cloud, At level of whose feet an altar slept, To be approach'd on either side by steps, And marble balustrade, and patient travail To count with toil the innumerable degrees. Towards the altar sober paced I went, Repressing haste, as too unholy there; And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine One minist'ring; and there arose a flame. When in mid May the sickening East wind Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers, And fills the air with so much pleasant health That even the dying man forgets his shroud; Even so that lofty sacrificial fire, Sending forth Maian incense, spread around Forgetfulness of everything but bliss, And clouded all the altar with soft smoke, From whose white fragrant curtains thus I heard Language pronounc'd: 'If thou canst not ascend 'These steps, die on that marble where thou art. 'Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust, 'Will parch for lack of nutriment thy bones 'Will wither in few years, and vanish so 'That not the quickest eye could find a grain 'Of what thou now art on that pavement cold. 'The sands of thy short life are spent this hour, 'And no hand in the universe can turn 'Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be burnt 'Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps.' I heard, I look'd: two senses both at once, So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny Of that fierce threat and the hard task proposed. Prodigious seem'd the toil, the leaves were yet Burning when suddenly a palsied chill Struck from the paved level up my limbs, And was ascending quick to put cold grasp Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat: I shriek'd; and the sharp anguish of my shriek Stung my own ears I strove hard to escape The numbness; strove to gain the lowest step. Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace: the cold Grew stifling, suffocating, at the heart; And when I clasp'd my hands I felt them not. One minute before death, my iced foot touch'd The lowest stair; and as it touch'd, life seem'd To pour in at the toes: I mounted up, As once fair angels on a ladder flew From the green turf to Heaven. 'Holy Power,' Cried I, approaching near the horned shrine, 'What am I that should so be saved from death? 'What am I that another death come not 'To choke my utterance sacrilegious here?' Then said the veiled shadow 'Thou hast felt 'What 'tis to die and live again before 'Thy fated hour. That thou hadst power to do so 'Is thy own safety; thou hast dated on 'Thy doom.' 'High Prophetess,' said I, 'purge off, 'Benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film.' 'None can usurp this height,' return'd that shade, 'But those to whom the miseries of the world 'Are misery, and will not let them rest. 'All else who find a haven in the world, 'Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days, 'If by a chance into this fane they come, 'Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.' 'Are there not thousands in the world,' said I, Encourag'd by the sooth voice of the shade, 'Who love their fellows even to the death; 'Who feel the giant agony of the world; 'And more, like slaves to poor humanity, 'Labour for mortal good? I sure should see 'Other men here; but I am here alone.' 'Those whom thou spak'st of are no vision'ries,' Rejoin'd that voice; 'they are no dreamers weak; 'They seek no wonder but the human face, 'No music but a happy noted voice; 'They come not here, they have no thought to come; 'And thou art here, for thou art less than they: 'What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe, 'To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing, 'A fever of thyself think of the Earth; 'What bliss even in hope is there for thee? 'What haven? every creature hath its home; 'Every sole man hath days of joy and pain, 'Whether his labours be sublime or low 'The pain alone; the joy alone; distinct: 'Only the dreamer venoms all his days, 'Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve. 'Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shar'd, 'Such things as thou art are admitted oft 'Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile, 'And suffer'd in these temples: for that cause 'Thou standest safe beneath this statue's knees.' 'That I am favour'd for unworthiness, 'By such propitious parley medicin'd 'In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice, 'Aye, and could weep for love of such award.' So answer'd I, continuing, 'If it please, 'Majestic shadow, tell me: sure not all 'Those melodies sung into the world's ear 'Are useless: sure a poet is a sage; 'A humanist, physician to all men. 'That I am none I feel, as vultures feel 'They are no birds when eagles are abroad. 'What am I then? Thou spakest of my tribe: 'What tribe?' The tall shade veil'd in drooping white Then spake, so much more earnest, that the breath Moved the thin linen folds that drooping hung About a golden censer from the hand Pendent. 'Art thou not of the dreamer tribe? 'The poet and the dreamer are distinct, 'Diverse, sheer opposite, antipodes. 'The one pours out a balm upon the world, 'The other vexes it.' Then shouted I Spite of myself, and with a Pythia's spleen, 'Apollo! faded! O far flown Apollo! 'Where is thy misty pestilence to creep 'Into the dwellings, through the door crannies 'Of all mock lyrists, large self worshipers, 'And careless Hectorers in proud bad verse. 'Though I breathe death with them it will be life 'To see them sprawl before me into graves. 'Majestic shadow, tell me where I am, 'Whose altar this; for whom this incense curls; 'What image this whose face I cannot see, 'For the broad marble knees; and who thou art, 'Of accent feminine so courteous?' Then the tall shade, in drooping linens veil'd, Spoke out, so much more earnest, that her breath Stirr'd the thin folds of gauze that drooping hung About a golden censer from her hand Pendent; and by her voice I knew she shed Long treasured tears. 'This temple, sad and lone, 'Is all spar'd from the thunder of a war 'Foughten long since by giant hierarchy 'Against rebellion: this old image here, 'Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell, 'Is Saturn's; I Moneta, left supreme 'Sole priestess of this desolation.' I had no words to answer, for my tongue, Useless, could find about its roofed home No syllable of a fit majesty To make rejoinder to Moneta's mourn. There was a silence, while the altar's blaze Was fainting for sweet food: I look'd thereon, And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps Of other crisped spice wood then again I look'd upon the altar, and its horns Whiten'd with ashes, and its lang'rous flame, And then upon the offerings again; And so by turns till sad Moneta cried, 'The sacrifice is done, but not the less 'Will I be kind to thee for thy good will. 'My power, which to me is still a curse, 'Shall be to thee a wonder; for the scenes 'Still swooning vivid through my globed brain 'With an electral changing misery 'Thou shalt with those dull mortal eyes behold, 'Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not.' As near as an immortal's sphered words Could to a mother's soften, were these last: And yet I had a terror of her robes, And chiefly of the veils, that from her brow Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries That made my heart too small to hold its blood. This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face, Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright blanch'd By an immortal sickness which kills not; It works a constant change, which happy death Can put no end to; deathwards progressing To no death was that visage; it had pass'd The lily and the snow; and beyond these I must not think now, though I saw that face But for her eyes I should have fled away. They held me back, with a benignant light Soft mitigated by divinest lids Half closed, and visionless entire they seem'd Of all external things; they saw me not, But in blank splendour beam'd like the mild moon, Who comforts those she sees not, who knows not What eyes are upward cast. As I had found A grain of gold upon a mountain side, And twing'd with avarice strain'd out my eyes To search its sullen entrails rich with ore, So at the view of sad Moneta's brow I ach'd to see what things the hollow brain Behind enwombed: what high tragedy In the dark secret chambers of her skull Was acting, that could give so dread a stress To her cold lips, and fill with such a light Her planetary eyes, and touch her voice With such a sorrow 'Shade of Memory!' Cried I, with act adorant at her feet, 'By all the gloom hung round thy fallen house, 'By this last temple, by the golden age, 'By great Apollo, thy dear Foster Child, 'And by thyself, forlorn divinity, 'The pale Omega of a withered race, 'Let me behold, according as thou saidst, 'What in thy brain so ferments to and fro!' No sooner had this conjuration pass'd My devout lips, than side by side we stood (Like a stunt bramble by a solemn pine) Deep in the shady sadness of a vale, Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star. Onward I look'd beneath the gloomy boughs, And saw, what first I thought an image huge, Like to the image pedestal'd so high In Saturn's temple. Then Moneta's voice Came brief upon mine ear 'So Saturn sat When he had lost his realms ' whereon there grew A power within me of enormous ken To see as a god sees, and take the depth Of things as nimbly as the outward eye Can size and shape pervade. The lofty theme At those few words hung vast before my mind, With half unravel'd web. I set myself Upon an eagle's watch, that I might see, And seeing ne'er forget. No stir of life Was in this shrouded vale, not so much air As in the zoning of a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell there did it rest. A stream went voiceless by, still deaden'd more By reason of the fallen divinity Spreading more shade; the Naiad 'mid her reeds Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. Along the margin sand large footmarks went No farther than to where old Saturn's feet Had rested, and there slept, how long a sleep! Degraded, cold, upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were clos'd, While his bow'd head seem'd listening to the Earth, His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. It seem'd no force could wake him from his place; But there came one who with a kindred hand Touch'd his wide shoulders after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not. Then came the griev'd voice of Mnemosyne, And griev'd I hearken'd. 'That divinity 'Whom thou saw'st step from yon forlornest wood, 'And with slow pace approach our fallen King, 'Is Thea, softest natur'd of our brood.' I mark'd the Goddess in fair statuary Surpassing wan Moneta by the head, And in her sorrow nearer woman's tears. There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun; As if the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear Was with its stored thunder labouring up. One hand she press'd upon that aching spot Where beats the human heart, as if just there, Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain; The other upon Saturn's bended neck She laid, and to the level of his hollow ear Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake In solemn tenor and deep organ tune; Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue Would come in this like accenting; how frail To that large utterance of the early Gods! 'Saturn! look up and for what, poor lost King? 'I have no comfort for thee; no not one; 'I cannot cry, Wherefore thus sleepest thou? 'For Heaven is parted from thee, and the Earth 'Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a God; 'And Ocean too, with all its solemn noise, 'Has from thy sceptre pass'd, and all the air 'Is emptied of thine hoary majesty: 'Thy thunder, captious at the new command, 'Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house; 'And thy sharp lightning, in unpracticed hands, 'Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 'With such remorseless speed still come new woes, 'That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 'Saturn! sleep on: Me thoughtless, why should I 'Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? 'Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes? 'Saturn, sleep on, while at thy feet I weep.' As when upon a tranced summer night Forests, branch charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a noise, Save from one gradual solitary gust, Swelling upon the silence; dying off; As if the ebbing air had but one wave; So came these words, and went; the while in tears She press'd her fair large forehead to the earth, Just where her fallen hair might spread in curls A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. Long, long those two were postured motionless, Like sculpture builded up upon the grave Of their own power. A long awful time I look'd upon them: still they were the same; The frozen God still bending to the earth, And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet, Moneta silent. Without stay or prop But my own weak mortality, I bore The load of this eternal quietude, The unchanging gloom, and the three fixed shapes Ponderous upon my senses, a whole moon. For by my burning brain I measured sure Her silver seasons shedded on the night, And ever day by day methought I grew More gaunt and ghostly. Oftentimes I pray'd Intense, that Death would take me from the vale And all its burthens gasping with despair Of change, hour after hour I curs'd myself; Until old Saturn rais'd his faded eyes, And look'd around and saw his kingdom gone, And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, And that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet. As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and leaves Fills forest dells with a pervading air, Known to the woodland nostril, so the words Of Saturn fill'd the mossy glooms around, Even to the hollows of time eaten oaks And to the windings of the foxes' hole, With sad low tones, while thus he spake, and sent Strange musings to the solitary Pan. 'Moan, brethren, moan; for we are swallow'd up 'And buried from all Godlike exercise 'Of influence benign on planets pale, 'And peaceful sway above man's harvesting, 'And all those acts which Deity supreme 'Doth ease its heart of love in. Moan and wail, 'Moan, brethren, moan; for lo, the rebel spheres 'Spin round, the stars their ancient courses keep, 'Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth, 'Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon, 'Still buds the tree, and still the sea shores murmur; 'There is no death in all the Universe, 'No smell of death there shall be death Moan, moan, 'Moan, Cybele, moan; for thy pernicious babes 'Have changed a God into a shaking Palsy. 'Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength left, 'Weak as the reed weak feeble as my voice 'O, O, the pain, the pain of feebleness. 'Moan, moan, for still I thaw or give me help; 'Throw down those imps, and give me victory. 'Let me hear other groans, and trumpets blown 'Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 'From the gold peaks of Heaven's high piled clouds; 'Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 'Of strings in hollow shells; and let there be 'Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 'Of the sky children.' So he feebly ceas'd, With such a poor and sickly sounding pause, Methought I heard some old man of the earth Bewailing earthly loss; nor could my eyes And ears act with that pleasant unison of sense Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form, And dolorous accent from a tragic harp With large limb'd visions. More I scrutinized: Still fix'd he sat beneath the sable trees, Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent forms, With leaves all hush'd; his awful presence there (Now all was silent) gave a deadly lie To what I erewhile heard only his lips Trembled amid the white curls of his beard. They told the truth, though, round, the snowy locks Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven A mid day fleece of clouds. Thea arose, And stretched her white arm through the hollow dark, Pointing some whither: whereat he too rose Like a vast giant, seen by men at sea To grow pale from the waves at dull midnight. They melted from my sight into the woods; Ere I could turn, Moneta cried, 'These twain 'Are speeding to the families of grief, 'Where roof'd in by black rocks they waste, in pain 'And darkness, for no hope.' And she spake on, As ye may read who can unwearied pass Onward from the antechamber of this dream, Where even at the open doors awhile I must delay, and glean my memory Of her high phrase: perhaps no further dare. CANTO II 'Mortal, that thou may'st understand aright, 'I humanize my sayings to thine ear, 'Making comparisons of earthly things; 'Or thou might'st better listen to the wind, 'Whose language is to thee a barren noise, 'Though it blows legend laden through the trees. 'In melancholy realms big tears are shed, 'More sorrow like to this, and such like woe, 'Too huge for mortal tongue, or pen of scribe. 'The Titans fierce, self hid or prison bound, 'Groan for the old allegiance once more, 'Listening in their doom for Saturn's voice. 'But one of our whole eagle brood still keeps 'His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty; 'Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 'Still sits, still snuffs the incense teeming up 'From man to the sun's God: yet unsecure, 'For as upon the earth dire prodigies 'Fright and perplex, so also shudders he: 'Nor at dog's howl or gloom bird's Even screech, 'Or the familiar visitings of one 'Upon the first toll of his passing bell: 'But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve, 'Make great Hyperion ache. His palace bright, 'Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold, 'And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks, 'Glares a blood red through all the thousand courts, 'Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries: 'And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 'Flush angerly; when he would taste the wreaths 'Of incense breath'd aloft from sacred hills, 'Instead of sweets his ample palate takes 'Savour of poisonous brass and metals sick. 'Wherefore when harbour'd in the sleepy West, 'After the full completion of fair day, 'For rest divine upon exalted couch 'And slumber in the arms of melody, 'He paces through the pleasant hours of ease 'With strides colossal, on from hall to hall; 'While far within each aisle and deep recess 'His winged minions in close clusters stand 'Amaz'd, and full of fear; like anxious men, 'Who on a wide plain gather in sad troops, 'When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers. 'Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy trance, 'Goes step for step with Thea from yon woods, 'Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, 'Is sloping to the threshold of the West. 'Thither we tend.' Now in clear light I stood, Reliev'd from the dusk vale. Mnemosyne Was sitting on a square edg'd polish'd stone, That in its lucid depth reflected pure Her priestess garments. My quick eyes ran on From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault, Through bow'rs of fragrant and enwreathed light And diamond paved lustrous long arcades. Anon rush'd by the bright Hyperion; His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels, And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire, That scared away the meek ethereal hours And made their dove wings tremble. On he flared. THE END 1819

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Ever wondered why so many gays throughout history are so tragic, resilient and brave? This month Casement's Leftovers set fire to condescending stereotypes with incomparable author and historian Huw Lemmey. Huw  -along with his co-host and author Ben Miller- have released the essential read; "Bad Gays", which explores identity formation and some of the more icky homosexuals which didn't make the draft for Pride month martyrs. Helen and Glen chat with Huw about awful gays, how same sex attraction has been characterised throughout history and what terrible dead queens can tell us about queers today.This christmas be sure to play this episode around conservative family members. Maybe turn it into a drinking game. Every time we say a slur, you take a shot? Merry Christmas to you and yours! Support the show

The Faggots and Their Friends Between Revolutions is a beloved queer utopian text written by Larry Mitchell with lush illustrations by Ned Asta, published by Calamus Press in 1977.

Factory International announced the 2023 edition of the biannual Manchester International Festival at an event at New Century Hall in Manchester on 14 March. After the announcement, BTG Editor David Chadderton spoke to Manchester International Festival's Artistic Director and Chief Executive John McGrath, Adam Szabo from Manchester Collective about their co-production with Slung Low of Benjamin Britten's community opera Noah's Flood, Scottee about acting as dramaturg for a musical adaptation of Larry Mitchell and Ned Asta's cult 1977 book The Faggots and Their Friends Between Revolutions and MIF's Creative Director, Low Kee Hong. Manchester International Festival 2023 runs from 29 June to 16 July at venues all around the city centre and beyond. (Images: John McGrath, credit Tarnish Vision; Low Kee Hong; Rakhi Singh and Adam Szabo, co-founders of Manchester Collective, photo by Robin Clewley.)

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Declan Greene is the Artistic Director of Griffin Theatre Company and works as a playwright, dramaturg and director. He was previously Resident Artist at Malthouse Theatre. As a playwright, his work includes Eight Gigabytes of Hardcore Pornography, The Homosexuals, or ‘Faggots', Melancholia, Moth, and Pompeii L.A. Declan co-founded queer experimental theatre company Sisters Grimm with Ash Flanders in 2006, and has directed and co-created all their productions to date, including: for Griffin Independent and Theatre Works: Summertime in the Garden of Eden; for Malthouse Theatre and Sydney Theatre Company: Calpurnia Descending; for Melbourne Theatre Company: Lilith: The Jungle Girl; and for Sydney Theatre Company: Little Mercy. As a director, his credits include: for Griffin: Dogged, Green Park, Whitefella Yella Tree; for Malthouse Theatre: Wake in Fright; for Malthouse Theatre and Sydney Theatre Company: Blackie Blackie Brown; for Sydney Theatre Company: Hamlet: Prince of Skidmark; for ZLMD Shakespeare Company: Conviction. Declan has won awards including the Malcolm Robertson Prize, the Max Afford Playwright's Award, an AWGIE for Theatre for Young Audiences and the Green Room Award for Best Original Writing. Declan has just launched the 2023 season for the Griffin Theatre Company. He joined STAGES to elaborate on the season and to reflect on his unique role as an Artistic Director and as one of our most exciting and inventive theatre-makers. The STAGES podcast is available to access and subscribe from Spotify and Apple podcasts. Or from wherever you access your favourite podcasts. A conversation with creatives about craft and career. Recipient of Best New Podcast at 2019 Australian Podcast Awards. Follow socials on instagram (stagespodcast) and facebook (Stages). www.stagespodcast.com.au

Okay, so you accept sinful behavior from other people, GREAT! Question is, How Much is Enough?

This reading is from the book The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions, available at ContagionPress.com and LittleBlackCart.com. Immediatism.com My other podcast, PointingTexts.org Feedback and requests to Cory@Immediatism.com, and your comment may be shared in a future episode. Donate

Hierarchy 205 - Stupid, Selfish Faggots I dare all faggots to listen to this one! Listen: https://fagsworshipalphas.com/hierarchy-205-stupid-selfish-faggots-2/ iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g Google: t.ly/FBTV

This reading is from the book The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions, available at ContagionPress.com and LittleBlackCart.com. Immediatism.com My other podcast, PointingTexts.org Feedback and requests to Cory@Immediatism.com, and your comment may be shared in a future episode. Donate

This reading is from the book The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions, available at ContagionPress.com and LittleBlackCart.com. Immediatism.com My other podcast, PointingTexts.org Feedback and requests to Cory@Immediatism.com, and your comment may be shared in a future episode. Donate

This reading is from the book The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions, available at ContagionPress.com and LittleBlackCart.com. Immediatism.com My other podcast, PointingTexts.org Feedback and requests to Cory@Immediatism.com, and your comment may be shared in a future episode. Donate

This reading is from the book The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions, available at ContagionPress.com and LittleBlackCart.com. Immediatism.com My other podcast, PointingTexts.org Feedback and requests to Cory@Immediatism.com, and your comment may be shared in a future episode. Donate

Hierarchy 195 - Married Faggots Listen: https://fagsworshipalphas.com/hierarchy-195-married-faggots-2 iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g

Die you GLBT strait dykes, your TVNA stinks you tampon whores --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/steven-lindquist/message

Hierarchy 189 - Alphas In Love With Faggots A very special episode! iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g

Lee Lewis commenced her career as an actor, training at Columbia University in New York. Her performance resumes includes work on and off-Broadway. Upon her return to Australia she completed a Masters of Directing at the National Institute of Dramatic Art.As a director, Lee has forged a stellar career and it is exciting to see that her work on Suzie Miller's incredible Prima Facie helped build an international appetite for this powerful production, which debuts in London next year.Lee has been an outspoken advocate for increased cultural diversity on Australian main stages, and a leading voice for the representation of female directors and playwrights.In 2013 she was appointed Artistic Director at The Griffin Theatre in Sydney, overseeing a vast array of new Australian works. In 2020 she became A.D. of the Queensland Theatre Company; a month in, confronted with the challenge presented by the Covid pandemic and the closure of theatres.Lee's vast resume has seen her directing classic and new work at companies around Australia including the Sydney and Melbourne Theatre Companies and Bell Shakespeare. The theatre she has given vision to includes Our Town, Family Values, First Love is the Revolution, Is There Something Wrong With That Lady?, The Almighty Sometimes, Kill Climate Deniers, Eight Gigabytes of Hardcore Pornography, The Homosexuals or ‘Faggots', The Bleeding Tree, Emerald City, A Rabbit for Kim Jong-il, The Serpent's Table, Silent Disco, Smurf In Wanderland, The Call, A Hoax, The Nightwatchman, The Literati, The Misanthrope, Mary Stuart, Honour, Love-Lies-Bleeding, Hayfever, Rupert; That Face, The School for Wives and Twelfth Night.The STAGES podcast is available from Apple podcasts, Spotify and Whooshkaa. And where you find your favourite podcasts. www.stagespodcast.com.au

Hierarchy 179 - Master Kyler And The Process Of Cunting Faggots iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g

Across three timezones, a quartet of homosexuals gather for a symposium on faggotry. Rio and Matt are joined by Zach Langley Chi Chi from I'm So Popular podcast and Josh from Evil Thespian podcast to talk Faggots, Larry Kramer's seminal book (yes very seminal, and urinal, and fecal). All four plunge into the pit of sexuality to sample the Dionysian extremities of gay sex, and ask important questions, such as: would contemporary gays benefit from a few more Nazi boot orgies?After exploring gay perversity with Kramer, the boys are enveloped by the glossy nightmare that is Finding Prince Charming, Logo TV's homosexual answer to The Bachelor. In it, they experience the true terror of contemporary gay life; the need to be nice, and so socially frictionless you're drained of eros, and also the requirement to replace all your teeth with dental veneers.Join them...if you dare.

Eternally Alive #125. Within Brim's Skin -- Brimstone is joined by his wing man Alex DaPonte as they discuss lots of things including why they got new bling in the studio and how Alex wants to make it into a gold necklace. They discuss Eternal Con and Wyoming's unfortunate cure for AIDS. Brim discusses headline readers and the downfall of Cuomo. Essentially, he explains what gets Within Brim's Skin.

Eternally Alive #125. Within Brim's Skin -- Brimstone is joined by his wing man Alex DaPonte as they discuss lots of things including why they got new bling in the studio and how Alex wants to make it into a gold necklace. They discuss Eternal Con and Wyoming's unfortunate cure for AIDS. Brim discusses headline readers and the downfall of Cuomo. Essentially, he explains what gets Within Brim's Skin.

Eternally Alive #125. Within Brim's Skin -- Brimstone is joined by his wing man Alex DaPonte as they discuss lots of things including why they got new bling in the studio and how Alex wants to make it into a gold necklace. They discuss Eternal Con and Wyoming's unfortunate cure for AIDS. Brim discusses headline readers and the downfall of Cuomo. Essentially, he explains what gets Within Brim's Skin.

Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore is the author of three novels, two memoirs, and the editor of five nonfiction anthologies. Her novels include So Many Ways to Sleep Badly, Pulling Taffy, and Sketchtasy. Her first memoir, The End of San Francisco, won a Lambda Literary Award. Her recent memoir, The Freezer Door, has been longlisted for the 2021 PEN/Jean Stein Book Award. Her most recent anthology, Why are Faggots So Afraid of Faggots?: Flaming Challenges to Masculinity, Objectification, and the Desire to Conform, was an American Library Association Stonewall Honor Book. She recently completed a new anthology, Between Certain Death and a Possible Future: Queer Writing on Growing up with the AIDS Crisis, which will be published in October. Her activism has included ACT UP in the early '90s, Fed Up Queers in the late '90s, Gay Shame, and other unnamed groups. For more Thresholds, visit us at www.thisisthresholds.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Writer and art critic in exile Harry Tafoya joins to find a new way through discussion on Larry Kramer's seminal 1978 masterpiece FAGGOTS and his 2005 speech, THE TRAGEDY OF TODAY'S GAYS, in the continuation of Chi Chi's Pride trilogy. Silence = Death. Scraping narrative from podcasts, mourning the chance to lip-sync, coming close to tears from the blinding light of a dead gay star, moral sexuality, feeling something, Red Scare, Nancy Pelosi and the potential alchemy of a trans party girl into society's last cry for heart. No more Fire Island. No gay people. Nothing But Queer Theory. Zach drinks whiskey and coke. Conversations whirl into the mirror of Twitter micro celebrities — does it mean anything? How can I tell the world more about blowjobs?? Can anyone hear me?? I blame myself. Larry Kramer's final, unfinished play… Follow Harry on Instagram since he deletes his Twitter so often: instagram.com/gaykatemoss And as usual, the I'M SO POPULAR podcast on Twitter: twitter.com/imsopopular impopular.me (S2.E20)

Ooh, a TOP TEN LIST! Here is a list of the top ten things faggots love about Men! iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=28507835&fan_landing=true

Kate Wolf is joined by writer and film critic Nick Pinkerton to discuss his book-length essay on Tsai Ming-liang's film Goodbye, Dragon Inn, which revolves around the final screening at a cinema in Taiwan — on the very day that 300 movie theaters were shuttered across Southern California. The book is both a eulogy and a call to arms for cinema. Kate and Nick share a defiant sadness, revel in memories of the power and meaning they found in a communal space of shared dreams, and wonder how it might be preserved amidst the tyranny of tiny screens and the banality of the bottom line. Also, Sam Cohen, author of the collection of stories Sarahland, drops by to recommend Larry Mitchell's The Faggots and Their Friends Between Revolutions.

This is an interview I did over the phone in 1993 for The Irish Times. I had to take Jon Bon Jovi top task for using the word "faggots" during a stage show, but we also talked about his gay fans, gangs, male bonding, Elvis, Bono, becoming a father and the greatest high of all, he says, finishing writing a song!

In Hierarchy, there is room for affection and love. iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=28507835&fan_landing=true

Can there be benefits from temporarily releasing a faggot from chastity? iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=28507835&fan_landing=true

FAGGOT MEXICAN GANG MEMBERS READING ARMY BOOK ....FAGGOTS

Talent is not what you have ...criminal records

Male Sexuality cannot be defined by who we fuck. iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=28507835&fan_landing=true

This week... Causing offence,Faggots, mash & peas,Over protecting your kids,Kids hitting parents,Biting,Transgender children, Teaching kids to cook,Kids watching scary movies,Arse wiping lessons,Visiting the bum doctor

RAINBOW WARRIORS WE RISE DYKES, BUTCHES, FEMMES, GAYS, FAGGOTS, FAIRIES SLAY TODAY!!!! --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app

Little boys think faggots are worthless, but true Alpha Males know better. iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=28507835&fan_landing=true

Why is domestic service so important to the development of a faggot? iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=28507835&fan_landing=true

Holmberg's Morning Sickness - Thursday July 9, 2020

A new segment from James Lott Jr, The Queer Pages starts off with a controversial book but a controversial man (and hero) Larry Kramer. The book is called Faggots. From 1978....

A new segment from James Lott Jr, The Queer Pages starts off with a controversial book but a controversial man (and hero) Larry Kramer. The book is called Faggots. From 1978....

Two examples, one of great fag behavior, and one of the worst fag behavior. iTunes: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hierarchy-podcast/id1499894426 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/6vGBgVWNinAoD5h03YF5qw?si=sXnZxfrNQYmfoQgwX4Vi_g Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=28507835&fan_landing=true

Hey you should not have touched something associated with my person and name. --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/lordjack/support

Why do faggots leak excessively? Master Nick learned something about this today! Yes, it’s true – this podcast is now on iTunes!! CLICK HERE to go to our iTunes page!! Consider supporting the site! CLICK HERE to go to the Patreon page! Thank you!

He wrote Ken Russell’s Women in Love, geeze, 50 years ago, then wrote plays (The Normal Heart) and novels (Faggots). Amidst the emerging AIDS epidemic, he helped found the Gay Men’s Health Crisis and Act Up. Accomplished, right? Not according to him. “I feel like I failed,” he says.  A life examined.

If you're a faggot, then SUBMIT and SERVE! Your wants and needs do not matter more than the commands of the Man! Yes, it’s true – this podcast is now on iTunes!! CLICK HERE to go to our iTunes page!! Consider supporting the site! CLICK HERE to go to the Patreon page! Thank you!

Todd has some unsettling issues about what he feels that needs to be said. what will Tracie do? And the MTV award winner Missy Elloit.

In 2017 Jack Davis retired from being an office worker, which means that he can now devote as much time as he wants to being a visual artist, a witch and a radical faerie. His most recent visual art show, called FAGGOTS, was at the Center for Sex and Culture in San Francisco in January 2019. In December of 2018 he created the dancers' costumes for Winter Circle X, a ritual/performance piece instigated by Keith Hennessy in collaboration with Snowflake Towers. Episode Highlights Jack tells how he first started studying art and education in college, and then got a masters degree in textiles. He started making crocheted penis shapes as his own way of glorifying sexuality during the sexual revolution of the 70's. He shares the history of the word faggot, and about his exploration and usage of “faggots” in his artwork as part of queer liberation. We discuss the public's response to his art, and how censorship and exclusion of his art has been part of that response. Jack uses performance art and ritual activism, such as in "Faggots around the Labyrinth," in San Francisco prior to the 2016 presidential election to protect queer youth. He gives us a brief history of the Radical Faeries, starting in 1979 with a gathering of gay men who were anti-assimilationist, who believe that gay men are different and have a special purpose. Now Radical Faerie community is co-created in cities and sanctuaries around the world, with gatherings that are open to all gender identities. Jack got involved in '82 and eventually became the treasurer of a local division. He was also part of the support team to care for two of the founding members (Harry Hay and John Burnside) at the end of their lives. He offers his ideas about how and why the Radical Faerie communities have been, and continue to be, so influential in queer culture. Jack shares how he uses pagan prayer beads, which have been a significant part of his spiritual daily practice.   Contact Jack Davis Contact Jack by email here. Visit the Queer Spirit episode page to view some of Jack's art.  

Kate Raphael speaks with writer, Matthilda Bernstein Sycamore, about the new anthology, Why Are Faggots so Afraid of Faggots? Then Preeti Mangala Shekar speaks to Jeff Bucholtz about his documentary film, A Way from Violence. The post Women's Magazine – January 30, 2012 appeared first on KPFA.