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Culture, art, literature, movies, book reviews, cricket, mental health, coffee and coffee houses, astronomy, and anything else in the world not related to sex. |
Culture, art, literature, movies, book reviews, cricket, mental health, coffee and coffee houses, astronomy, and anything else in the world not related to sex. |
It's poetry, collage art, pornographic images, and a treatise on the mystery of the perfect sexual experience
What may get lost or ignored in this book are the multiple collage images. They are psychedelic, rowdy, screaming creations. Each one, always incorporating the pig mask image, as well as pornographic images, these creations are vibrant displays and celebrations of the kind of sexual experience Johnson is working to create. Our western world is so supersaturated with images, film, and sounds of sex that an orgasm has become a cliche. It is always achieved the same way, with tongue or genitals or hands, it is always vanilla, and it never brings with it hyperreal, mind expanding experience. This is what smutpunk is creating. This is what The Book of Pigs is about: creating an orgasm so profound you forget you're a human being with problems, a trivial life, surrounded by boring people. This is about shedding our identities because they are crippling our bodies. We think too much, and that is destroying sex.
I end this with one last quote. When I read Johnson's work, I usually find a phrase or poem that makes my insides go tingly. The first line of this, "I bite her more, feeling her fuck rise" is just perfect. This tiny poem with it's strange word couplings, absence of clarifying punctuation, reads as fucking. This is what fucking, and fucking with great pleasure, is like. It's animal dominance and submission, it's taking sensual pleasure in primitive cum, it's a stuttering description of a present fucking event that cannot be adequately described in language. And it's pretty great.
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