― dan bunnybrain (dan bunnybrain), Thursday, 2 February 2006 17:25 (eighteen years ago) link
― dan bunnybrain (dan bunnybrain), Thursday, 2 February 2006 17:29 (eighteen years ago) link
― dan bunnybrain (dan bunnybrain), Thursday, 2 February 2006 17:43 (eighteen years ago) link
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Thursday, 2 February 2006 18:33 (eighteen years ago) link
― Aimless (Aimless), Thursday, 2 February 2006 18:59 (eighteen years ago) link
― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Friday, 3 February 2006 00:14 (eighteen years ago) link
There is just something about it—standing here in nothing but my gunbelt—that I like.
Ron Koertge
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Friday, 3 February 2006 03:56 (eighteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Friday, 3 February 2006 07:25 (eighteen years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Saturday, 4 February 2006 14:57 (eighteen years ago) link
dont want to take anything away from you
something you worked so hard to build to
yur an aligator in the sewer
This is good I think! I also really like the Housman and Cummings.
― Gravel Puzzleworth (Gregory Henry), Saturday, 4 February 2006 15:19 (eighteen years ago) link
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Saturday, 4 February 2006 15:58 (eighteen years ago) link
E detto l’ho perché doler ti debbia!Inferno, xxiv, 151
Snow coming in parallel to the street,a cab spinning its tires (a rising whinelike a domestic argument, and thenthe words get said that never get forgot),
slush and back-up runoff waters at eachcorner, clogged buses smelling of wet wool...The acrid anger of the homeless swellslike wet rice. This slop is where I live, bitch,
a sogged panhandler shrieks to whom it mayconcern. But none of us slows down for scorn;there’s someone’s misery in all we earn.But like a bur in a dog’s coat his rage
has borrowed legs. We bring it home. It liveslike kin among the angers of the house,and leaves the same sharp zinc taste in the mouth:And I have told you this to make you grieve.
—William Matthews
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Saturday, 4 February 2006 20:04 (eighteen years ago) link
― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Sunday, 5 February 2006 14:42 (eighteen years ago) link
A Czeck museum,Skewered on the pointOf a Krupina policeman's bayonetteLike a pearl onion on a shish-ka-bob.The policeman, who was beatingHis horse,Swapped his lifeFor Pepek's eye, a poor trade.
...
― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Sunday, 5 February 2006 14:49 (eighteen years ago) link
Within this black hive to-nightThere swarm a million bees;Bees passing in and out the moon,Bees escaping out the moon,Bees returning through the moon,Silver bees intently buzzing,Silver honey dripping from the swarm of beesEarth is a waxen cell of the world comb,And I, a drone,Lying on my back,Lipping honey,Getting drunk with silver honey,Wish that I might fly out past the moonAnd curl forever in some far-off farmyard flower.
--Jean Toomer
― j c (j c), Sunday, 5 February 2006 15:29 (eighteen years ago) link
"Even"
Nothingis sorrysamenessa trap calledno dream remembered.
There are no iron creasesin the mind's coatno past season's shelteragainst tonight's rainevery stainthe samesin of unlonginglyingpouringlike windless brown ragsof summer fallingaway from the trees.
--Audre Lorde.
― j c (j c), Sunday, 5 February 2006 15:34 (eighteen years ago) link
― scott seward (scott seward), Sunday, 5 February 2006 17:38 (eighteen years ago) link
― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Sunday, 5 February 2006 17:49 (eighteen years ago) link
― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Monday, 6 February 2006 00:08 (eighteen years ago) link
Thanne schel I flitteFrom bedde to flore,From flore to here,From here to bere,From bere to pitte,And te pitt fordit.Thanne lyd mine hus uppe mine nose.Of al this world ne give I it a pese.
- Anonymous Middle English Poem -
The above translates as:
When my eyes fog over,And my hearing sizzles [hisses],And my nose gets cold,And my tongue folds up,And my face slackensAnd my lips blacken,And my mouth grins,And my spittle runs,And my hair rises,And my heart trembles,And my hands shake,And my feet grow stiff -All too late! All too late!When the bier is at the gate.
Then I shall flitFrom bed to floor,From floor to shroud [hair shirt]From shroud to bier,From bier to pit [grave],And the pit closed up.Then my house rest upon my nose.As for the world, it won't be worth a pea.
...And you thought Mondays were bad!
― Aimless (Aimless), Monday, 6 February 2006 06:23 (eighteen years ago) link
― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Monday, 6 February 2006 19:19 (eighteen years ago) link
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Monday, 6 February 2006 23:35 (eighteen years ago) link
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Tuesday, 7 February 2006 01:41 (eighteen years ago) link
Mingus in Diaspora
You could say, I suppose, that he ate his way out,like the prisoner who starts a tunnel with a spoon,or you could say he was one in whom nothing was lost,who took it all in, or that he was big as a bus.He would say, and he did, in one of those blurredmelismatic slaloms his sentences ran—for allthe music was in his speech: swift switches of tempo,stop-time, double time (he could talk in 6/8),“I just ruined my body.” And there, Exhibit A,it stood, the Parthenon of fat, the tenant voicelifted, as we say, since words are a weight, and music.Silence is lighter than air, for the air we knowrises but to the edge of the atmosphere.You have to pick up The Bass, as Mingus calledhis, with audible capitals, and think of the slow yearsthe wood spent as a tree, which might well have beenenough for wood, and think of the skill the bassmakercarried without great thought of it from hometo the shop and back for decades, and knowwhat bassists before you have played, and knowhow much of this is stored in The Bass like energyin a spring and know how much you must coax out.How easy it would be, instead, to pull a swordfrom a stone. But what?s inside the bass wants out,the way one day you will. Religious stories are richin symmetry. You must release as much of this hoardas you can, little by little, in perfect time,as the work of the body becomes a body of work.
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Tuesday, 7 February 2006 01:43 (eighteen years ago) link
Go, bring back the worthless stick.“Of memory,” I almost added.But she wouldn?t understand, naturally.There is the word and the thingadhering. So far so good.Metaphor, drawer of drafting tools—spill it on the study floor, animal says,that we might at least seehow an expensive ruler tastes.Yesterday I pissed and barked and atebecause that's what waking means.Thus has God solved timefor me—here, here. What you callmemory is a long and sweet,delicious crack of wood in my teethI bring back and bring back and bring back.
—Jeffrey Skinner
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Thursday, 9 February 2006 03:57 (eighteen years ago) link
Letting his wisdom be the whole of love,The father tiptoes out, backwards. A gleamFalls on the child awake and wearied of,
Then, as the door clicks shut, is snuffed. The glove-Gray afterglow appalls him. It would seemThat letting wisdom be the whole of love
Were pastime even for the bitter groveOutside, whose owl's white hoot of disesteemFalls on the child awake and wearied of.
He lies awake in pain, he does not move,He will not scream. Any who heard him screamWould let their wisdom be the whole of love.
People have filled the room he lies above.Their talk, mild variation, chilling theme,Falls on the child. Awake and wearied of
Mere pain, mere wisdom also, he would haveAll the world waking from its winter dream,Letting its wisdom be. The whole of loveFalls on the child awake and wearied of.
-- James Merrill --
― Aimless (Aimless), Tuesday, 14 February 2006 01:49 (eighteen years ago) link
The moon slides outand after itthe bone slides out
The stars stop in the darkand arrange themselves
To love someone nowis to sail the ship away in the bottle
To love someone nowis to understand howthe diamond is formedunder great pressure
See how it works
The night falls firstabove the shadows
The heart slides outand after itthe beast slides out
To love someone nowis to close one handand open the other
To love someone nowis to understand that the sun burns itself upfor light
--Beau Beausoleil
― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Tuesday, 14 February 2006 03:16 (eighteen years ago) link
When I come down to sleep death's endless night,The threshold of the unknown dark to cross,What to me then will be the keenest loss,When this bright world blurs on my fading sight?Will it be that no more I shall see the treesOr smell the flowers or hear the singing birdsOr watch the flashing streams or patient herds?No, I am sure it will be none of these.
But, ah! Manhattan's sights and sounds, her smells,Her crowds, her throbbing force, the thrill that comesFrom being of her a part, her subtle spells,Her shining towers, her avenues, her slums--O God! the stark, unutterable pity,To be dead, and never again behold my city!
--James Weldon Johnson
― Sterling Clover (s_clover), Wednesday, 15 February 2006 16:39 (eighteen years ago) link
When I throw back my head and howlPeople (women mostly) sayBut you've always done what you want,You always get your own way— A perfectly vile and foulInversion of all that's been.What the old ratbags meanIs I've never done what I don't.
So the shit in the shuttered chateauWho does his five hundred wordsThen parts out the rest of the dayBetween bathing and booze and birdsIs far off as ever, but soIs that spectacled schoolteaching sod(six kids and the wife in pod,And her parents coming to stay)...
Life is an immobile, locked,Three-handed struggle betweenYour wants, the world's for you, and (worse)The unbeatable slow machineThat brings what you'll get. Blocked,They strain round a hollow stasisOf havings-to, fear, faces.Days sift down it constantly. Years.
—Philip Larkin
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Friday, 17 February 2006 03:31 (eighteen years ago) link
THE SENDER OF THIS POSTCARD IS SECRETLY(STILL) UNSURE OF YOUR WORTHAS (EITHER) A FRIEND OR AHUMAN BEING. YOU COCKSUCKER.
—Ted Berrigan
― Casuistry (Chris P), Friday, 17 February 2006 08:36 (eighteen years ago) link
Uh, a cloudy, chilly, and brisk day, uh, temperature this afternoon will only be in the forties, the wind will still be gusting to about twenty miles an hour. There can be a bit of drizzle, there can be a bit of rain, the same goes for tonight, and on into tomorrow morning. After that we do look for a slow improvement, the sky brightens tomorrow afternoon, the sun may come out, temperatures get into the fifties, and then Easter Sunday looks OK, mixed clouds and sun, the sunrise temperature about forty-five, the afternoon high on Sunday should be in the sixties. Right now, though, it's thirty-eight and cloudy in Central Park, humidity at ninety-two percent, wind from the east, gusting to twenty-one miles an hour. Repeating the current temperature thirty-eight, going up to forty-eight today.
― Casuistry (Chris P), Friday, 17 February 2006 08:40 (eighteen years ago) link
from The Maniac Box, #17
I have prepared a smile formula from ten-thousand distortions | alertness in laboratory animals | unfortunately terrorizing the local rock n' rollers was a way of life in that town | the wiggling blue made me twist like crazy | he puts a cat brain into an angel and has spirit orgasms | I extended my hand with the meat cupped in it | the smell at the sink trap at the old janitor's basin | Yukiko was more valuable—she could get the unkown world to smash ITSELF up | I read that book last | Soviet said no | beating the kid from the foot up | I decided it's up to things to come in threes don't force it | the company turns out to class—prayer class | superachiever, pg. 298 | the pill had snoopy on it playing a saxophone | hours spent looking straight through my own hand | some very good magazines have only 8 pages | every dog | the side effects are mild except for the crazies
—C.E. Putnam
― Casuistry (Chris P), Friday, 17 February 2006 08:45 (eighteen years ago) link
a lil' pill, Calliope
Clap ice, opal peaceOPEC oil papal lapelOPP cloacal pee-pee à loo
A PC pet per clip lapsLos poco loco copsLocal police ape PLO pep
A pale caller leapCapo a cola allelePoplar calla lei, a lossPec elope, a polar cape
—Lee Ann Brown
― Casuistry (Chris P), Friday, 17 February 2006 08:50 (eighteen years ago) link
Will you please?and have it delivered like a pineapple todaynot yesterday's pineapple but really I would prefera daily pineapple if you can arrange it I meanwith a telegram not always a telegram a yearlyone will be sure if it reaches meif first it goes on an air land and later comesto me by foot I will like it better than a telegramread to me over a telephone I would like thisnew and fresh telegram to arrive with an old-fashioned person dressed in a delivery suitthe words will be so contemporary so avant-gardeit being you who shall send it but I can discardthat idea I should like an ordinary person to delivermy telegram not necessarily in a delivery-suit onemust respect tastes and not parenthesize them astelegrams do not risk punctuation and my joy inreceiving your words hardly needs embellishmentI almost forgot oh genuine you of delicious pineapplesthank you in advance as you have always wished.
—Barbara Guest [RIP]
― Casuistry (Chris P), Saturday, 18 February 2006 08:42 (eighteen years ago) link
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Monday, 20 February 2006 02:16 (eighteen years ago) link
Eit almost twelve
oh it is twelve
all the creatures are comin' out
(le)jazzsimple
actually it's the drummer
ECharlie?
how else would theyknow where they were
he'sbettern ametronome
butthenthey'resongswithoutanything butinstrumentation
that sounds like Dylanunder some funny ('funky'?)echoing cover
this one is actuallyreally good
we gotta get amachineEmily though
Emilysaid BobDylan saidto Mick Jagger
'Icould've writtenSatisfaction but youcould never have writtenTambourine Man'
it said in Rolling StonesoSister Morphine
EI should'vemarriedKeith Richard
instead of Mick?
Keith Richardis starting toovershadow Mick
do you think theydo it with each other
EI hope so they'rea group
I didn't know Keith Richardcould sing
Oh
I didn't know Mick could sing
CharlieWatts
that's a littlebitfaster
just alittlebit
you see the drummer controls it etc.
it produces a different dream ineverybody ittouches
can you hear the words in this
did it say Daniel Boone
ENoI don'tthink
'click click'
is it over
or play it again
Eshd think of thepeople next door what ifthey came in andsmelled it
there's part of thisrecord can't be playedon this machine
I'd really like to hear that somewhere
sometime
'poor'rhymes with'low'?
gee I like it
don't you(despite)
EI like it best
should send it toRolling Stone
probably too squaretoo 'straight'
Esend it toErma Bombeck
are you really tired of this
huh?
'buttonedyr lip?'
Barbie BoobieBarbie BoobieBarbie BoobieBarbie Boobie
'how come ya dance so good'
Edon't you feelcozy towardKeith
I feel cozytoward the whole group
that's too much / just the same old Stones
let's go to bed Emily
E not yet
EI'm afinishmy green
that guitar is justsoso good
it'sdisgustingly good
like Keith Richard
somebodyshould give them
some reward
this is theflip side
that's like some sort ofathleticmarathon forthedrummer
oddabum
stealin' thetrumpets from
James Brown
what a bruiser
EI adore her
Ewhen we're over to Janet's Janet's motherreads it aloud to us
EI wasyoung once
you were?
E in the endshe disappears into the weedsor he does
it's two o'clock
we got to go to bed Emily
people are going tobe here tomorrow at twelve
Eremember when you used toactuallyit didn't get really good untilaround Revolver
around 1965
cucacucaracha
Desi Arnaz
EOzzieNelson
trash
to dance to
come &get in Emily
Ebring it in
― tom west (thomp), Monday, 20 February 2006 19:19 (eighteen years ago) link
(oops)
― tom west (thomp), Monday, 20 February 2006 19:20 (eighteen years ago) link
Shall I compare thee, China, to Peru?That is no country! Amid the alien corn., The woods' decay, the yielding place to new,The old order changeth: blow his wreathed horn!They that have power to (men, lend me your ears!)Could to my sight that plods his weary wayRage, rage against the lie too deep for tears, The feathered glory of an April day.That's my last Duchess dying of the light -Put out the light and gaze toward paradise,A thing of beauty loved not at first sight(The uncertain glory from her loosening thighs...)Something there is that is a joy forever.Friends, "Romans", country? Never, never, never.
― tom west (thomp), Monday, 20 February 2006 19:23 (eighteen years ago) link
(gah)
― Casuistry (Chris P), Monday, 20 February 2006 19:51 (eighteen years ago) link
― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Monday, 20 February 2006 23:59 (eighteen years ago) link
http://www.albany.edu/~litmag/resources/images/work/2005/grenier/01.gif
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 21 February 2006 00:53 (eighteen years ago) link
there should be a barbara guest thread in light of recent news
― kenchen, Tuesday, 21 February 2006 02:05 (eighteen years ago) link
I have had Guest on my "to read" list for ages, and perhaps I should finally get around to being more familiar with her. The telegram poem I copied from a friend's blog.
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 21 February 2006 06:57 (eighteen years ago) link
(Also influenced by weather reports)
"Our sex is a toy weather. It is the clear, magnificent, misunderstood morning; we pick up the connections. Toy weathers mean less than we assume. IT is the regular dripping of twigs; we deal with technical problems. It is too strange for sorrow; we tried to make the past. It leaves behind fragments; we repeat the embarrassment. It screams sensation; we must be vast and blank. It seems moister; the web bing folds. It strives to pierce the fog which shuts the view; we flow through the loops. We duck into the tink." etc.
― kenchen, Tuesday, 21 February 2006 13:32 (eighteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 21 February 2006 16:40 (eighteen years ago) link
― kenchen, Tuesday, 21 February 2006 16:50 (eighteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 21 February 2006 17:11 (eighteen years ago) link
A Day Unlike Any Other
When Rutherford B. Hayes comes to town,Squirrels are charmed out of the eaves.The editor breaks down and sobs.It's a rare day. So rare we almost want it back.But we give it to Mr. Hayes, the manElected by the skin of his teeth.We honor his teeth. We wish he were king.We live in a different world, the right world,The world of mules and Rutherford B. Hayes.Our inventory of beards has been replenished.His unrecorded remarks fill the air.It's impossible to breathe, without breathingThe ether around him. He's the world'sSlowest speaker. He addressed us yesterday,And look here, he addresses us today.Our township rises on his tide.The police sleep the sleep of the innocent;The river is sweet, the catfish mighty.
James Haug
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Thursday, 23 February 2006 00:13 (eighteen years ago) link
― Aimless (Aimless), Sunday, 25 June 2006 13:54 (seventeen years ago) link
― Sterling Clover (s_clover), Monday, 26 June 2006 00:37 (seventeen years ago) link
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Monday, 26 June 2006 00:39 (seventeen years ago) link
"I have exciting news for you and all Webbs." — Miles. S. Webb
The brochure shows a boat passing the Statue of Libertywhile its cargo of immigrants stand gaping,and one small boy — dressed better than the rest —watches from a director's chair. He,obviously, is the Webb. Simple but aristocratic.Poor, but destined for greatness. Set apart
from the Smiths and Joneses, the Rothblattsand Steins, the Schmidts and Hampys, the Mancusosand Malvinos and Mendozas and Tatsuisand Chus, by "the distinguished Webb name."Excitement steams from Miles S. Webb's letter to me.The very type leaps up and down. Just buy
his book, and I will learn (I'm guessing)about Thomas Webb, famous for his kipperedherring jokes, and Dan Webb of the talking armpits,and Genevieve Webb, convinced her leftand right feet were reversed. I'll learn the inside storyof Solomon Webb, Dover's greatest circus geek,
and Lady Messalina Webb, transported to Australiawith her husband, Sir Caleb Webb,son of the merkin-maker Jemmie Webb of Kent.Best of all, inside the bonus Webb International Directory,one among 104,352 Webb households in the world,there I'll be: the very Webb who woke this morning
at 5:53 when his new sprinklers ratcheted onwith the screech of strangled grebes — the Webbwho lolled in bed, loving the artificial rain, then crackedhis drapes and saw fat drops annoint his porch,and a hummingbird light on a hair-thin twig,then buzz away when the sprinklers hissed off.
The lawn lay drinking, then — each bladewith its own history, each listed in the Book of Heaven(Grandma Webb from Yorkshire used to say),each destined to be cut later this morning by José,one of 98,998 people to bear (his letter states)the "brave and glory-dripping name Cortez."
Charles Harper WebbAmplified DogRed Hen Press
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Sunday, 2 July 2006 23:54 (seventeen years ago) link
― Beth Parker (Beth Parker), Sunday, 2 July 2006 23:59 (seventeen years ago) link
Country Song For Fuck You
There are things that are trueAnd there are things that are coolEverything's interesting when still in schoolEverything's right when nothing moves
Some trains you relay back andSome trains you loop round the trackSome trains you walk away fromAnd trains you close right goddamn down
There are things worth doingand things because fuck youStories with a thousand endingsand stories you'll clutch when you're through
Yeah theres this and that babeand viewpoints I guess you can seeand there's some shit that ain't absolutebut it's still eternal enough for me
― Sterling Clover (s_clover), Sunday, 9 July 2006 02:51 (seventeen years ago) link
Hometown
There are no stars in my home town tonight.Erased as the past has been, withonlythe smudge of their memoryremaining.
There is not sky in my home town tonight.Blackness has coated the housesleavingimpressions of lives in theemptystreets.
There is no air in my home town tonight -And there need not be.Exodus is not an exaggerationand thos leftno longer breathe.
There is nothing in my home town tonight.There is no more reason.
― Sara R-C (Sara R-C), Sunday, 9 July 2006 04:32 (seventeen years ago) link
The desert stretches out in copper ruststar-blossoms travel in the river's streammy mouth is bitter with the taste of dustmy eyes too dry to dream
Alight upon this gold encrusted breast;fold your enamel wingsunder the lettered scarab, rest,for darkness brings
Jackal and robber to the gleam of gold,give me but one more nightto lie among my toys these tomb walls hold,take flight,
when in the East you see the green day breakflooding the waking trees with living light -return, enamelled bird, do not forsakethis dust-dry frame tonight.
-- C.A. Trypanis
― eyeless in gazza (Phil A), Sunday, 9 July 2006 20:35 (seventeen years ago) link
Giant whispering and coughing from Vast Sunday-full and organ-frowned-on spaces Precede a sudden scuttle on the drum, 'The Queen', and a huge resettling. Then begins A snivel on the violins: I think of your face among all those faces,
Beautiful and devout before Cascades of monumental slithering, One of your gloves unnoticed on the floor Beside those new, slightly outmoded shoes. Here it goes quickly dark. I lose All but the outline of the still and withering
Leaves on half-emptied trees. Behind The glowing wavebands, rabid storms of chording By being distant overpower my mind All the more shamelessly, their cut-off shout Leaving me desperate to pick out Your hands, tiny in all that air, applauding.
-- Philip Larkin
― eyeless in gazza (Phil A), Sunday, 9 July 2006 20:44 (seventeen years ago) link
8.
Your lover sitsdejectedscratching figures in the dirt outside.Your friends won't eattheir eyes are swollen from crying.There's no silly chatter from thehousehold parrotsand you're a wreck.Stubborn girl, isn't ittime to quit sulking?
40.
With dark eyesnot blue lotusshe fashions a welcome garland.Petals she strews --not various species of jasminebut smiles.Water she offers from ripesweating breastsrather than cermonial jars.With only her own bodyshe makes for herlover apropitious arrival.
69.
Tilted his headwhen she cast a vine-knottedbrow at her rival.Saluted and stood abstractly offwhen somebody noticed.Her cheeks flashed like copper.He stared at her feet.Yet in front of the parents theymanaged to keep upappearances.
-- Poems traditionally attributed to the poet, Amaru --
― Aimless (Aimless), Wednesday, 16 August 2006 17:37 (seventeen years ago) link
― tom west (thomp), Wednesday, 16 August 2006 17:55 (seventeen years ago) link
― Matt (Matt), Wednesday, 16 August 2006 20:47 (seventeen years ago) link
For My Lover, Returning to His Wifeby Anne Sexton
She is all there.She was melted carefully down for youand cast up from your childhood,cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.She is, in fact, exquisite.Fireworks in the dull middle of Februaryand as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let's face it, I have been momentary.A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.My hair rising like smoke from the car window.Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,has grown you your practical your tropical growth.This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,sat by the potter's wheel at midday,set forth three children under the moon,three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread outin the terrible months in the chapel.If you glance up, the children are therelike delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hallafter supper, their heads privately bent,two legs protesting, person to person,her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.I give you permission --
for the fuse inside her, throbbingangrily in the dirt, for the bitch in herand the burying of her wound --for the burying of her small red wound alive --
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,for the mother's knee, for the stocking,for the garter belt, for the call --
the curious call when you will burrow in arms and breastsand tug at the orange ribbon in her hairand answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular.She is the sum of yourself and your dream.Climb her like a monument, step after step.She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.I wash off.
― Sara R-C (Sara R-C), Friday, 18 August 2006 04:02 (seventeen years ago) link
― sandy mc (sandy mc), Monday, 21 August 2006 11:08 (seventeen years ago) link
― Jaq (Jaq), Wednesday, 6 September 2006 20:53 (seventeen years ago) link
IOW, she wants Casuistry! Let us plan our campaign to bring this to pass.
― Aimless (Aimless), Wednesday, 6 September 2006 23:20 (seventeen years ago) link
A Riddle
I am not a picket fence,And I am not a perfect bore,And I am not pure ignorance,And I am not a bloody war,
But I am always making sense,By making like a picket fence,And making like a perfect bore,And making like pure ignorance,And making like a bloody war.
Say my name, which I adore.
― Aimless (Aimless), Wednesday, 11 October 2006 13:33 (seventeen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Thursday, 12 October 2006 02:05 (seventeen years ago) link
― I'm Passing Open Windows (Ms Laura), Thursday, 12 October 2006 04:35 (seventeen years ago) link
To Be Written on the Mirror in Whitewash I live only here, between your eyes and you, But I live in your world. What do I do? --Collect no interest--otherwise what I can; Above all I am not that staring man.
― gypsy mothra (gypsy mothra), Thursday, 12 October 2006 07:54 (seventeen years ago) link
Last Stand of the Unknown Shipping Clerk
The man was slim and slightly stoopedOn the sidewalk of the sodden street.His mask-like face, as clamped by irons;Toned sepia and scored by dust,Whispered faint scatters of confettiInto the horizontal rain.
It seemed that he could scarcely standThe weather seeped into his skin.As I passed him on my way to work,Some citizens had gathered round.When I returned at half-past fiveHe lay in pulp upon the ground.
Save for his crumpled trilby hat;A name inside, under the brim.But as I stopped to take a look,A dustcart drove away with him.
― Ben Dot (1977), Thursday, 12 October 2006 08:50 (seventeen years ago) link
― Aimless (Aimless), Thursday, 12 October 2006 18:45 (seventeen years ago) link
the piling up of figurements and entanglements could proceed fromthe tiny working of the small, if persistent, faculty: as if theworld could be brought to flow by and take the bent of
that single bend: and immediately flip over into the mirrored worldof permanence, another place trans-shaped with knackery: a brook inthe mind that will eventually glitter away the seas:"
A.R. Ammons - Sphere
― bnw (bnw), Wednesday, 18 October 2006 06:45 (seventeen years ago) link
Paul Celan: Death Fugue
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundownwe drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at nightwe drink it and drink itwe dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfinedA man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writeshe writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margaretehe writes it ans steps out of doors and the stars are flashing he whistles his pack outhe whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a gravehe commands us strike up for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightwe drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at sundownwe drink and we drink youA man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writeshe writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margareteyour ashen hair Sulamith we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined
He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you others sing now and playhe grabs at teh iron in his belt he waves it his eyes are bluejab deper you lot with your spades you others play on for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightwe drink you at at noon in the morning we drink you at sundownwe drink and we drink youa man lives in the house your golden hair Margareteyour ashen hair Sulamith he plays with the serpentsHe calls out more sweetly play death death is a master from Germanyhe calls out more darkly now stroke your strings then as smoke you will rise into airthen a grave you will have in the clouds there one lies unconfined
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightwe drink you at noon death is a master from Germanywe drink you at sundown and in the morning we drink and we drink youdeath is a master from Germany his eyes are bluehe strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is truea man lives in the house your golden hair Margaretehe sets his pack on to us he grants us a grave in the airHe plays with the serpents and daydreams death is a master from Germany
your golden hair Margareteyour ashen hair Shulamith
― Matt (Matt), Wednesday, 18 October 2006 08:50 (seventeen years ago) link
The buzzard never says it is to blame.The panther wouldn't know what scruples mean.When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame.If snakes had hands, they'd claim their hands were clean.
A jackal doesn't understand remorse.Lions and lice don't waver in their course.Why should they, when they know they're right?
Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton,in every other way they're light.
On this third planet of the sunamong the signs of bestialitya clear conscience is Number One.
― bnw (bnw), Saturday, 18 November 2006 18:38 (seventeen years ago) link
I met up on a small Yeats poem yesterday.
A Poet to his Beloved
I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams; White woman that passion has worn As the tide wears the dove-gray sands, And with heart more old than the horn That is brimmed from the pale fire of time: White woman with numberless dreams I bring you my passionate rhyme.
― Arethusa (Arethusa), Saturday, 18 November 2006 23:14 (seventeen years ago) link