Paris:
I did not overstay my welcome.
so thank you
Hello; there is a poetic voice more adept than mine; smarter and more reptile.
The naivete in mine and the lack of ulterior motive and the potential for these things to bring in pain. Poetic voice or voice poetic? I always seem to be skirting the edge of the right question while earnestly asking the wrong one, but I am getting closer. I am beginning to understand, I am beginning to shed this skin and accept that which I was confronted with.
The hardest thing is to believe; zenzero's voice over time and space, from the past but speaking to my present. The hardest thing is to believe, especially when All Is Wet. Dani man piano hand Dan my head's A ROTA sul serio and help me help myself come back to Assisi's 3 sided revelation.
As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.
this is what you came here for. this is the answer to the unicorn clap in the woods, the covert call for trees to answer back, your direct(if diluted) link with mother nature and the nature of things, the hours in pere lachaise spent speaking to souls and asking for love, guidance and courage, asking them to tell the universe you were waiting -
L'idée que l'on peut se faire en secret de la poésie ne limite pas forcément celle-ci. Mais comme les rêves inavouables elle risque de causer des troubles de mémoire et d'empêcher la formation régulière d'un monde supérieur à celui où l'oubli est utile à la conservation prudente de l'individu.
Il faut effacer le reflet de la personnalité pour que l'inspiration bondisse à tout jamais du miroir. Laissez les influences jouer librement, inventez ce qui a déjà été inventé, ce qui est hors de doute, ce qui est incroyable, donnez à la spontanéité sa valeur pure. Soyez celui à qui l'on parle et qui est entendu. Une seule vision, variée à l'infini.
Le poète est celui qui inspire bien plus que celui qui est inspiré.
Paul Éluard, (Ralentir travaux, 1930)
Yes, I know this itinerary by heart;
(and heart alone)
your water-color eyes, up to down to up again, yes
I know this itinerary by heart
every arch I trace with the hollow of my hand,
you're blossoming forth
blossoming forth
fervid, feverish,
I trace your every agony
back to its skin source
You, feverish, me, gushing, fervidly and
In a dream I stream-line you into open air life,
I burst at your lip to follow the buildup build-down of angles to
the sacred upswing down-swing of your tailbone,
Yes, I know this itinerary by heart;
(this itinerary, dear heart)
I could rationalize us all to a kind of death. If I wanted to. I could, but then I'd be dead too. Not ready yet, not yet.
We see what we can. Then we do with it what we imagine we must. But in all reality and any reality worth speaking of, we simply continuing doing what we CAN and we never get beyond that hump.
Yeah, that one.
Once upon a time, once upon this time I watched this breath dwindle until it became unnoticeable amongst the other aspirations, let's, let's, let us. Forgive me of any and all sophistry because I don't want to mince words any more, I want to speak plainly.
We see what we can, and we do what we imagine we must.
It is the time of the year when night comes to us quicker.
By 8pm we are there.
Once upon a time, once upon this time, we saw what we could, and did what we imagined we must.
It is the time of the year when night comes to us quicker.
By 8pm, we are there.
I am the Golden Man.
though cunts fill for multiple reasons,
the women have no soul.
on the third-take or on the triple-thought,
just another wave of hookers selling themselves out to the previous generation.
Decay;
What im talking about goes further than busting a nut in a 7-11 bathroom, or behind a southside chicago bar
This is no answer, but what it is I am not one to say.
The product of today, become the consumers of tomorrow, all in the name of due process and democracy.
(such a whorish town.)
though cunts fill for multiple reasons,
Theodore Roosevelt did not have this kind of masturbation in mind when he would wrestle live bears in the Oval Office,
Carter doesnt travel to north korea because the switch is sweet.
by the third-take, Decay.
I am the Golden Man.
but Pilgrim, Pilgrim?
that doesn't exist here.
I am I am I am I am I am I am
I am I am I am I am I am I am
I am I am I am I am I am I am
I am I am I am I am I am I am
I am I am I am I am I am I am
I am I am AM I AM I AM I I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I AM I
i am 'the woman', i am she, she is I. Leading character 1.
you are, ' the man', you are him, he is you. Character 2.
misè-en-scene: the same as always 4 walled white and a perversity
the woman, waiting
woman:man, when the woman is suddenly not beautiful to him, when
tongue in cheek-ing is more than the norm and
the woman in the man chase for that attention
chasing, always chasing, " THE WOMAN"
in some sort of infantile refusal to shred the shit as "THE MAN"
does, between breaths, butchered antagonism
because THE WOMAN tried to make THE MAN
'Home"
And it Doesn't Work That Way Around Here, Lady.
a bruised ego is easier to deal with than a bruised soul, so let's go, let's go and
misè-en-scene: the same as always 4 walled white and a perversitythe woman,
THE WOMAN
steps away from THE MAN
THE DROOLING UNTHINKING MAN, SO AS TO AVOID THE POTENTIAL CONTACT WITH
animal TEETH
taking away the hand that
tried? she is,
THE WOMAN,
FIN to FIN again, with another cast
A new Movie with new Scenery
And which doesn't impel the leading lady to projectile vomit
FIN to FIN AGAIN
WOMAN:MAN
My favorite, because it is a wonderful, hilarious, whimsical (and since my grandmother passed last week, tragic) ode to her era femininity. There's something seminally 30s-60s about the collection; seminal in its interpretation but seminal as in playing on those same shapes and colors and codes of feminine that came out loud and clear in the age of domestic wealth, domestically, one salary- age of woman woman the creature being
It's a collection that makes me smile, and makes me imagine my grandmother, a generation past of LADY. There's Florida weekends, debutante soirees with the sorority, there's going steady and there's military boys coming up to come down from the florida base to the hometown near you. when there was such a thing as 'introducing' a woman as a woman into her cultural womb, to be recieved
It is a secret which every intellectual man quickly learns, that, beyond the energy of his possessed and conscious intellect, he is capable of a new energy (as of an intellect doubled on itself), by abandonment to the nature of things; that, beside his privacy of power as an individual man, there is a great public power, on which he can draw, by unlocking, at all risks, his human doors, and suffering the ethereal tides to roll and circulate through him: then he is caught up into the life of the Universe, his speech is thunder, his thought is law, and his words are universally intelligible as the plants and animals. The poet knows that he speaks adequately, then, only when he speaks somewhat wildly, or, "with the flower of the mind;" not with the intellect, used as an organ, but with the intellect released from all service, and suffered to take its direction from its celestial life; or, as the ancients were wont to express themselves, not with intellect alone, but with the intellect inebriated by nectar.
Art is the path of the creator to his work. The paths, or methods, are ideal and eternal, though few men ever see them, not the artist himself for years, or for a lifetime, unless he come into the conditions. The painter, the sculptor, the composer, the epic rhapsodist, the orator, all partake one desire, namely, to express themselves symmetrically and abundantly, not dwarfishly and fragmentarily. They found or put themselves in certain conditions, as, the painter and sculptor before some impressive human figures; the orator, into the assembly of the people; and the others, in such scenes as each has found exciting to his intellect; and each presently feels the new desire. He hears a voice, he sees a beckoning. Then he is apprised, with wonder, what herds of daemons hem him in. He can no more rest; he says, with the old painter, "By God, it is in me, and must go forth of me."
sometimes i wish you heard my unvoix voix without me saying it
and just did something newly impulsive
like come home and draw me a napkin picture
sometimes, i still want to be first as in a primieval primal premier feeling
oh gotta get there
and instead, i am left to my old dreams which are now overworn to fall apart
in the hands, or 4 walled white hells,
and sometimes i wonder if expectations kill it all
and that doesn't sound right, i wish instead.
I AM HERE I AM ME I AM NOT INTERESTING TO YOU
crackle
candle out
and there was something interesting in the WHY of it
i am alone, in lone animate
and i am sick of ringing phones and ALWAYS BEING THE WAITING ONE THE ONE WAITING
i gotta pull so hard from your source I rip,
leI guess.
no more one way convos
i cant want that ibn a way which doesn't want me
VOID OF THE VOIX POST VIVANTE
I say the profoundest service that poems or any other writings can do for their reader is not merely to satisfy the intellect, or supply something polish'd and interesting, nor even to depict great passions, or persons or events, but to fill him with vigorous and clean manliness, religiousness, and give him good heart as a radical possession and habit.
Walt Whitman
O Me! O Life! Walt Whitman
O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
| The proper way to eat a fig, in society, |
| Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump, |
| And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower. |
| Then you throw away the skin |
| Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx, |
| After you have taken off the blossom, with your lips. |
| But the vulgar way |
| Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite. |
| Every fruit has its secret. |
| The fig is a very secretive fruit. |
| As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic : |
| And it seems male. |
| But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is female. |
| The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part ; the fig-fruit : |
| The fissure, the yoni, |
| The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre. |
| Involved, |
| Inturned, |
| The flowering all inward and womb-fibrilled ; |
| And but one orifice. |
| The fig, the horse-shoe, the squash-blossom. |
| Symbols. |
| There was a flower that flowered inward, womb-ward ; |
| Now there is a fruit like a ripe womb. |
| It was always a secret. |
| That’s how it should be, the female should always be secret. |
| There never was any standing aloft and unfolded on a bough |
| Like other flowers, in a revelation of petals ; |
| Silver-pink peach, venetian green glass of medlars and sorb-apples, |
| Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems |
| Openly pledging heaven : |
| Here’s to the thorn in flower ! Here is to Utterance ! |
| The brave, adventurous rosaceæ. |
| Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable, |
| And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta, |
| Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won’t taste it ; |
| Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman, |
| Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen, |
| One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light ; |
| Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward, |
| Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness, |
| Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilization, and fruiting |
| In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see |
| Till it’s finished, and you’re over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost. |
| Till the drop of ripeness exudes, |
| And the year is over. |
| And then the fig has kept her secret long enough. |
| So it explodes, and you see through the fissure the scarlet. |
| And the fig is finished, the year is over. |
| That’s how the fig dies, showing her crimson through the purple slit |
| Like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day. |
| Like a prostitute, the bursten fig, making a show of her secret. |
| That’s how women die too. |
| The year is fallen over-ripe, |
| The year of our women. |
| The year of our women is fallen over-ripe. |
| The secret is laid bare. |
| And rottenness soon sets in. |
| The year of our women is fallen over-ripe. |
| When Eve once knew in her mind that she was naked |
| She quickly sewed fig-leaves, and sewed the same for the man. |
| She’d been naked all her days before, |
| But till then, till that apple of knowledge, she hadn’t had the fact on her mind. |
| She got the fact on her mind, and quickly sewed fig-leaves. |
| And women have been sewing ever since. |
| But now they stitch to adorn the bursten fig, not to cover it. |
| They have their nakedness more than ever on their mind, |
| And they won’t let us forget it. |
| Now, the secret |
| Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips |
| That laugh at the Lord’s indignation. |
| What then, good Lord ! cry the women. |
| We have kept our secret long enough. |
| We are a ripe fig. |
| Let us burst into affirmation. |
| They forget, ripe figs won’t keep. |
| Ripe figs won’t keep. |
| Honey-white figs of the north, black figs with scarlet inside, of the south. |
| Ripe figs won’t keep, won’t keep in any clime. |
| What then, when women the world over have all bursten into affirmation ? |
| And bursten figs won’t keep ? |
