(no subject)
why won't you recognize how psychedelic I am, and love me?
belle and sebastian at benaroya on october 20th!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
The Quick and the Dead Separated Paul Eluard as translated by Marilyn Kallet
The quick and the dead separated I stumbled
on a tomb on a body
which barely lifts the earth
on a body of which I was constructed
on the mouth which spoke to me
and on the eyes rotten with all virtues
my hands my feet were hers
and my desires and my poems were hers
i stumbled on her gaiety on her kindness
which now have the rigors of her skeleton
my love is more and more concrete it is buried
and not elsewhere i imagine its odor
my love my little one my grown of odors
you had nothing but nothing to do with death
your skull had not known the night of time
my mayfly listen i am there i accompany you
I speak our language to you it is minimal and goes suddenly
from bring sun to bright sun and we die to be living
listing this is our dog this is our house
this is our bed here and those who love us
all the products of our heart of our blood
and of ourselves and of our dreams
i forget nothing of those birds of large species
who guide us who carry us off
and who make holes in the blue
like volcanoes in the middle of the earth
my daughter my boy my little mother and little father
this evening my poem might have distracted you
with precise words that you are proud to understand
with the sudden stops of reversals
and lively sables of coquetry
and the flabbergasting foam of the sea
and reminiscence and noxious forgetfulness
my living body charming my reason my unreason
my seduction my solitude my pleasure and my suffering
my modesty and my pride my perversion and my merit
you so small and shattered perfect and pure
similar to a glass of water that will forever be drunk
I do not sleep I fell I stumbled on you absence
I am without fire without strength near you
I am the underside of the animal I cling
to our fall to our ruin
I am beneath your remains
I aspire to your nothingness I would like to see my forehead
Like a stone far in the earth
like a boat dissolved in wather
my little one who nevertheless engendered me in a storm
converted me into a man and loved me like a sage
my voice has no echo I am ashamed to speak
I suffer forever from your silence o my love.
best book I've read this year = A People's History of the United States
best movie I've seen this year (seen in my life) = Z
I don't think I can deal with sexploitation anymore. This is the most serious day of my life, and I am not afraid to stare you down, old man in front of me in the video rental store taking home pornography while trying to talk to me.
I've stopped believing in the leaders of this country, and I am very happy with this decision.
"I love each distinct moment of my visit, but I love each so much and the love so much coheres that I am compelled to wish I could feel it all at once- one thwack across the mind. If I had my way, my life would be a happy succession of such thwacks and I'd be the tight reeling that comes just after and begins slowly to lose itself, and to crave another good maker. But I can't even get one good thwack."
Writing in here has become like a habit. It's good for me though, I think. I'm listening to The Clientele, its so good to listen to at times, because of his wintry voice, and the sensation they are functioning inside this perfect sphere where all that happens is footprints in snow (over and over again. Familiar?).
belle and sebastian at benaroya on october 20th!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
The Quick and the Dead Separated Paul Eluard as translated by Marilyn Kallet
The quick and the dead separated I stumbled
on a tomb on a body
which barely lifts the earth
on a body of which I was constructed
on the mouth which spoke to me
and on the eyes rotten with all virtues
my hands my feet were hers
and my desires and my poems were hers
i stumbled on her gaiety on her kindness
which now have the rigors of her skeleton
my love is more and more concrete it is buried
and not elsewhere i imagine its odor
my love my little one my grown of odors
you had nothing but nothing to do with death
your skull had not known the night of time
my mayfly listen i am there i accompany you
I speak our language to you it is minimal and goes suddenly
from bring sun to bright sun and we die to be living
listing this is our dog this is our house
this is our bed here and those who love us
all the products of our heart of our blood
and of ourselves and of our dreams
i forget nothing of those birds of large species
who guide us who carry us off
and who make holes in the blue
like volcanoes in the middle of the earth
my daughter my boy my little mother and little father
this evening my poem might have distracted you
with precise words that you are proud to understand
with the sudden stops of reversals
and lively sables of coquetry
and the flabbergasting foam of the sea
and reminiscence and noxious forgetfulness
my living body charming my reason my unreason
my seduction my solitude my pleasure and my suffering
my modesty and my pride my perversion and my merit
you so small and shattered perfect and pure
similar to a glass of water that will forever be drunk
I do not sleep I fell I stumbled on you absence
I am without fire without strength near you
I am the underside of the animal I cling
to our fall to our ruin
I am beneath your remains
I aspire to your nothingness I would like to see my forehead
Like a stone far in the earth
like a boat dissolved in wather
my little one who nevertheless engendered me in a storm
converted me into a man and loved me like a sage
my voice has no echo I am ashamed to speak
I suffer forever from your silence o my love.
best book I've read this year = A People's History of the United States
best movie I've seen this year (seen in my life) = Z
I don't think I can deal with sexploitation anymore. This is the most serious day of my life, and I am not afraid to stare you down, old man in front of me in the video rental store taking home pornography while trying to talk to me.
I've stopped believing in the leaders of this country, and I am very happy with this decision.
"I love each distinct moment of my visit, but I love each so much and the love so much coheres that I am compelled to wish I could feel it all at once- one thwack across the mind. If I had my way, my life would be a happy succession of such thwacks and I'd be the tight reeling that comes just after and begins slowly to lose itself, and to crave another good maker. But I can't even get one good thwack."
Writing in here has become like a habit. It's good for me though, I think. I'm listening to The Clientele, its so good to listen to at times, because of his wintry voice, and the sensation they are functioning inside this perfect sphere where all that happens is footprints in snow (over and over again. Familiar?).