January 2012
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We Real Cool (By Gwendolyn Brooks)
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
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All The Flowery (By Kenneth Patchen)
Along the red ledge I
Counted so many blossoms
That from first
To last nothing could hold
Them. No number of
Vases or even
Countries like Seyn or Merry Aden.
No number of horses
Black as inked snow with
The pink stains of
Girls on
Their massive backs could stride
Through
Even the first row.
And I, as my fathers
Would… watching
The nude sad riding
With joy, with fear
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Evening (By Rainer Maria Rilke)
Slowly the evening star puts on the garments
Held for it by a rim of ancient trees;
You watch: and the lands divide from you,
One going heavenward, one that falls;
And leave you, to neither quite belonging,
Not quite so dark as the house sunk in silence,
Not quite so purely pledging the eternal
As that which grows star each night and climbs-
And leave you (inexpressibly to untangle)
Your life...
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Marizibill (by Guillaume Apollinaire)
Up and down High Street in Cologne
She used to walk all evening long
Offered to all her darling grace
Tired of pavements she would drink
Till morning in a dingy bar
She lay down on the putrid straw
For a ruddy-faced red-headed pimp
A Jew with garlic on his breath
He took her from a Shanghai house
Returning from a Taiwan trip
Of all the many men I know
Few equal their own...
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Do The Dead Know What Time It Is? (By Kenneth...
The old guy put down his beer. Son, he said, (and a girl came over to the table where we were: asked us by Jack Christ to buy her a drink.) Son, I am going to tell you something The like of which nobody was ever told. (and the girl said, I’ve got nothing on tonight; how about you and me going to your place?) I am going to tell you the story of my...
“If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the inquisition might have...”
– Thomas Hardy (via mythologyofblue)
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Likely She Wore Converse
I saw the empress of shoes in the subway depths.
She was ruefully blase;
crown in trash,
scepter scattered languidly,
singed hair golden,
and stared endlessly at
her noble subjects.
As such:
Undulant eyes bleary,
misted among creeping
veins,
meanwhile the crowd
courteously
ignores
her withered,
crest-fallen sobs.
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Meeting Dante Around 1
Hopeful I that he brings The last drugs of hell needed,
(Wisdom,power, love)
Willful am I no, but naive certainly.
As we stepped in a rusted Crown Chicken:
My friends babbling brooks Of speech ceased and damned We were certainly,
By the speech of Dante, Stumbling amid gasps,
Crying out
“They messed with my mind Sur? The streets… They messed with my mind”
Ever onwards. Infinitum.
Accept...
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A Short Desiccation of The Bic
Solid in the two weeks,
I inhaled the speckled silence
Of my maudlin bic lighter (colored blue/blue/blue);
All memories accounted for.
Mind is clear and clean.
So cue the
Long dregs of butane:
Soft remunerations
In the tired black holes of a
Beggar’s pocket.
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MY NEW ARTS DUMPING BLOG BLOG BLOG →
I have decided to create an additional blog specifically for all things I’m into that aren’t original poems/photos/art/bs/etc. If you like my music posts and the like, please follow this new blog, as less music will be appearing via Infinite Centuries….
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fleurdesol-deactivated20120930 asked: I "like" a lot of your things but it never shows up because the internet at my job runs like fucking dial-up sometimes. it's the worst. and if there's a time when I'm on tumblr and not at work, I'm pretty blitzed so I forget to go back and click the little heart on all of the cool things I tried to "like" earlier. also, in response to your last bit of...
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On Aliens and Mutton Chops
Aliens have no beards and if they could grow any
they would certainly come in handy for the
intergalactic beard show-down which we
dominate year-after-year-but-never-attend.
Though few species ever show up to the show,
Non-linear mutton chops seem to be a big hit lately.
Maybe that’s the only reason for their supposed visits
among us:
we are one razor’s edge away from the...
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The Secret to Using Guns
Little brother Brent used to ask me
how the Indians started getting gun hands
from all the lonely fire-brand(ed) cowboys
before we even knew what these guns were properly for.
(Spoiler alert: Good guns, grips and fingers are for shooting souls in the gut. A pellucid dream death; Rummage through, rummage thoroughly bullets will.)
“It was the cowboys” replied I: nubian saw-toothed...
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“I hate books. They can’t even record screams. That’s true emotion....”
– Chrome Coyote
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“I realized something today:
Books is just words on a page.”
– Chrome Coyote