Feeling Like Someone Else?

Manet

Gustave Courbet

Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida

Exhausted Inspiration

A Deaf Whale is A Dead Whale

Perhaps I have missed
the moments
enticing enough
to capture emotions
for I fear
I have lived too
much
& missed
the moment
to report
the words
I can't hear
the silent call
perhaps
I have lost it
the saddest instance
for a silly poet
is not being able
to write at all
but now
i succumb
the space
in which
memories
are birthed
& I am afraid
they have evaporated
in the air.

Why Don't You Come On Back to the War, Don't Be a Tourist

Take this longing from my tongue

Well, Hello New York

I Do Not Count the Time

Ross and I's new song... http://www.mediafire.com/?32b73uj6p096j2g

Farewell Dublin

Deterritorialization

In the  moment all is  dear to me, dear that  in this logic there is no
redemption, the city itself  being the highest form of  madness and each and
every part, organic or inorganic, an expression of this same madness. I feel
absurdly and humbly great, not  as megalomaniac,  but as human spore, as the
dead sponge of life swollen to saturation. I no longer look into the eyes of
the woman I hold in my arms but I swim through, head and arms  and legs, and
I see that behind the  sockets of the eyes there is a region unexplored, the
world  of  futurity,  and here there  is  no  logic whatever, just the still
germination of events unbroken by night and day,  by yesterday and tomorrow.
The eye, accustomed to concentration on points in space, now concentrates on
points in time; the eye sees forward and backward at will. The eye which was
the I of  the self no longer exists; this  selfless eye neither reveals  nor
illuminates.  It  travels  along  the  line of  the  horizon,  a  ceaseless,
uninformed voyager. Trying to  retain the  lost body I grew  in logic as the
city, a point  digit  in  the anatomy  of  perfection. I  grew beyond my own
death, spiritually  bright and hard.  I was divided into endless yesterdays,
endless tomorrows, resting  only  on the cusp of the event, a wall with many
windows, but  the house gone. I must shatter the walls and windows, the last
shell  of  the lost  body,  if I am to rejoin the  present. That is why I no
longer look  into the  eyes  or  through the eyes, but by the legerdemain of
will swim  through the eyes, head and arms and legs to explore  the curve of
vision. I  see  around myself as  the mother who bore  me once saw round the
comers of  time. I  have broken  the wall created by  birth  and the line of
voyage is  round and  unbroken,  even as  the navel. No  form,  no image, no
architecture,  only concentric flights of  sheer madness.  I am the arrow of
the dream's  substantiality. I verify by flight.  I  nullify by  dropping to
earth.

Henry Miller Tropics of Cancer

Pre-Farewell Dublin

Don't Go Home With A Hard-On

http://www.mediafire.com/?2hbxuoi4rfh112b




Check out this song, written and sung by Ross and I!

If There Is No Tomorrow For Us

The Art of Losing

Without a doubt
the art of losing is a mastered skill

all foundation
must be mixed appropriately


but even as the wind
blows through the shadows

leave behind
those things you have discovered

for once they are lost


they should never be recovered.

Locked Lips Can't Really Do Anything To Ships

we watched
the screen flash
number 43
and the terminal
tensed with waves
of zig-zagging people

no one seemed
to desire
to rediscover
lost territories
I cursed they
only jumped ship
for a fancy holiday
as you mockingly joked
the line of flight
is a deterritorialization


blop, blop, blop, blop, blop

You Got to Run, Run, Run, Run, Run

Photography of Jesusmaryandisabel

When Time Supersedes

History is Never Quiet, Even in Damp Dark Vaults

The ancient vaults
are crowded
with saints & nuns
converted felons
lovers & condemned sons

& rebels

without intestines

giants' missing limbs

& crusaders

with crossed shins

but here
it is not
vacant
there are spots
still to be filled
but all thats left
is a guide
preforming
& searchers &
listeners
so eager
to crawl down
damp stairs
with caskets
wide open
& the dead
men & women
who still have
stories to tell
chatter silently
in their boxes

Rotten Apples

" I don't know who God is but if I meet Him anytime soon I'm going to get Him in the corner until He tells me the truth.

  I'm going to slap Him stupid and push Him around until He can't run away. Until He's looking up at me and then I'll get Him to tell me why He done what He done to me and what He done to Corrie and why do all the good ones die and where is Jazzlyn now and why she ended up there and how He allowed me to do what I done to her.

  He's going to come along on His pretty white cloud with all His pretty little angels flapping their pretty white wings and I'm gonna out and say it formal: Why the fuck did you let me do it, God?

And He's gonna drop His eyes and look to the ground and answer me. And if He says Jazz aint in heaven, if He says she didn't make it through. He's gonna get himself an ass-kicking. That's what He's gonna get.

An ass-kicking like none He ever got before."



"When I was seventeen I had a body that Adam woulda dropped Eve for. Hot-potato time. It was prime, no lie. Nothing in the wrong place. I had legs a hundred miles long and a booty to die for. Adam woulda said to Eve, Eve, I'm leaving you, honey, and Jesus himself woulda been in the background saying, Adam, you're one lucky motherfucker. "



Let The Great World Spin, Colum McCann

When Good Americans Die They Go To Paris

When, like a running grave


When, like a running grave, time tracks you down,
Your calm and cuddled is a scathe of hairs,
Love in her gear is slowly through the house,
Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse,
Hauled to the dome,


Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age,
Deliver me who, timid in my tribe,
Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap
Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape
Of the bone inch,


Deliver me, my masters, head and heart,
Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin,
When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time
Drive children up like bruises to the thumb,
From maid and head,

For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove,
Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye,
I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice
May fail to fasten with a virgin o
In the straight grave,

Stride through Cadaver's country in my force,
My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone
Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime,
Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain
On fork and face.

Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool.
No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer
Descends, my masters, on the entered honour.
You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar
Tells the stick, 'fail.'

Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam,
The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather
Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever,
Not city tar and subway bored to foster
Man through macadam.

I dump the waxlights in your tower dome.
Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot
Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift,
Love's twilit nation and the skull of state,
Sir, is your doom.

Everything ends, the tower ending and,
(Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene,
Ball of the foot depending from the sun,
(Give, summer, over), the cemented skin,
The actions' end.

All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind
With whistler's cough contages, time on track
Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick,
Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take
The kissproof world.


Out of the Sighs


Out of the sighs a little comes,
But not of grief, for I have knocked down that
Before the agony; the spirit grows,
Forgets, and cries;
A little comes, is tasted and found good;
All could not disappoint;
There must, be praised, some certainty,
If not of loving well, then not,
And that is true after perpetual defeat.

After such fighting as the weakest know,
There's more than dying;
Lose the great pains or stuff the wound,
He'll ache too long
Through no regret of leaving woman waiting
For her soldier stained with spilt words
That spill such acrid blood.

Were that enough, enough to ease the pain,
Feeling regret when this is wasted
That made me happy in the sun,
How much was happy while it lasted,
Were vagueness enough and the sweet lies plenty,
The hollow words could bear all suffering
And cure me of ills.

Were that enough, bone, blood, and sinew,
The twisted brain, the fair-formed loin,
Groping for matter under the dog's plate,
Man should be cured of distemper.
For all there is to give I offer:
Crumbs, barn, and halter. 


Not from this anger

Not from this anger, anticlimax after
Refusal struck her loin and the lame flower
Bent like a beast to lap the singular floods
In a land strapped by hunger
Shall she receive a bellyful of weeds
And bear those tendril hands I touch across
The agonized, two seas.
Behind my head a square of sky sags over
The circular smile tossed from lover to lover
And the golden ball spins out of the skies;
Not from this anger after
Refusal struck like a bell under water
Shall her smile breed that mouth, behind the mirror,
That burns along my eyes.

Dylan Thomas