I've been fifty thousand times to the Louvre. I have copied everything in drawing, trying to understand.
quote by Alberto Giacometti
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Hard Currency
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars
Take it, take it
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars in cash
One hundred thousand
Two hundred thousand
Three hundred thousand
Why? !?
One hundred thousand
Two hundred thousand
Three hundred thousand
Why? !?
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars
Take it, take it
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars in cash
One hundred thousand
Two hundred thousand
Three hundred thousand
Why? !?
One hundred thousand
Two hundred thousand
Three hundred thousand
Why? !?
A half, a million dollars
A million dollars
Fourteen million
Why?
Ten million
Fourteen million
Dont you ever think of money?
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars
Take it, take it
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars
Five thousand dollars in cash
One hundred thousand
Two hundred thousand
Three hundred thousand
Why? !?
One hundred thousand
Two hundred thousand
[...] Read more
song performed by Information Society
Added by Lucian Velea
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Gioconda And Si-Ya-U
to the memory of my friend SI-YA-U,
whose head was cut off in Shanghai
A CLAIM
Renowned Leonardo's
world-famous
"La Gioconda"
has disappeared.
And in the space
vacated by the fugitive
a copy has been placed.
The poet inscribing
the present treatise
knows more than a little
about the fate
of the real Gioconda.
She fell in love
with a seductive
graceful youth:
a honey-tongued
almond-eyed Chinese
named SI-YA-U.
Gioconda ran off
after her lover;
Gioconda was burned
in a Chinese city.
I, Nazim Hikmet,
authority
on this matter,
thumbing my nose at friend and foe
five times a day,
undaunted,
claim
I can prove it;
if I can't,
I'll be ruined and banished
forever from the realm of poesy.
1928
Part One
Excerpts from Gioconda's Diary
15 March 1924: Paris, Louvre Museum
At last I am bored with the Louvre Museum.
[...] Read more
poem by Nazim Hikmet
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Sunday at Hampstead
I
(AN VERY IDLE IDYLL BY A VERY HUMBLE MEMBER OF THE GREAT AND NOBLE LONDON MOB.)
This is the Heath of Hampstead,
This is the Dome of Saint Paul’s;
Beneath, on the serried house-tops,
A chequered luster falls:
And the might city of London,
Under the clouds and the light,
Seems a low, wet beach, half shingle,
With a few sharp rocks upright.
Here we sit, my darling,
And dream an hour away:
The donkeys are hurried and worried,
But we are not donkeys to-day:
Through all the weary week, dear,
We toil in the murk down there,
Tied to a desk and a counter,
A patient, stupid pair!
But on Sunday we slip our thether,
And away from the smoke and the smirch;
Too grateful to God for His Sabbath
To shut its hours in a church.
Away to the green, green country,
Under the open sky;
Where the earth’s sweet breath is incense
And the lark sings psalms on high.
On Sunday we’re Lord and Lady,
With ten times the love and glee
Of those pale, languid rich ones
Who are always and never free.
The drawl and stare and simper,
So fine and cold and staid,
Like exquisite waxwork figures
That must be kept in the shade.
We can laugh out loud when merry,
We can romp at kiss-in-the-ring,
We can take our beer at a public,
We can loll on the grass and sing.
Would you grieve very much, my darling,
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
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The Third Monarchy, being the Grecian, beginning under Alexander the Great in the 112. Olympiad.
Great Alexander was wise Philips son,
He to Amyntas, Kings of Macedon;
The cruel proud Olympias was his Mother,
She to Epirus warlike King was daughter.
This Prince (his father by Pausanias slain)
The twenty first of's age began to reign.
Great were the Gifts of nature which he had,
His education much to those did adde:
By art and nature both he was made fit,
To 'complish that which long before was writ.
The very day of his Nativity
To ground was burnt Dianaes Temple high:
An Omen to their near approaching woe,
Whose glory to the earth this king did throw.
His Rule to Greece he scorn'd should be confin'd,
The Universe scarce bound his proud vast mind.
This is the He-Goat which from Grecia came,
That ran in Choler on the Persian Ram,
That brake his horns, that threw him on the ground
To save him from his might no man was found:
Philip on this great Conquest had an eye,
But death did terminate those thoughts so high.
The Greeks had chose him Captain General,
Which honour to his Son did now befall.
(For as Worlds Monarch now we speak not on,
But as the King of little Macedon)
Restless both day and night his heart then was,
His high resolves which way to bring to pass;
Yet for a while in Greece is forc'd to stay,
Which makes each moment seem more then a day.
Thebes and stiff Athens both 'gainst him rebel,
Their mutinies by valour doth he quell.
This done against both right and natures Laws,
His kinsmen put to death, who gave no cause;
That no rebellion in in his absence be,
Nor making Title unto Sovereignty.
And all whom he suspects or fears will climbe,
Now taste of death least they deserv'd in time,
Nor wonder is t if he in blood begin,
For Cruelty was his parental sin,
Thus eased now of troubles and of fears,
Next spring his course to Asia he steers;
Leavs Sage Antipater, at home to sway,
And through the Hellispont his Ships made way.
Coming to Land, his dart on shore he throws,
Then with alacrity he after goes;
And with a bount'ous heart and courage brave,
His little wealth among his Souldiers gave.
And being ask'd what for himself was left,
Reply'd, enough, sith only hope he kept.
[...] Read more
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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That Fifty Year Old Woman
That fifty year old woman
she is someones mother
that fifty year old woman
she is someones lover
them fifty years of her life
unseen by a cover.
Covered by the leaves
from the autumn trees is the grass
surrounded by blue tape
and nosey people who pretend to pass
a group of actors walk by
they have come from a history class
to make history new
with conversation with questions to ask.
A fifty year old woman
in an autumn so cold
a fifty year old woman
seen dark winter unfold
them fifty years of life
it is all we are told.
The actors, they didn't get any information
they did not get pictures
nothing known about the situation
nothing at all to discuss
fifty years of age is all thats said
on the morning paper on the fifty bus
thats all thats said
a fifty year old woman, shes found dead.
That fifty year old woman
shes not someones mother
that fifty year old woman
how she had no lover
them fifty years of life
unseen by a cover.
That fifty year old woman
she was quoted in the paper today
that fifty year old woman will be gone tomorrow
the writers they will show no sorrow
because its the way things work
as people pass
she no longer lies on grass
shes covered in dirt.
poem by Daniel McCann
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Le Cygne (The Swan)
À Victor Hugo
I
Andromaque, je pense à vous! Ce petit fleuve,
Pauvre et triste miroir où jadis resplendit
L'immense majesté de vos douleurs de veuve,
Ce Simoïs menteur qui par vos pleurs grandit,
A fécondé soudain ma mémoire fertile,
Comme je traversais le nouveau Carrousel.
Le vieux Paris n'est plus (la forme d'une ville
Change plus vite, hélas! que le coeur d'un mortel);
Je ne vois qu'en esprit tout ce camp de baraques,
Ces tas de chapiteaux ébauchés et de fûts,
Les herbes, les gros blocs verdis par l'eau des flaques,
Et, brillant aux carreaux, le bric-à-brac confus.
Là s'étalait jadis une ménagerie;
Là je vis, un matin, à l'heure où sous les cieux
Froids et clairs le Travail s'éveille, où la voirie
Pousse un sombre ouragan dans l'air silencieux,
Un cygne qui s'était évadé de sa cage,
Et, de ses pieds palmés frottant le pavé sec,
Sur le sol raboteux traînait son blanc plumage.
Près d'un ruisseau sans eau la bête ouvrant le bec
Baignait nerveusement ses ailes dans la poudre,
Et disait, le coeur plein de son beau lac natal:
«Eau, quand donc pleuvras-tu? quand tonneras-tu, foudre?»
Je vois ce malheureux, mythe étrange et fatal,
Vers le ciel quelquefois, comme l'homme d'Ovide,
Vers le ciel ironique et cruellement bleu,
Sur son cou convulsif tendant sa tête avide
Comme s'il adressait des reproches à Dieu!
II
Paris change! mais rien dans ma mélancolie
N'a bougé! palais neufs, échafaudages, blocs,
Vieux faubourgs, tout pour moi devient allégorie
Et mes chers souvenirs sont plus lourds que des rocs.
Aussi devant ce Louvre une image m'opprime:
Je pense à mon grand cygne, avec ses gestes fous,
Comme les exilés, ridicule et sublime
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Girl Like You
You go to sleep, I want to sail in your hair
And when you speak, you know you got to make sense
You want to say that it's me you know less
I say a girl like you, she was born to be blessed
My hands are yours, and you can take them from me
And take my mouth, I have nothing to say
I want to fly to some other place
I say a girl like you, she was born to be kissed
Born to be kissed
One thousand times and your sisters too
One thousand times, a girl like you
You're gonna say that you want to be free
But when you fall, you'll know you'll fall back to me
You want to fly, and there's no disgrace
I say a girl like you, she was born to be blessed
My hands are yours cause I don't know how to pray
Take my mouth, I have nothing to say
I lift my heart up to a higher place
Up to a girl like you, who was born to be kissed
Oh, born to be kissed
One thousand times and your sisters too
One thousand times, a girl like you
One thousand times and your sisters too
One thousand times, a girl like you
One thousand times and your mother too
One thousand times, a girl like you
One thousand times and your sisters too
One thousand times, a girl like you
Aw-w-w-w, yeahhhh
And your sisters too
One thousand times, a girl like you
Ooooh, one thousand times and your sisters too
One thousand times, I said a girl like you
Ooooh, one thousand times and your sisters too.
song performed by Tom Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
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Night Of A Thousand Hours, No.1, Part 2
a thousand drunks
puking beside the tree
in front of my house
men dressed in tuxedos or thousand dollar suits
women in a designer's exclusive gowns
stumbling & laughing loudly
leaving the posh Halifax exclusive club next door -
a thousand taxis blowing their horns
impatiently waiting for a thousand partiers
desperate to go down-town for another drink
to pick up some guy or girl
to have a story to share with friends the next day-
a thousand television announcers
bellowing out the news of the day
of a thousand brutal murders
of thousands killed in a war somewhere
of thousands starving to death
with film footage in living color & stereo sound
on a thousand television sets
filling a thousand apartments & houses
with a strange blue glow-
a thousand giant leopard slugs
sliming their way along sidewalks
gathering together at night
conspiring in secret meetings
performing strange relegious ceremonies-
a thousand buzzing bees
each trapped inside a glass jar
a thousand small brown bats
flying around the street lights
in a feeding frenzy-
a thousand telephones
all ringing at once
but there's no one home
just a thousand disembodied voices
on a thousand answering machines -
a thousand faces staring at me
through my windows
a thousand faces reflected
in a thousand mirrors
a thousand images
flood into my eyes
a thousand memories
fill my burning over-stuffed brain -
[...] Read more
poem by Gordon Coombes
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The Booker Washington Trilogy
I. A NEGRO SERMON:—SIMON LEGREE
(To be read in your own variety of negro dialect.)
Legree's big house was white and green.
His cotton-fields were the best to be seen.
He had strong horses and opulent cattle,
And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle.
His garret was full of curious things:
Books of magic, bags of gold,
And rabbits' feet on long twine strings.
But he went down to the Devil.
Legree he sported a brass-buttoned coat,
A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt.
Legree he had a beard like a goat,
And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt.
His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white,
He had great long teeth, and an appetite.
He ate raw meat, 'most every meal,
And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal.
His fist was an enormous size
To mash poor niggers that told him lies:
He was surely a witch-man in disguise.
But he went down to the Devil.
He wore hip-boots, and would wade all day
To capture his slaves that had fled away.
But he went down to the Devil.
He beat poor Uncle Tom to death
Who prayed for Legree with his last breath.
Then Uncle Tom to Eva flew,
To the high sanctoriums bright and new;
And Simon Legree stared up beneath,
And cracked his heels, and ground his teeth:
And went down to the Devil.
He crossed the yard in the storm and gloom;
He went into his grand front room.
He said, "I killed him, and I don't care."
He kicked a hound, he gave a swear;
He tightened his belt, he took a lamp,
Went down cellar to the webs and damp.
There in the middle of the mouldy floor
He heaved up a slab, he found a door —
And went down to the Devil.
[...] Read more
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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King Solomon And The Queen Of Sheba
(A Poem Game.)
“And when the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, . . .
she came to prove him with hard questions.”
[The men’s leader rises as he sees the Queen unveiling
and approaching a position that gives her half of the stage.]
Men’s Leader: The Queen of Sheba came to see King Solomon.
[He bows three times.]
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon.
[She bows three times.]
Women’s Leader: I was the Queen,
I was the Queen,
I was the Queen.
Both Leaders: We will be king and queen,
[They stand together stretching their hands over the land.]
Reigning on mountains green,
Happy and free
For ten thousand years.
[They stagger forward as though carrying a yoke together.]
Both Leaders: King Solomon he had four hundred oxen.
Congregation: We were the oxen.
[Here King and Queen pause at the footlights.]
Both Leaders: You shall feel goads no more.
[They walk backward, throwing off the yoke and rejoicing.]
Walk dreadful roads no more,
Free from your loads
For ten thousand years.
[The men’s leader goes forward, the women’s leader dances round him.]
Both Leaders: King Solomon he had four hundred sweethearts.
[Here he pauses at the footlights.]
Congregation: We were the sweethearts.
[He walks backward. Both clap their hands to the measure.]
Both Leaders: You shall dance round again,
You shall dance round again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
[The Queen appears to gather wildflowers.]
[...] Read more
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Fifty Cents A Day
I am an humble Soldier
far from my friends and home,
mid scenes of war and hardships
I constantly must roam,
with many officers over me,
and them I must obey,
and do just what they tell me,
for fifty cents a day.
I enlisted in the army
to help my country's cause,
because I loved it dearly,
and would sustain its laws,
I felt a free man's duty,
his country to obey,
I came not as a hireling,
for fifty cents a day
I enlisted as a soldier.
a free man and a man
To do a soldiers duty,
as best a soldier can.
hope to fight the rebels,
and hate this long delay.
I came to help my country,
for fifty cents a day.
I now must yield to hardships
in cold in storm and rain
perchance with scanty rations
not even then complain
the right of seeking comfort
long since I signed away
my life I am slowly losing
for fifty cents a day.
who send the soldiers to the field
to buy his willing hand,
with promises so plentiful,
of treatment like a man?
twas those who, in two days,
received a larger pay
than does the soldiers in a month
at fifty cents a day
who promised to the soldier,
his wrongs should be redressed
if tyanny or officers
should his right oppress?
alas! the sword may smight him,
[...] Read more
poem by Shauna Stoltz
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My Repetitious Future....[LONG; My Life/Personal; Math]
What do I have to look forward to the rest of my fine life?
It depends, to some degree at least, on my dear wife.
If she stays alive and somehow keeps on putting up with me,
I may live twenty more years (ten more than I 'should') . We'll see.
To make the math simple let's say my years left are ten.
So how many times might I repeat things between this day and then?
I mean some of the daily, weekly, monthly, or yearly things I do.
Some are necessary and some I enjoy, but some I don't look forward to.
Sleep: Let's say 10x365x10=36,500 hours, give or take.
That's about two-fifths as many hours as I'll be awake!
How many movie DVDs watched at night from our couch?
That's 5x52x10=2600 movies we'll see. Ouch.
At only two real meals a day, that's still 7300 sittings to dine,
but with an equal number of snacks I think that I'll be fine.
And while Aki slaves to prepare about 3400 dinners
I'll be reading to us aloud from 130 novels of murder, losers, and winners.
If my body cooperates I'll take 2600 walks, give or take.
Some will be near Bay, but most will be near home that I'll make.
And walking my town's streets I'll take down 300 outdated signs,
and trim 200 overhanging branches as long as no one whines.
I'll practice Happy Birthday on piano 3000 times, most times while standing,
and do perhaps 200 little home projects, which may include some sanding.
I'll fill bird feeders 120 times or more, depending on the birds,
and 2000 times add water to bird dishes, removing first their turds.
I'll romance my wife 520 times; that figure may be high.
I'll shave my face a thousand times unless I give beard, again, a try.
Trim toenails 60 times and fingernails about one-o-five.
3650 showers I'll take as long as wife's alive.
I'll have an untold number of bowel movements. Wait and see.
And ‘bout eighteen thousand times, usually without flushing, I'll pee.
I'll have 10 to 100 doctor appointments. Who really knows?
I'll go to dental office twice yearly, though their current business staff blows.
I'll brush my teeth six or seven thousand times, but with no flossing.
I'll punch a time clock no more times; except for from my wife, I'll have no bossing.
Ten or twenty shirts I'll wear out completely, while getting countless others dirty.
I'll call my siblings about 400 times, especially my sister Birdie.
I'll call friends about 2500 times, plus emails, but few letters.
I might wear an outdoor jacket 400 times, but I'll rarely wear a sweater.
I'll take 3600 doses of aspirin, and twice-that of flaxseed oil,
and 500 bottles of red wine to, hopefully, bad health foil.
[...] Read more
poem by Bri Edwards
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Canto the First
I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.
II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.
III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.
V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Pictures In The Sand
And Im gonna spend my time,
Drawing pictures in the sand for you.
And Im gonna ride the tide[? ],
And Im gonna make a rendezvous.
Sitting by the sea,
Sipping at my tea,
Drawing pictures in the sand,
And writing message to you.
Pictures in the sand (drawing pictures in the sand)
There is nothing I would rather do (there is nothing I would rather do)
Than just sit here in the sand (drawing pictures in the sand)
And think of thinks Id like to say to you (I love you true)
Every single day (every single day)
I waste my time away,
Drawing pictures in the sand,
And writing messages to you.
(all together)
Pictures in the sand. (drawing pictures in the sand)
Pictures in the sand.
If I didnt have a dime,
Would you still be loving me?
While I spend my whole life through,
Drawing pictures just for you.
But I could never draw my love,
Its so very hard to do.
Every single day,
I waste my time away,
Drawing pictures in the sand,
And writing messages to you.
Pictures in the sand. (drawing pictures in the sand)
Pictures in the sand. (do-bum, do-bum...)
Pictures in the sand. (drawing pictures in the sand)
song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hard Times
(jimmy dean/lyrics by myles goodwyn)
Published by acuff rose music, inc. - bmi
Hard times, hard times, hard times, hard times
When the college professor has no class
And the quarterback would rather pass
And the pump jockey complains of gas
Its hard times, hard times
When the taxi driver he cant hack it
And the tennis player cant stand the racket
When allies refuse to pack it, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times
When the elevator cant find the floor
And the doorman he cant find the door
When they give to the rich what they take from the poor, its hard times
Seems your moneys gone before its spent
If youre not busted then youre badly bent
To give it away doesnt make any sense, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times, hard times
Now grandma forgets how to knit
And the wise man has lost his wit
And my tailor feels unfit, its hard times, hard times
When the fashion models lost her poise
And santa clause smashes all the toys
When boys could be girls, and girls could be boys, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times, hard times
When the clock on the walls got no time for jokes
And kreskin says its all a hoax
When the surgeon general chain smokes, its hard times
When the truck driver dont wanna truck
And the hockey player wont touch the puck
And the rock musician dont wanna fool around, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times
Harder times, hard times
I was talking to this lady the other day and she was telling me..........
song performed by April Wine
Added by Lucian Velea
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You Don't Come
You don't come. Your absence is a guillotine. My heart
plummets from the altitude it risked in looking forward
to a day with you outside of time and circumstance, jumps
from the edge of paradise, the flat earth, the back
of a winged horse. You don't come and such
is the nature of love
I go out of the plane not knowing
if I've got a parachute on and my heart
pulls the rip cord to see if there's any salvation in the fall,
any flowers for me in the bag, morning glory
or dandelion seed, or this is just another
mode of acceleration to death. You don't come
and my heart candles without a reserve,
I haven't packed a spare dawn
and though I will make every effort to understand
there's a grave waiting down below like an open mouth
and the void is laughing at the persistent folly
of my believing you would come,
and my fear of not being worthy of love anymore
sends my mendicant self-image out
wandering over thirteenth century Europe like some flagellant
on a pilgrimage of flogging, ribbons of blood running down my back
from salted wounds, and though I know
the expectation and the disappointment are both delusions,
birdshit on the claws of a sphinx, and I will try to be
intelligent and wise about the whole thing,
tugging my heart out like a garbage-scow into deep space
where it will be laced with explosives and scuttled once again,
and I will be awarded another paradoxical brownie-badge
by another scout-master Tibetan rinpoche
for knowing how to survive alone in this empty wilderness,
a tiger of will, a Viking of resolve,
an aging clown without children or laughter, a jester-king
officiating from the throneless butt of his own joke,
a poet with nothing to praise, a painter
with cataracts in the eye and flowers in the sky, I
know there is nothing I can tell myself, no spiritual weed
I can poultice over the vacancy that goes on forever
to draw out the infection from my heart, the gangrene
from the broken pillar of the foolish temple I erected
to serve the goddess in any of her lunar phases,
and though I struggle like a diminished thing to accept my dejection,
to imbibe the toxins from the left tit of the Medusa
while trying not to turn into stone, while trying
not to avert my eyes from this crone-form of the moon, let
Kali drink my blood, in the name of insight, clarity and courage,
good wolf, I know this, too, is delusion, another
projected holograph from the third eye of the pineal gland,
and kick the chair from under
the useless fruit of my head in a noose. Back to earth
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
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Loving You's A Dirty Job But Somebody's Gotta Do It
(jim steinman)
Producer for bonnie: jim steinman
Girl:
When the sky is falling and you're looking round for somewhere to hide
Did you ever call out to someone
Did you ever call out to me, i've never been gone-
I've been right here by your side
There ain't nothin' but clouds
There ain't nothin' but clouds in your eyes
Why don't you believe it when you finally found the truth
Youve been drinking poison water from the fountain of youth
Why don't you stop tearing up everyone you need the most
You're so busy trying to get even
You never even try to get close
I can't explain it away
It doesn't make any sense
To know what it's like
I guess you gotta go through it
It doesn't matter baby
Loving you's a dirty job
But somebody's gotta do it
Boy:
There were times when we'd never fake it
There were times when we'd always make it
There were times when we'd take it to the limit
And we'd never, never, ever leave each other alone
We were flesh and blood and bone
There were times we had it all
There were times we had it all
(alt/ same)
Both:
There were times when we took our chances
There were times we were damn good dancers
There were times when we heard all the answers
In the beating of the drummer and the riches of the rock and the roll
I can see right through your soul
There were times we had it all
There were times we had it all
Boy:
If your fears could only be forgotten
We could pull all of the barriers down
Would you follow your dreams' desire
Would you follow your secret dreams and forbidden fire
Let's just peel out of this town
Both:
It's been nothing but dreams
It's been nothing but dreams until now
Boy:
You're never gonna see it
Both:
[...] Read more
song performed by Bonnie Tyler
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Auction Sale
Within the great grey flapping tent
The damp crowd stood or stamped about;
And some came in, and some went out
To drink the moist November air;
None fainted, though a few looked spent
And eyed some empty unbought chair.
It was getting on. And all had meant
Not to go home with empty hands
But full of gain, at little cost,
Of mirror, vase, or vinaigrette.
Yet often, after certain sales,
Some looked relieved that they had lost,
Others, at having won, upset.
Two men from London sat apart,
Both from the rest and each from each,
One man in grey and one in brown.
And each ignored the others face,
And both ignored the endless stream
Of bed and bedside cabinet,
Gazing intent upon the floor,
And they were strangers in that place.
Two other men, competing now,
Locals, whom everybody knew,
In shillings genially strove
For some small thing in ormolu.
Neither was eager; one looked down
Blankly at eighty-four, and then
Rallied again at eighty-eight,
And took it off at four pounds ten.
The loser grimly shook his fist,
But friendly, there was nothing meant.
Little gained was little missed,
And there was smiling in the tent.
The auctioneer paused to drink,
And wiped his lips and looked about,
Engaged in whispered colloquoy
The clerk, who frowned and seemed to think,
And murmured: "Why not do it next?"
The auctioneer, though full of doubt,
Unacquiescent, rather vexed,
At last agreed, and at his sign
Two ministrants came softly forth
And lifted in an ashen shroud
Something extremely carefully packed,
Which might have been some sort of frame,
And was a picture-frame in fact.
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Reed
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Good Times Roll
Let the good times roll
Let them knock you around
Let the good times roll
Let them make you a clown
Let them leave you up in the air
Let them brush your rock and roll hair
Let the good times roll
Let the good times roll
Let the good times roll
Let the stories be told
They can say what they want
Let the photos be old
Let them show what they want
Let them leave you up in the air
Let them brush your rock and roll hair
Let the good times roll
Let the good times roll-oll
Wont you let the good times roll
Good times roll
If the illusion is real
Let them give you a ride
If they got thunder appeal
Let them be on your side
Let them leave you up in the air
Let them brush your rock and roll hair
Let the good times roll
Wont you let the good times roll-oll
Let the good times roll
Let the good times roll
Wont you let the good times roll
Well let the good times roll
Let =91em roll (good times roll)
Let the good times roll
Oo let the good times roll
Oo let the good times roll
Let =91em roll (good times roll)
Well, let the good times roll
(let the good times roll)
Well let the good times roll
Good times roll
(let the good times roll)
Let the good times roll
Let =91em roll
song performed by Cars
Added by Lucian Velea
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