Nº. 1 of  10

I lost myself on a cool damp night...

« Je ne dors plus tu sais… alors je lis de la poésie jusqu’à m’endormir… c’est ma façon de rêver »

« Je ne dors plus tu sais… alors je lis de la poésie jusqu’à m’endormir… c’est ma façon de rêver »

al solito posto….

al solito posto….

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT  by  John Cale

image

Do not go gentle into that good night, 
Old age should burn and rage at close of day; 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, 
Because their words had forked no lightning they 
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright 
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, 
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, 
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight 
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, 
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Cambiaremos la casualidad por destino…
->
In a little narcissus pool, drowned by a spellWe saw ourselves, raw, excitable.

Cambiaremos la casualidad por destino…

->

In a little narcissus pool, drowned by a spell
We saw ourselves, raw, excitable.

You like to dance to the rolling head of the adultress
You sing in praise of suicide
We know you’re useless
Like cops at the scene of the crime.


Roll out the stones from all the cemetery homes
For the violence of a nation gone by
For the politics of weakness and the garbage dump of souls
That will now black the sky
Their yellow haze and crowds of eyes
will plug up the mind that moves
Moving with grace the men despise
and women have learned to lose
We’ll share our bodies in disdain for the system


Oh, we see you take another drag
One nation bends to kiss the hag
The sky is a landfill

I WOULD NOT RECOMMEND LOVE        

my head felt stabbed

by a crown of thorns but I joked and rode the subway

and ducked into school johns to masturbate

and secretly wrote

                              of teenage hell

because I was “different”

the first and last of my kind

smothering acute sensations

in swimming pools and locker rooms

addict of lips and genitals

mad for buttocks

                             that Whitman and Lorca

and Catullus and Marlowe

                             and Michelangelo

and Socrates admired

and I wrote: Friends,

if you wish to survive

I would not recommend

Love.

- Harold Norse


I am made by my times
I am a creation of now
Shaken with the cracks and crevices
I’m not giving up easy
I will not fold
I don’t have much
But what I have is gold

I saw your face


Compare toast
I like that
I understand courage
I still roll with the shout of a character I was married to today
I try to see outside myself
I understand the eyes
Excuse all the highs
Sorry
I am sorry

Look, the sky, the sea, the ocean, the sun, the moon.
Blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue blue, blue, blue, blue, blue.
Naked and blue.

Breathing with you. 
Touch. Change. Shift. Allow air. 
Window open. Drift. Drift away. Into now.

I want Whitman proud. Patti Lee proud. 
My brothers proud. My sisters proud. 
I want me. I want it all. 
I want sensational. Irresistible.

This is my time and I am thrilled to be alive.

Living. Blessed. I understand.

Twentieth century:
Collapse into now

A sun makes shadows
All over your face
As you sit
Naked and blue
Into me

Discover
Discover
Discover
Discover
Discover
Discover
Discover


I could lie, I don’t care about what’s missing

But sometimes it’s just roses dying too young.

Your train of thoughts is always passing here

With its falling paint, and its broken gears

It’s the damn revelation blues when you see the path

And you know you won’t be the last,

Oh lord…

HELLO


It is disastrous to be a wounded deer.
I’m the most wounded, wolves stalk, 
and I have my failures, too.
My flesh is caught on the Inevitable Hook! 
As a child I saw many things I did not want to be.
Am I the person I did not want to be? 
That talks-to-himself person?
That neighbors-make-fun-of person? 
Am I he who, on museum steps, sleeps on his side?
Do I wear the cloth of a man who has failed? 
Am I the looney man?
In the great serenade of things, 
     am I the most cancelled passage?


-Gregory Corso

El muchacho que amaba a Miguel Ángel
Decían que tenía el rostro de un Dios
otros veían un demonio con sandalias de esparto
y un zarcillo de vid enredado en los rizos
venas fluían por sus brazos de mármol que cantaban
esculpiendo montañas como niebla cubriendo
una grieta en el corazón y la áurea honda
creaba de una manera que ni soñamos
cuchilla que raspa el dorso del deseo
músculo expuesto de un amor no cosechado
somos el búfalo, una raza moribunda
remolcados en carros huesos augustos
vergüenza, un éxtasis que nadie puede poseer
esclavos abrazados mientras clama la sapiencia
volúmenes de nada escritos en piedra.
-PS

El muchacho que amaba a Miguel Ángel

Decían que tenía el rostro de un Dios

otros veían un demonio con sandalias de esparto

y un zarcillo de vid enredado en los rizos

venas fluían por sus brazos de mármol que cantaban

esculpiendo montañas como niebla cubriendo

una grieta en el corazón y la áurea honda

creaba de una manera que ni soñamos

cuchilla que raspa el dorso del deseo

músculo expuesto de un amor no cosechado

somos el búfalo, una raza moribunda

remolcados en carros huesos augustos

vergüenza, un éxtasis que nadie puede poseer

esclavos abrazados mientras clama la sapiencia

volúmenes de nada escritos en piedra.

-PS

Nº. 1 of  10