![Kevin, New York City, 1977
-[There’s] this very particular time of a boy’s youth; it’s very short. It’s that time when someone’s in the bloom of youth, the skin. Anywhere between 16 to 23. There’s still a lot of flexibility and fun in them, and they...](https://66.media.tumblr.com/e4b9582fec44e6d8e9a93f45cab7e31c/tumblr_nipu6zFLMr1qafowuo1_1280.jpg)
Kevin, New York City, 1977
-[There’s] this very particular time of a boy’s youth; it’s very short. It’s that time when someone’s in the bloom of youth, the skin. Anywhere between 16 to 23. There’s still a lot of flexibility and fun in them, and they haven’t nailed down what the world is to them. The idea of youth before you have your first heartbreak … for me, what’s implicit in that is all this decay that goes on just before you die. It’s very short, very ephemeral, it doesn’t last long…
DA.
« 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….
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT by John Cale
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 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 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…
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
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