“they gave me a medal for dreaming of you”
unfortunately, that dream was just a dream
and you are just a girl.
you spoke with the eloquence of a lout
and now i’ve stared into a hole.
please make me feel like i didn’t waste my time
dreaming of your gold mirages.
10 months ago on August 04, 2011 at 02:26am
You’re flying, or levitating, drifting, through an enormous, dark room, a room of sounds; endless, dazzling glissandi, crackling pizzicati, coal-black turbulence holes of loud bass, but otherwise empty; no planets, no meteors, but elegant clouds of dust after exploded music. You’re floating somewhere between pleasure and fear, in a time you can’t decide; you find yourself everywhere else than in the presence. And you disappear more and more inside these hidden rooms, and your character fades out gradually, your facial elements are erased, your body disintegrates, and the last thing you think is that you’ve become a sound yourself; a thin, anonymous sound among all these others that cry in the empty, dark room.
Tor Ulven
10 months ago on July 28, 2011 at 04:29am
…all the bits and pieces coated uniformly, like a salad of despair, in a gray dressing of ash, condensed exhaust, dust, body wastes — it made him sick to look, but he had to look.
Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
1 year ago on April 25, 2011 at 06:23pm
For a moment she’d wondered if the seal around her sockets were tight enough to allow the tears simply to go on and fill up the entire lens space and never dry. She could carry the sadness of the moment with her that way forever, see the world refracted through those tears, those specific tears, as if indices as yet unfound varied in important ways from cry to cry.
Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
1 year ago on April 25, 2011 at 06:21pm
She thought of a hotel room in Mazatlan whose door had just been slammed, it seemed forever, waking up two hundred birds down in the lobby; a sunrise over the library slope at Cornell university that nobody out on it had seen because the slope faces west; a dry, disconsolate tune from the fourth movement of the Bartok Concerto for Orchestra; a whitewashed bust of Jay Gould that Pierce kept over the bed on a shelf so narrow for it she’d always had the hovering fear it would someday topple on them. Was that how he’d died, she wondered, among dreams, crushed by the only ikon in the house? That only made her laugh, out loud and helpless: You’re so sick, Oedipa, she told herself, or the room, which knew.
Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
1 year ago on April 25, 2011 at 06:18pm
Still very much apropos is the famous question Arthur Craven, “in a very tired, very weary tone,” asked Andre Gide: “Monsieur Gide, where are we with respect to time?” To which Gide, with no malice intended, replied: “Fifteen minutes before six,” Ah! it must indeed be admitted, we’re in bad, we’re in terrible, shape when it comes to time.
Andre Breton, Manifestoes of Surrealism
1 year ago on April 13, 2011 at 11:54am
Another round of Kerouac haikus
Oh moon,
such dismay?
—Earths betray
—
The creamer gives,
the groaner quakes —
the angel smiles
—
Bred to rejoice
the giggling
Sunshine leaves
—
Everywhere beyond
the Truth,
Empty space blue
—
In the late afternoon
peaks, I see
The hope
—
The top of Jack
Mountain — done in
By golden clouds
—
Run after that
body — run after
A raging fire
—
I close my eyes —
I hear & see
Mandala
—
The clouds assume
as I assume,
Faces of hermits
—
And my personal favorite:
Came down from my
ivory tower
And found no world
1 year ago on April 06, 2011 at 10:26pm
…And how death is that remedy that all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers — and my own imagination of a withered leaf — at dawn — Dreaming back thru life, Your time — and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment — the flower burning in the Day — what comes after…
Allen Ginsberg, Kaddish
1 year ago on April 06, 2011 at 09:50pm
#5
Pine for the atmosphere.
Clawing for serenity.
A parallel voyage
Sailing toward infinity.
1 year ago on April 04, 2011 at 12:35pm
#4
Across the living ponds
The wind fluidly cries.
Stealing the birds
From their malediction skies.
1 year ago on April 04, 2011 at 12:33pm
