does it look like im here?

?!?!?!parpum

my guess there is maggots in the baguettes

baby im yours

what we do

Bewildered

summer! finally!

woop!

FREEDOM !

new year new gear

*****************

THE FAINT- d. cooper

for Paul Otchakovsky-Laurens

This is an immaterial poem about a ghost,
name of Dennis. I appear less important
to those few among you who knew me
when I was composed more realistically.

Once my empty sockets seemed like evil
eyes to you, and you had no idea their
trick wasn’t great art. Now I barely exist,
but train your sights on this nevertheless.

It’s past your bedtime. I’ve painted myself
into a corner. A ghost has been sketched
here haphazardly. I’m still myself but inspire
no illusions no matter how I’m executed.

To believe in a ghost was small potatoes.
next to the fear in your eyes. I scared you.
All I was is this marked up white sheet, so
I ask you again. Read into my black holes.

DEAD FINGERS TALK

what would I do without this world faceless incurious
where to be lasts but an instant where every instant
spills in the void the ignorance of having been
without this wave where in the end
body and shadow together are engulfed
what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die
the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love
without this sky that soars
above its ballast dust
what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before
peering out of my deadlight looking for another
wandering like me eddying far from all the living
in a convulsive space
among the voices voiceless
that throng my hiddenness
Translated by Beckett himself (Samuel Beckett, Collected poems... Ibid.). That's pretty rare to have a bilingual poet... Let's make the most of it...

minnie the moocher

oh nina please believe me !

"Like, I'm reeealy diggin on dis chit mang..."

http://www.thecramps.eu/trash-is-neat/tin-03-mp3/Disc1/102-Thee%20Bellevettes-Faster%20Pussycat.mp3

But I was different

"A mythical Japanese political psych-noise pioneers Les
Rallizes Denudes, the ultimate revolutionary cult band whose bass
player was a member of the Japanese Red Army "terrorist group" and part
of the faction that hijacked a plane with samurai swords and GOT AWAY
WITH IT, achieving refugee status in Commie North Korea, thus sending
the unsuspecting guitarist, leader, auteur and songwriter Takashi
Mizutani into a paranoiac downward spiral and eventually into hiding,
wherefrom he would emerge every half-decade to demolish adoring crowds
with sheets of noise, feedback and naive songcraft."

i think ive met you before

W.B. Yeats

The Circus Animals' Desertion

I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.

II

What can I but enumerate old themes,
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride.

And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.

And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
Players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.

III

Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.