Man, you should go and see a doctor, seeing that turning eye on your avatar you may need some serious medication!
Originally posted by Ivo
Man, you should go and see a doctor, seeing that turning eye on your avatar you may need some serious medication!
Think so..? Hmm..couple of times I've wondered why the others can't turn their eyes in the same way..thought they're just kinda freaks. But it's me, the freak?? That's what you're trying to tell me???
Don Corleone
Emre
Originally posted by speakinstone
Think so..? Hmm..couple of times I've wondered why the others can't turn their eyes in the same way..thought they're just kinda freaks. But it's me, the freak?? That's what you're trying to tell me???
Don Corleone
Emre
Parasight
(N.Andersson/A.Hellid)
When all you have's a hammer, all you see is nails
When all you have's a hammer, and when all else fails
Hit the nails!
When all you have's a buzz-saw, all you see is wood
When all you have's a buzz-saw, you just wish you could
Yeah, you would!
When all you have's a lighter, all you see's a fuse
And when you see it burning, you ain't got nothing to lose!
When all you have's a shovel, all you see is graves
When all you have's a shovel, in hollow pits they will be saved
Light the fuse!
from Entombed's To Ride, Shoot Straight and Speak the Truth
(N.Andersson/A.Hellid)
When all you have's a hammer, all you see is nails
When all you have's a hammer, and when all else fails
Hit the nails!
When all you have's a buzz-saw, all you see is wood
When all you have's a buzz-saw, you just wish you could
Yeah, you would!
When all you have's a lighter, all you see's a fuse
And when you see it burning, you ain't got nothing to lose!
When all you have's a shovel, all you see is graves
When all you have's a shovel, in hollow pits they will be saved
Light the fuse!
from Entombed's To Ride, Shoot Straight and Speak the Truth
Anywhere Out Of This World
Life is a hospital where every patient is obsessed by the desire of changing beds. One would like to suffer opposite the stove, another is sure he would get well beside the window. It always seems to me that I should be happy anywhere but where I am, and this question of moving is one that I am eternally discussing with my soul.
"Tell me, my soul, poor chilly soul, how would you like to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you would be as blissful as a lizard in the sun. It is a city by the sea; they say that it is built of marble, and that its inhabitants have such a horror of the vegetable kingdom that they tear up all the trees. You see it is a country after my own heart; a country entirely made of mineral and light, and with liquid to reflect them."
My soul does not reply.
"Since you are so fond of being motionless and watching the pageantry of movement, would you like to live in the beatific land of Holland? Perhaps you could enjoy yourself in that country which you have so long admired in paintings on museum walls. What do you say to Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts, and ships that are moored on the doorsteps of houses?"
My soul remains silent.
"Perhaps you would like Batavia better? There, moreover, we should find the wit of Europe wedded to the beauty of the tropics."
Not a word. Can my soul be dead?
"Have you sunk into so deep a stupor that you are happy only in your unhappiness? If that is the case, let us fly to countries that are the counterfeits of Death. I know just the place for us, poor soul. We will pack up our trunks for Torneo. We will go still farther, to the farthest end of the Baltic Sea; still farther from life if possible; we will settle at the Pole. There the sun only obliquely grazes the earth, and the slow alternations of daylight and night abolish variety and increase that other half of nothingness, monotony. There we can take deep baths of darkness, while sometimes for our entertainment, the Aurora Borealis will shoot up its rose-red sheafs like the reflections of the fireworks of hell!"
At last my soul explodes! "Anywhere! Just so it is out of the world!"
(Ch. Baudelaire)
Life is a hospital where every patient is obsessed by the desire of changing beds. One would like to suffer opposite the stove, another is sure he would get well beside the window. It always seems to me that I should be happy anywhere but where I am, and this question of moving is one that I am eternally discussing with my soul.
"Tell me, my soul, poor chilly soul, how would you like to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you would be as blissful as a lizard in the sun. It is a city by the sea; they say that it is built of marble, and that its inhabitants have such a horror of the vegetable kingdom that they tear up all the trees. You see it is a country after my own heart; a country entirely made of mineral and light, and with liquid to reflect them."
My soul does not reply.
"Since you are so fond of being motionless and watching the pageantry of movement, would you like to live in the beatific land of Holland? Perhaps you could enjoy yourself in that country which you have so long admired in paintings on museum walls. What do you say to Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts, and ships that are moored on the doorsteps of houses?"
My soul remains silent.
"Perhaps you would like Batavia better? There, moreover, we should find the wit of Europe wedded to the beauty of the tropics."
Not a word. Can my soul be dead?
"Have you sunk into so deep a stupor that you are happy only in your unhappiness? If that is the case, let us fly to countries that are the counterfeits of Death. I know just the place for us, poor soul. We will pack up our trunks for Torneo. We will go still farther, to the farthest end of the Baltic Sea; still farther from life if possible; we will settle at the Pole. There the sun only obliquely grazes the earth, and the slow alternations of daylight and night abolish variety and increase that other half of nothingness, monotony. There we can take deep baths of darkness, while sometimes for our entertainment, the Aurora Borealis will shoot up its rose-red sheafs like the reflections of the fireworks of hell!"
At last my soul explodes! "Anywhere! Just so it is out of the world!"
(Ch. Baudelaire)
Don Corleone
Emre
D Mullholand
[project closed]
i must say you've got the taste, mon! i considered posting the entire Wasteland when this thread first appeared, but it appeared too cluttered in formatting (and too fecking big), so i opted not to. +)
here's one instead:
-------------------------
Sunflower Sutra (by Allen Ginsberg)
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves
rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--
--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower,
memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
past--
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays
obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance
of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--
modern--all that civilization spotting your
crazy golden crown--
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the
milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs
& sphincters of dynamos--all these
entangled in your mummied roots--and you there
standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of the
railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and
decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?
the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
too, and anyone who'll listen,
--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed
by our own seed & golden hairy naked
accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
sitdown vision.
Don Corleone
Emre
AND SO DO YOU, MULLHOLAND. wow i never expected someone to post ginsberg...one of the leaders of the beatnik movement. i had done a research on him when we were reading "one flew over the cuckoo's nest" in high school. amazing man.
there's one shocking poem of his in which he talks about his mother. i'll never forget that one...
there's one shocking poem of his in which he talks about his mother. i'll never forget that one...
discouraged1
disco my arse!
Baudelaire's Spleen is my favorite1, the particular1 which Evereve made a hommage to (on Stormbirds album)...
And William Blake is GOD!
"You will never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough"
And William Blake is GOD!
"You will never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough"
Don Corleone
Emre
does anyone here besides me like jacques prevet? not sure about the spelling, though...well, he is the only french poet i can understand...not much of a francophone, i am!
D Mullholand
[project closed]
a qaqa for Don Corleone and everyone: i'm looking for internet sites where one can find good collections of 20th century poetry (in english). found one at www.palace.net/~llama/poetry ... looking for more. anyone?
mehdi.i.e.e.e
New Metal Member
- Feb 28, 2002
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Check this out!!!!!!!!
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I
pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume
of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping,
suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping
at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered,
"tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the
bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought
its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; --vainly I
had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--
sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom
the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling
of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic
terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my
heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance
at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance
at my chamber door; --
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger;
hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your
forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so
gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping,
tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" --
here I opened wide the door; --
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I
stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal
ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the
stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the
whispered word "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured
back the word "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my
soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat
louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is
something at my window lattice
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and
this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this
mystery explore; --
"'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, When,
with many a flirt and flutter
In there stepped a stately Raven of the
Saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a
minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mein of lord or lady, perched
above my chamber door--
Perched upon my bust of Pallas just
above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad
fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the
countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,
thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven
wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the
Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to
hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--
little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no
living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird
above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust
above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the
placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that
one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered--not a
feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered
"Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my
hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by
reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is
its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom
unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till
his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that
melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my
sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in
front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook
myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this
ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly,
gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no
syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned
into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my
head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the
lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the
lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser,
perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls
tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "Thy God hath lent
thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy
memories of Lenore,
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and
forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!
prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempest sent, or whether
tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this
desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me
truly, I implore--
Is there-- is there balm in Gilead?--
tell me-- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still,
if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God
we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant
Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name
Lenore --
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels
name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird
or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the
Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that
lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! --quit the
bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart,and
Take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is
sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above
my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a
demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming
throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that
lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
Edgar Poe
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I
pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume
of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping,
suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping
at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered,
"tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the
bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought
its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; --vainly I
had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--
sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom
the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling
of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic
terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my
heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance
at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance
at my chamber door; --
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger;
hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your
forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so
gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping,
tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" --
here I opened wide the door; --
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I
stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal
ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the
stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the
whispered word "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured
back the word "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my
soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat
louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is
something at my window lattice
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and
this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this
mystery explore; --
"'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, When,
with many a flirt and flutter
In there stepped a stately Raven of the
Saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a
minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mein of lord or lady, perched
above my chamber door--
Perched upon my bust of Pallas just
above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad
fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the
countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,
thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven
wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the
Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to
hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--
little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no
living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird
above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust
above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the
placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that
one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered--not a
feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered
"Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my
hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by
reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is
its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom
unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till
his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that
melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my
sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in
front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook
myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this
ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly,
gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no
syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned
into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my
head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the
lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the
lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser,
perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls
tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "Thy God hath lent
thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy
memories of Lenore,
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and
forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!
prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempest sent, or whether
tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this
desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me
truly, I implore--
Is there-- is there balm in Gilead?--
tell me-- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still,
if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God
we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant
Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name
Lenore --
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels
name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird
or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the
Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that
lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! --quit the
bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart,and
Take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is
sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above
my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a
demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming
throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that
lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
Edgar Poe
Sorrows of the Moon (Charles Baudelaire / Celtic Frost)
This evening the moon dreams more lazily
As some fair woman, lost in cushions deep
With gentle hand caresses listlessly
The contour of her breasts before she sleeps.
On velvet backs of avalanches soft
She often lies enraptured as she dies
And gazes on white visions aloft
Which like a blossoming to heaven rise
When sometimes on this globe, in indolence
She lets a secret tear drop down, by chance
A poet, set against oblivion, (sleep's sworn enemy)
Takes in his hand this pale and furtive tear.
This opal drop where rainbow hues appear
And hides it in his breast far from the sun.
This evening the moon dreams more lazily
As some fair woman, lost in cushions deep
With gentle hand caresses listlessly
The contour of her breasts before she sleeps.
On velvet backs of avalanches soft
She often lies enraptured as she dies
And gazes on white visions aloft
Which like a blossoming to heaven rise
When sometimes on this globe, in indolence
She lets a secret tear drop down, by chance
A poet, set against oblivion, (sleep's sworn enemy)
Takes in his hand this pale and furtive tear.
This opal drop where rainbow hues appear
And hides it in his breast far from the sun.
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