he shook it like a harlem queen

x

like you never seen 

like you never seen

twenty, twelve.

copycat year of anticipated doom I will undo you into your rightful parts and I will force you to live in the real blinded by nothing awake to yourself and the truths you have shrouded for decades

twenty, twelve
I'm done with your simulacra bullshit
untwin your twins 
own your art
revel in your insanity

EVERYTHING IS REAL/ IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN

The Monarchy

Along their migratory routes, monarch butterflies stay nights in certain trees. The "butterfly trees," as they are called, are carefully chosen-- although the criteria exercised in their selection are not known. Species is unimportant, obviously, for at one stopover the roosting tree may be a eucalyptus, at another a cedar or an elm. But, and this is what is interesting, they are always the same trees. Year after year, whether moving south or returning north, monarchs will paper with their myriad wings at twilight a single tree that has served as a monarch motel a thousand times before. 


Memory? If so, it is genetic. For you see, the butterflies who journey south are not the ones who come back. 


- Tom Robbins, from Another Roadside Attraction 

Her autobiography is named I Put A Spell On You

Nina Simone was sick with breast cancer when she died in her sleep in Bouche-de-Rhones nearly ten years ago. Elton John sent flowers to her funeral with the inscription, "You were the greatest and I love you." Nina's ashes were spread in various African countries.
x
brilliant.

Ray Charles, on being a heroin addict for 20 years

I don't regret a damn thing 
amen mister

thought fills cities, allen ginsberg forever!

Since I'm doing my thesis thingey on Mr. Ginsberg, his poems are all over my brain. So, um, web crawlers, blawg stalkers, just get into it, k?

This one is called A Prophecy
by Mr. Allen Ginsberg

A Prophecy

O Future bards
chant from skull to heart to ass
as long as language lasts
Vocalize all chords
zap all consciousness
I sing out of mind jail
in New York State
without electricity
rain on the mountain
thought fills cities
I'll leave my body
in a thin motel
my self escapes
through unborn ears
Not my language
but a voice
chanting in patterns
survives on earth
not history's bones
but vocal tones
Dear breaths and eyes
shine in the skies
where rockets rise
to take me home

1 year ago I was..

(here)

mind work

this helps the writing: x

and the writing helps the living.

and the living helps the writing.

and I am happy in my patterns and webs and ourobouros and rhythms

papa knows

o mon petit coeur

how do I keep coming back to this? 

blood is moving fast, mean reds coming on, walls making me lonely, head down, keeping busy, trying not to yell, making tasks to not think, late november is hard for me, plagued with missing, can't say no to memory-demons, grey green off-white dingy diner feel of my old apartment reminding me of then and them, triggers multiply and shout at me, everyone wants to be remembered even if for the worse

(you came you saw you sawed her brain, you cut out all the parts that held your stain x)

you're all I ever want anymore

joyce joyce joyce

joyce joyce 

joyce

                                        (james gets it, ulysses forever!)

just 'cause an old dog comes back don't mean ya feed it

Orchestral fury of violent sadness

piercing down to the blood.

(sharp searing violin notes)

(chaotic violet stirrings)

chasing as the wind chases

moaning as the old moan

I stand cold and blind on the edge of this inkpool I used to lie in-

I stand shivering against a history still roaring for recognition-

Floating in, barely perceivable,

wisps of gray smoke creeping under the door.

I can smell the sadness before I feel it.

FOR THINE IS THE KINGDOM

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

(T.S. Eliot)

(fingers crossed)

For such truths do exist

might as well....