The only thing which makes life bearable these days is Mozart, and his Requiem in particular.
patapeepatapa!
true artist
true artist. truant artist. i said other day artist cuts and cut. wel . not all. compare wolf to Fitzgerald. Joyce to Beckett. Helene Cixous to Emily Dickenson. all different. each must live her difference
find her sex.
he R lover body.
Rimbaud had a lover. she left him. he went to find another. a cloud cutting across a landscape in hell and haraar. now he is loved by thousands. Love is comme ça.
one's enemies always try to destroy. us.that s their job! we have to laugh at them like donkeys! after all they are imbeciles!
Poor things
lets be levity between our glasses, gravity and sorrows.
Poosh!
well call it a poem. one sort or the other. desire machine . between book and lip: thighs. earth.
just a collage really
almost like after sex?
or before love?
who knows if hands are hands _ lover .
the lover woman|draft_ sketch
The lover woman came to me with her window and her widow.
her hands crawling around my shadow when lone.
down . dong. as it was actual.her hands came to shape my love.
my body was her darning yarn, her knotting bollard
I was her kitten her knitted bow.
She wont catch my cat again.
I wont complain no more.
Love never makes sense does it? so you | you're around my winnings & ya want my fingers. Lover. woman in shade of aura hour of night. crumble back to weak. take my font . in Lieu of my hand, in milieu of my hand, in place of my sex and yours. lover.
If he makes no effort the lover cannot go . to Love.
Love's effort is sweet binding.
Love's also an elite gangster. time.s at time.
________
Commentary
of allthe arts, poetry is the least remunerative. painting and music are up with the high cash stakes. big investments. poetry is at the bottom, the lower pits of hell, hahah . Mister Dante. screw you. fuck off Mister Dante, with yer catholic hells, and yer church bells. I came to find god and love, not shit and hell.
fuck yer flames. and yer ego and yer thoughtless theology of punishment.
I came to grace find grace and give it
I came to hear her voice ~ .
________
In this text I am working between 2 or 3 ideas . the crying lover's complaint, the discoure about poetry versus art, and the emptiness between them. Iwrite fast.
My long essay , is stuck.
3 ~
doctor deleuze et papaartaud
Docteur Deleuze et Ppapapapap Arttaud . They called . Il ont téléphoné et and they said.
Hey Mister Idiot les devenir deviennes les plus beau jours de vie qui viens. The nice days are coming they said. Transmigration de ton âme a elle . Elle le migrant de mot et pratique. Un non ressentiment. Lame de aimer.
I said Doctor doctor forgive my pain and my
forgive my french. I am mere lip with a saucy mouth. Lovers lean on me for death.
of course
Of course man's a contradiction . man does not exist with
out
Wo Man .
of coure the photo's not I,
it's my NoPapaMama Artaud. Near the end. wretched wrecked man. racked by the seventy five furires of life.
O Artaud my tombeau O Artaud my Papa NoPapa. O
Moi et Toi et tous. On cherche l 'ami de notre minuit.
we seek the friend of midnight.
crushed by the hour
the hors d'oeuvre
not the envy of other artists. but their love.
appearance of the idiot
that's me ~
je suis le grande con e t idiote
Rereegarde le grande con qui a trop ame. Regard le fou l'idiot. qui a donne sont coeur a tous. et voir . tu voir. you see an idiot saint's becomings. lifes a big piss oir.
alor.s les pulls and pushs. tongue and larme. on imagine trop on vive moins. we live less than we imagine. life is the big farce, as mister rimbaud once wrote.
true artist
the object in true art is to cut. cut. cut.
then re_do re cut. shape. the discouse of commentary is often misleading. and unless it prompts conversation it is useless. at least that's the present perspective.
commentary becomes
distraction
imagine buying a book of poems and seeing other people's comments all over it.
that is the problem with bloggers of that kind .
its better to speak privately.
if art is a machine of creation, one ought to be discrete.
otherwise one is caught in the ego dialectic of back and forth commentary.
they keep us from the longed for solitude. of the creator.
last night
last night you got arrested by god. it shit you. left you in the street. a parvenue. a death wish. cowboy country. womb wounded one. time to get.
fire that god.get a new one. its dead. as husk. sometime
you write 20 things in one day and then some. you come back. half dead. but replete. looking for land in Ireland. where the ancestors hailed from.
more more ...
sometimes
Sometimes love's a cartoon. eh. you do fiction out of it. Only solution ~ ,.
yet
yet we won't take love too seriously. its not wise.for men or poets. nor for women. eh, you know to just drop dead in a bucket. O dear. love' wont do. that. it'd rather lie in the street ,
and wear
pompons!
better to be an artist than a dead lover
