>

2009/02/27

turns &

as winter proceeeds bones ache.
friendships end














returns are few







but returns that turn
are good
& gooder Mister Schizo ~
>them change s......... & the message of love ....




]]hendrix miles and cox
friday is music day ~


_________________________________________________________











-------disappearing

m a ch in e g u n ma ch in e g un





Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaachine gun
Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaari ng my body all apart

Mach ine gun yeah
Te aring my body a ll apart

Evil man make me kill ya
Evi l ma n make you kill me
Evil ma n make me

kill you

Eve n though w ere o nly families a part

Well I pick up m y axe and fight like a bomber
you know what I mean

Hey! and you
r bullets keep k nocking me down


Hey, I pick up my a x e and fight like a bomber now
Yea h bu











t you st ill blast
m e dow n to the gro und

the same way you shoot me down
baby

Y oull be goi s the pain
And your own self to blame
Hey machine gun

I a int afrai d of your mes s no more, babe
I aint
afra id no more
After a while, your, your h eap talk dont even cause me pain,
So let your bullet s fly li

ke rain

cause I kno w all the time you re wrong baby
And youll be going just the same
Ye ah

mac h
ily apart
Yeah ye

a alright

Tearing my family apart

do nt you shoot him down
hes bout to leave here
dont you shoot him down
h
es got to stay here

he aint going nowhere
hes been shot down to the ground
oh where he cant survive no no

Yeah thats what we dont wanna hear anymore, alright?
no bullets
At least here
huh huh
no guns
no bombs
Huh huh
no nothin
just lets all live and live
you know
instea
d of kil
lin



excus me .. can you tell me .. where I am... I am lost....

exc use me

can you
t ell
me

w he r e

I am
I am



lost

O angels




O the time of angels


yes

we need angels
in this crazy world
dont we

kaddish

O tears
O river

of tear



O man

woman


O


it is tears

2009/02/26

it 's good ethel rosenberg sings- Angels in AmeriCa
























next time around
i dont want to be a man
i want to be an octupus






its good for the poet to be a scent
of love

its good for a poet to be a movie


of hate and

history
and love

and death

to

to treachery


however this treachery
is no
treachery at all

at all
O PRoPhets



O Re TuRns


History is about to crack

w id e
open




Wrestle yer Angel!




______________________ who the fuck are you?



the fun's just started..


EnTraN CE ..



In the end it's all Laughter As Dante

wrote Comedia


Up

we go the Ladder, eh?

Up the Ladder
Jacob


yes
my love


angels take us
as
they
take me
to
thee ~



always ready
for your
ange ~









le FunAmBule ~


Le Funambule de Jean Genet


---------------//"Le Funambule. Ecrit pour Abdallah, c’est un long poème d’amour, mais aussi son Art Poétique : variations sur une dramaturgie du cirque, du théâtre et de la danse, réflexions sur l’artiste dans le monde, solitude et ambivalence de l’acteur, va-et-vient entre effacement et gloire, ombre et lumière, mal et bien, apparence et réalité, profane et sacré. Tous les thèmes y sont tendus comme le câble d’acier. Abdallah, initié par Jean Genet, le féconde, à son tour du chant le plus pur pour celui qui l’a inspiré. Miroir l’un de l’autre, ils se recréent dans une fascination réciproque, un croisement d’images et de reflets. L’un par l’autre ils s’accomplissent et accomplissent l’œuvre. Le funambule s’est suicidé en 1964 ; il avait 28 ans. Jean Genet en concevra une responsabilité et une douleur qui ne s’effaceront jamais ; les derniers jours de sa vie, il ne parlait que d’Abdallah à ses proches."
excerpted from
le funambule Jean Genet
-------------



---------- A funambuler. stumble foot. Not Oedpal foot. is it hoof rink? or cracked roun d edge of circus tumbling? Fumble it foot. Grace to know, knock this tongue foot ~

Genet's FunAmble performed here.




"Que nous importe à toi et à moi un bon acrobate, tu seras cette merveille embrasée, toi qui brûles, qui dure quelques instants. Tu brûles, sur ton fil tu es la foudre, ou si tu veux encore un danseur solitaire. Allumée je ne sais par quoi qui t'éclaire et te consume à la fois c'est une misère terrible qui te fais danser. Le public ? Il n'y voit que du feu, et croyant que tu joues, ignorant que tu es l'incendiaire, il applaudit l'incendie." Genet ~

Alors dire ce magnifique, ce très long poème sur la posture périlleuse de l’artiste, c’est se questionner encore, se désirer encore, c’est découvrir la lumière éblouissante d’un avenir flou, c’est désirer encore désirer.





Le funambule
Uploaded by AdiuTV






... de Jean Genet

"Oser dire ce texte est assez proche d’oser rester en vie d’oser continuer à se travailler comme pour en finir plus lentement plus lucide dans l’extrême émotion qui nous étreint à chaque lever de jour, à chaque lever de rideau, à chaque confrontation avec soi et l’autre. Une émotion sur le fil d’une certaine lucidité."


Le texte a été dit dit
dit texte
text e

dit

texte dit par Martine Amanieu, percussions : Yoann Scheidt, danse Muriel Barra

domaine de Malagar, Saint-Maixant


finding here and
there
at Intercession over-blog




10 et 11 mars 2009 le Funambule de Jean Genet au plessis théâtre à Tours

___________________________________



2009/02/25

oh that moon


___________________________________________

Italy _ 1972 Alone. Avenue of



__________________ heard of poets dying there







Year before across and over Canada by thumb hitch _ ing rides. across trains and
cars



April

1970 departure


35c ents
in yer pocket across Canada

indeed....
then the dream of

that poet
walking ahead of

me in outer space

treading



toward

the planet
of poetry

OsIp OsIp poetry holdin....



In a discussion concerning the distinction between Book and Notebook, Nadezhda Mandelstam makes this comment about the collection which goes under the name of Tristia. Turns out that it was not assembled by Mandelstam.


In his younger days M had used the word "book" in the sense of "phase." In 1919 he thought he would be the author of one book only, but then he realized that there was a division between Stone and the poems that came to be known under the general title Tristia. This title, incidentally, was given to the collection by Kuzmin, and the book itself is a miscellany of jumbled-up manuscripts taken to Berlin by the publisher without M's knowledge. " Hope Against Hope page 192.


She is not critical about this fact (what a relief not to have criticism!) , but simply points it out and in the next chapter of the book, Cycle 41, she continues to discuss the poems, and their relation to M's sense of phases, and what it was that constituted a book for him, or a cycle of verses and the interplay between the varied strands .


--------------------- I came across this striking cover of Tristia. It would be interesting to know how the editions of M';s have fared since she wrote her memoir, and how this edition came to be. Did the editors know that the poems in it were not organized by the poet, and if they did, how did they consider this?


__________________________________ this photo of Mandelstam in a happier moment ~




One must not forget the great Joy in the Poet,

and the self - humour of laughter
in spite of all ~


(them versers that
themselves to o
seriouslee become
bad poets)



"TRISTIA", d'Ossip Mandelstam. Livre de poésies publié aux éditions "Pétropolis" (Berlin- St Pétersbourg) en 1922, à 3 000 exemplaires dont 100 numérotés. Illustration de la couverture de Mstislav Doboujinsky.





'The past and the present do not denote two successive moments, but two elements that coexist' ... Professor Deleuze on Bergson


so each past of the poem
runs ahead to its future
in the receiving loving hands of its reader
lips


So all poem co-existing in the folding and un
rolling





"Only in Russia is poetry respected – it gets people killed. Is there anywhere else where poetry is so common a motive for murder? "- M says this to Nadia in Hope against Hope.... that is, Mandelestam says this to his wife.

(ah, but they say the time 's changed Osip but it's not its everywhere this killing)





indeed ~ Russians receive poetry vividly ~ in bushels of heaps it ~ and take it to heart. we once did . memorizing , thank god, huge swathes of verse ~


George Stein er in a talk I heard once speaks of Russian audiences reciting along with a poet as he recited to the em one of Shakespeare's sonnets...


Now that must have been
something

imagine
what beauty
and audience
of 4000 or more
reciting together
that

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


but we amnesiacs recall in fragments of bitter pieced our memory and memorized snippings...

us aphasiacs an failures

us readers of delirium....

------------------------ Steiner the impassioned polyglot


and Wordsworth too was able to cite from memory great chunks of poetry ....


but us half wits we can barely read our reaching hands spacing for text.....


now having said all that terribly sad truth

one has to imagine another side to the memorization view and the sometimes specious
perspective which claims poetry was once based on oral traditions... true as it is.....

One cannot imagine Finnegans Wake being memorized and handed down

even by the author....

It had to be written

and its written-ness is

its memorization


the writing is the memorization
and the fact of
ecriture is the act of heart and variety which makes its

memory as text the tongue licking backward as its speaking self composes
the written word ~

hands which love
hands which hold
and those that clutch
and
most living those hands
which write...
(this is a memory of a verse by Tzara written
in the 50's).

_______________________________________


I've also come across this blog

">devoted to reading Russian books href="http://lizoksbooks.blogspot.com/">Lizok's Bookshelf

and this connecting bridge to the Anna Akhamtova Museum
>

------------------------ et voila Tristia
Recited in the original Russian, followed by a reading of Joseph Brodsky's English translation




The act of writing is memorization. The text as written is already the memorized tradition. The reading writing tradition and the
oral forgottentradition




_______________________
__>________________________________ poets, including myself self self self , should not be
afraid to make mistakes,


(the mistake is where it is at the thing ~ the portals of aleatory genius )
in deed
we ought to make big ones
the bigger the better

the larger the wider

as the tongue's
far and wide


_______________________

beside which we make them anyhows. as tense to verb is clutter to vein, and vain is not vase to its hoped for rip. the mouth roars, the god calls



yes


the god

calls ~




















2009/02/21

mandelstam monuement in Voronezh.



A Monument to this Spinoza of Poets. and reader of the long immanence of skies earth, train stations, and doors breat hing. rooms opening out ~


"If one is thus to regard the sense as the content, then one must consider everything else in the word as a simple mechanical appendage that only impedes the swift transmission of the thought. "The word as such" was slow aborning. Gradually, one after the other, all the elements of the word were drawn into the concept of form; up to now only the conscious sense, the Logos, has been erroneously and arbitrarily regarded as the content.

Mandelshtam Utro Akmeizma p1

We do not wish to divert ourselves with a stroll in the "forest of symbols," because we have a more virgin, a denser forest--divine physiology, the boundless complexity of our dark organism."

Utro Akmeizma p4







the monument ~ which I've not seen. So I've no idea of its proportions ~ but it looks like he's pretty tough and cocky in the right kind of way, ~

the Kremlin mountaineer 1933 _ is the poem which began the chain of events leading to his exile and eventual execution ~ long chain of word leading to dying ~




We live, deaf to the land beneath us,
Ten steps away no one hears our speeches,

All we hear is the Kremlin mountaineer,
The murderer and peasant-slayer.

His fingers are fat as grubs
And the words, final as lead weights, fall from his lips,

His cockroach whiskers leer
And his boot tops gleam.

Around him a rabble of thin-necked leaders -
fawning half-men for him to play with.

The whinny, purr or whine
As he prates and points a finger,

One by one forging his laws, to be flung
Like horseshoes at the head, to the eye or the groin.

And every killing is a treat
For the broad-chested Ossete.

____________________________________________

the problem with all translations, esp. from Russian is the sound.
sound values don't transfer ~
the Ear's sung distinctly
in each vocable
divergently
tongue to tongue



__________________________________________________


Monument to the great Russian “Silver Age” poet Osip Mandelstam was unveiled on 2 September in Voronezh.

The poet was exiled to Voronezh in 1934 for his poem that sounded like a slap in the face of the Stalinist regime: “We live not feeling the country under us…”
In spring 1937 Mandelstam left Voronezh, it turned out, that forever. Soon he was arrested again and perished under Vladivostok.

The monument that evoked some disputes, according to its author’s message has embodied the poet’s sophisticated personality, his quests and tragic turns of fate.

The sculpture has been set up in the city park “Orlyonok”, at the crossroads of Friedrich Engels Street and Tchaikovsky Street. Next to it, in House 13, Engels Street, Osip Mandelstam lived for some time during his Voronezh exile.

via : communa.ru

and

http://www.russia-ic.com/

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This fragment is his final letter

"
My darling Nadia - are you alive, my dear?

I was given five years for counter-revolutionary activity by the Special Tribunal. The transport left Butyrki on September 9, and we got here October 12. My health is very bad, I'm extremely exhausted and thin, almost unrecognizable, but I don't know whether there's any sense in sending clothes, food and money. You can try, all the same, I'm very cold without proper clothes.

I am in Vladivostok. This is a transit point. I've not been picked for Kolyma and may have to spend the winter here."



The final arrest in 1938 was the end.... the end... sent to a . He was sent to a labor camp in Siberia.... The Soviet government reported

that Osip Mandelstam died at Vtoraya Rechka, on 27th December, 1938. .... body ... placed in an unmarked mass grave
somewhere in the snow ... in the snow... snow.... snow unmarked.. this grave... grave like so many others thousands unmarked... graves..... The letter quoted above was smuggled out of the camp shortly before he died


and yet his words live ~


----------------------------------------
The Stalin Epigram
Translated by W. S. Merwin

Our lives no longer feel ground under them.
At ten paces you can’t hear our words.

But whenever there’s a snatch of talk
it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer,

the ten thick worms his fingers,
his words like measures of weight,

the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip,
the glitter of his boot-rims.

Ringed with a scum of chicken-necked bosses
he toys with the tributes of half-men.

One whistles, another meows, a third snivels.
He pokes out his finger and he alone goes boom.

He forges decrees in a line like horseshoes,
One for the groin, one the forehead, temple, eye.

He rolls the executions on his tongue like berries.
He wishes he could hug them like big friends from home.
---------------------
As always the best way to 'see"a poem in another language
than one's own is to compare
the different versions, no?
yes, yes
jes/ jes да

--------------------
because Russian strikes me as an inside language more than ours
more than others inside the rule of life
and its domains ~




-----------------------------------------------------------------------





via :
Wikisource

and other spot ~
---------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------

La guêpe et l'orchidée


La guêpe et l'orchidée
Essai sur Gilles Deleuze
Collection : L'Extrême Contemporain
Editeur : Belin
Directeur de collection : Michel Deguy

"Ce qui conduit de bout en bout l'expérience philosophique de Gilles Deleuze, c'est un anti-nihilisme, un immense amour de la vie. Dans son œuvre labyrinthique et baroque, les règnes minéral, végétal, animal et humain s'échangent ; dans le paradoxe, l'anomalie, le fragment, s'élabore une vie totale et continue.



fragment lavie
la vie
fragmentee
tea



lavie lavie
lavie
lavIe
LaViEE


La vie, c'est l'immense toile d'araignée de plis de chaque être connectés aux plis de tous les autres, partout où les rencontres permettent d'animer ces plis et de leur donner un sens nouveau. La vie, c'est le coup de foudre quotidien des rencontres avec une couleur, des yeux,

une main, une phrase.


unephrase main
main phrase
une main
une phrase





Des artistes (ici des romanciers : Proust, Butler, Döblin) et des métaphores devenues métamorphoses (ici les noces asymétriques de la guêpe et de l'orchidée) se mettent à dévoiler l'à côté central de l'œuvre.

Lire Deleuze, c'est aussi faire l'étonnante expérience del'à côté, pleinement philosophique, de la philosophie."

Arnaud Villani, né en 1944, philosophe, enseigne en Première Supérieure au Lycée Masséna de Nice. Outre de nombreux articles de philosophie en revues, il publie des poèmes et des traductions de poésie (Nu(e), Hiems, Po&sie).

2009/02/19

from russia with love; In this Building they decide who lives and who dies....







A dispute between what is given... and th e sense of what can be made of it....
dissensus a nOther sense of reality... I think it's interesting to compare what Ranciere is speaking about and his demonstration of it and the end of his talk with what the russian dissenters are doing over in Petersburg, Moscow and other places in the big bear ~ Russia



------------------ from What is to be Done ~ a News paper of Engaged Creativity



Chto delat/What is to be done? was founded in early 2003 in Petersburg by a workgroup of artists, critics, philosophers, and writers from Petersburg, Moscow, and Nizhny Novgorod (see full list of participants on the web site) with the goal of merging political theory, art, and activism.
Since then, Chto delat has been publishing an English-Russian newspaper on issues central to engaged culture, with a special focus on the relationship between a repoliticization of Russian intellectual culture and its broader international context. These newspapers are usually produced in the context of collective initiatives such as art projects or conferences.

The group was founded in May 2003 in Petersburg in an action called “The Refoundation of Petersburg .” Shortly afterwards, the original, as yet nameless core group began publishing a newspaper called Chto delat/What is to be done? The name of the group derives from a novel by the Russian 19th author Nikolai Chernyshevsky, and immediately brings reminiscences of the first socialist worker’s self-organizations in Russia, which Lenin actualized in his “What is to be done?” (1902). Chto delat sees itself as a self-organizing platform for cultural workers intent on politicizing their “knowledge production” through reflections and redefinitions of an engaged autonomy for cultural practice today.

_________________________________A NewTRust in the power of the Image
_________________________________________focus on th e small in the what cannot b e seen
the barely visible

produces a shift
curisoity
a politics
of the resitance of the gaze

part of the landscape itself.....




___________________



this article and you tube vide are from from the Febuary 6th posting concerning the lawyer Stanislav Markov ~
"Honoring the memory of the murdered lawyer Stanislav Markelov and the journalist and anarchist Anastasia Baburova has very quickly become a matter of low-scale partisan warfare in Russia. The police have been quick to interfere with or altogether stamp out spontaneous (i.e., “unsanctioned”) collective expressions of grief and outrage. First, there was the antifa/anarchist march through downtown Moscow, where dozens were detained even before the procession could get under way. The following day (January 21), in Petersburg, mourners initially faced a police blockade; they were finally allowed to march to the Field of Mars only after they agreed to hide their memorial photos and candles. In Krasnodar on February 2—a day of international solidarity against the wave of terror unleashed Russian activists that saw rallies and memorials from Moscow to Paris and Rome—the police ordered activists to turn off a boom box that was playing a recording of Markelov’s speech at a November 30 rally against political terror in Moscow.

______________________________________________
a shift of the worn out affect of indignation
___________________________________________________

Yesterday (February 8), after having been turned down by Moscow authorities when they applied for a permit, a group of about twenty or so human rights activists marched from the

Garden Ring to the site of the murders on Prechistenka. As reported by Legal Team member Nikolai Zboroshenko on his LiveJournal, seven marchers were _________________________________________

the landscape of the visible...


detained by police two hours after the event. The police intended to charge them with “disobeying the lawful demands of police officials.” Unfortunately, the police (in this case) picked the wrong group of people to mess with: the Legal Team, it is safe to say, knows the

--------------------------------------------------------------

a ttention

politics of the percept and affect
distance

resistance of the

visible




--------------------------------------------------------------------
Russian criminal and civil codes better than the police themselves. After a few hours in custody, the marchers were released and a police official even issued an apology for the incident.

Meanwhile, in Petersburg, a group of anarchists carried out a lightning-strike action against the city’s most prominent symbol of state terror—the so-called Big House (local FSB headquarters), on Liteiny Prospect. They affixed a memorial plaque bearing the inscription “In This Building They Decide Who Lives and For How Long” to the façade of the building, and laid a memorial wreath and flowers under the plaque. As one of them wrote in his LiveJournal:

The FSB continues the traditions of the KGB-OGPU-NKVD. Why is there no plaque in memory of the victims of political repression during the Soviet period, in memory of the victims of the Great Terror of 1937–1938, on even one building of the former KGB? Why are part of the archives of the punitive organs still closed? The authorities declare [their adherence to] democracy and freedom, but in fact they continue the traditions of terror."
--------------------------- Unnpredictiablity of the Affect

----------------- it's this tininess which interests me
and its why im not so keen on those artist bloggers ive run into who are so focused on
indig
nation
tobedonetobedonedotobedone

What is to be Done ~

O


On s'assoira, toi et moi, un moment dans la cuisine, la bonne odeur du kérosène,










You and I will sit for a while in the kitchen, the good smell of kerosene, sharp knife, big round loaf - Pump up the stove all the way. And have some string handy for the basket, before daylight, to take to the station, where no one can come after us.

ss


2009/02/17

more on mandelstam




-------


I am reading Hope against Hope (with compelling urgency even almost blindly ..) - Nadeshda Mandestam's Memoir of her own and Osip M's life in exile. this is a biography. biography of banishement of sudden "miracles" of the fears and terrors of millions .... the revolution of 1917 and its aftermmaths.....I can't hel p but think it proves that everything is political. reading her book is bone shuddering. one knows this is so, even if it is not the case in this country


(her name is Russian signifies hope )


'this country' is a strange russia of denial and disarming of
patriation and other falsehoods
i cant begin to speak of 'this' country.



It was published in two volumes in 1970/ One of the high periods of the Cold War...


--- another cold war continues under other names.
war is the way of the world. it does not mean it has to remain that way.

history of 20 th century and the 21 st thus far is history of prisoners,prisons, and escapes, liberations, freedom, getting out , doors swinging open,, finding a
space for
oneself and others ,,




democracy now has a story about american judges sentencing kids
to private jails
------------

freeing the prisoner's
hard work
death row
to life
flow



--

prisoner s of time money
body

;

love is a prison.
always being watched.


--- but politics is the negotiation of the watcher and watched. a flow of goods and people rounding up themselves for spaces of better freedom. people speak of spirituality as if it was not political but spiritual is too political. the earth is politcal. the stars
are political
breathing
is political


i work daily on this new book ive begun ./ slow / drudgery.


everyone has their prison, the
heart's a prison that never stops
beating
beating its prisoner alive &
dead
death's a prison they say
wont let
you
escape so they
say life's a prison
too

well
what do i know
about bones
and prison
except this




_______

all of this is obvious. about politics. i mean. it feels trite to even say it.

rabble ca has a series of
yes, what, yes,
more to

---
bail outs for rich
banks
world wide corporations
so death goes
on hanging its living ones


--


----------------------
A poem by the Russian that has been translated into
French


Garde à jamais sauve ma parole pour son arrière-goût de malheur et de fumée

Pour la résine de commune endurance, pour le probe goudron du travail.

L’eau dans les puits de Novgorod sera noire et liquoreuse

Pour qu’à Noël s’y reflète l’étoile aux sept nageoires.

En retour, père mien, mon ami, mon aide de rudesse,

Je -frère méconnu, mis hors la loi du cercle de son peuple-

Promets de construire des puits coiffés d’une charpente si robuste

Que les Tatars puissent y descendre les princes dans un bac.









2009/02/14

if this fiction

i saw them just as they saw 'me'
i was air to their thane
sowing seeds as gold to gear

hovering behind city hall
i wore an apron i had a hat on
it tattered the reporter close to her camera
naked me in her eyeballs

saunting in her throat paced
as only woods in front of hushed still her camera was on obscura she was naked as Hermes and a humped bikini doll she hands me a map it has her stars on it her tongue her mound of penis her mound of venus warm as wet mud
she wants to construct a body
an edicice
for nothing

she does it for free
her fee is cheap
its tawdy and the city mothers
imagine thee hundred a day
for our fucking kisses
its the sales that count
orgasm missed like organs
in the church of all saints
streets renamed inthe language of libido's
cathexis fuck
a stanza for her tits
her bosom berries breast
come in each way


she envied my name
but never asked it
the ballad was balladering her
nuptials
something was amiss
Miss twinkle toes
got her ready mate
ever ready penmate clued in
it was the close of things

winter busted her chops
she's shiva to her neck down
i'm naked to her preposterous rear-end

if you think this means anything
it doesn't i'm only showing how to take apart a seam
break it around the end of

bad poems crumble their threads
as prose is geese to gore

or say Mona has fritters for breakfast
she showing naked antlers across her ass
makes passes in her praise
coming with every night shifting her neglegentitalmen to other women
rushed to her heavy hip torrents




underneath your vase




Morning

below night's coat you choke air and the medley of birds,
beside desire the warm day' s rock
coarse hands of light
are up and willing




what night is it?
is it night? this quivering reed
stretches nerves
yellow corn fields





Hold this piece of silver traitor
Climb the ladder to the bed you never entered
is that crystal on your thigh
tear the lace off my teeth'd gnaw
everyone knows winter's dead
in your blessed feet
your belles-lettres hips




below night's coal
Hills thaw you're holding my sex
promised flower of its erect hour
fired column sprawl vines around your back
your back's naked and coming




On abyss the cliff

you hang a mouth abutting
jutting open spring board to the finish....





rain comes like thawed wheats

sweaters waisting your arms
take off your underthings
your mouth is coming




underneath your vase

your breasts
your tits holding out for my suck






this is saturday night in the western metropolis and

you're imagining rain day night canoes passable gulches
and asses you've worn




here the exclamation hardly matters as you're breathless on the other shore

panting
panting

paris villages 19 2 0




from an interesting

an

peculiar site

calle d strange

maps

__ so VOila, Paris,
Paree
at the time of Appollinaire and Tzara,
et Picasso and Joyce
et Celine
et d es autres
personnes
et meme
moi
et toi
dans les corps
non - connues
dans des
vies
avant vie
cette vie
si
present
et non
present
and tant d'autres des gens ordinaire
comme peut-être vos parents et vos grandparents
et le mère et père des millions des gens inconnues
dans ce monde connue et non-connue




brodsky speaking mandelstam da ? da... da? da...

---------------- from Russia with love ~ d a


et brodsky lisant un de ses poems ~






relaxed, informal , casual ~


Ive finished reading The Idiot. A nightmare end. a n
ending misunderstandable ~ beguiled baffled ~

Nastasya Filipovna
murdered
Rogoszhin
penal servitude
Siberia
15 years
Myshkin
returned
to
Idiocy
in Switzerland
a strange
country
harbours madmen
madwomen
writers
revolutionaries
Ellen West
Nietzsche
MyShKin
real an
unreal

________________
one of the hardest books Ive read. but most thirst inducing.

2009/02/13

om waits- Chocolate Jesus

_______________ good old Tom Waits and though it's an Easter let's post it
on Saint Valentine's day _ the day of Lovers far and near close and distant touched and never touched ceux et celles qu'on pense chaque jour.s... oui oui oui les amants comme toi comme toi oui on a pas danser encore mais encore je pense toi a toi a chaque encore coeur encore satisfy my soul que on pense on pense on imagine .. tousjours




_______________ les jours et nuits passe
mais l'amour ne passera pas
ne passera pas
elle a pas passe
elle


_______________

2009/02/12

combien

Henri Michaud avait écrite " Combien de fois j’ai songé à vous...'

plusieurs et infiniment ...

2009/02/11

Palais de Tokyo: La Chambre des Cauchemars

------------------- How wonderful to become in Paris. Les devenirs de Paris. Tousjours la villes de decouvertes, de beaute, de choses non-prévue et jamais vue. Alors, un jour... une
nuit, j'ai va voir toute ça. En attendant en regarde a la distance .
'A newly discovered collection of Aleister Crowley paintings exhibited at Palais de Tokyo in Paris, France. These paintings were created at the Abbey of Thelema in Cefalu, Italy. Exhibit commentary translated by "Marogan.'



2009/02/09

on yer

RecallToPoetry ReC All rE CaLl: Un long dimanche de fiançailles: "So I shall."

well didya?
notyethmm
whenthen?
kenwhen
orthen?
orthenographiesare
more innaresin than otiobigographemes





working on mynew book the madmen have destroyed love ... and replace d it with hatred. hate. hate. this being this world being, demonic _ know s only hate destruction and the demolition of anything precious in humans.

that sorrow is death.


So I shall.

comment faire

sourire



comment fair un sourire


et un
sourirealiste


sourirrealiste




Clif
fo
rd
sourirrealiste!.so
sourirrealiste!

doctor duffy

in deed


February

______________
poet
collagist
bloggist
sourirrealiste
writer
performance artist
doctor
devenir personne?
personne devenir vous? moi vous? vous tu?
voodoo!
~ grande
sourire

not much of a dancer ces jours
sore foot!~
hiver
d'hiver
hibou ~

2009/02/07

back to beuys

and the way it goes . doctor duffy./ you are artist. in the book state. wrought. to new book. yes a book of adventures. in thee daily life. of yes and no. hunger and sleep. love and desire.




back to beuys to beuys beuys beuys yes indeed. mister hope and mister hands on.keep makin, yer own art. in yer own way. as necessity governs the idea
of the small
and the little
and the big
and inbetween
so we are small frail creatures creating each in her own way. so love is and the dance of.


-_________________________


a certain winter day
l''l b become
spring

Un long dimanche de fiançailles




I've just become aware of this film tonight.

I 've just read about it a little. Ive' seen this excerpt. I like it. I want to see the whole movie now.
So I shall.

2009/02/06

les biches not les ... bitches .. i know where is an Hind...





See things in themiddle

not muddle


I know where is
an hind
a biche
not a
bitch




It's not easy to see things in the middle,




rather than looking down on them
from
above

or up


at them

from



below,

It's not easy to see things in the middle,




rather than looking down on them
from
above

or up


at them

from



below,




or from left to right or right to left:



try it, you'll see that everything changes. --




or from left to right or right to left:



try it, you'll see that everything changes.
--






les biches

___________________________
Les Biches 19
de
Claude Chabrol ~

Director/Writer: Claude Chabrol
Writer: Paul Gegauff
Cinematographer: Jean Rabier
Music: Pierre Jansen

Cast: Stephane Audran, Jacqueline Sassard, Jean-Louis Trintignant, Nane Germon, Serge Bento, Dominique Zardi, Henri Attal, Claude Chabrol

                  Les Biches _____________________


Theme of the double _simulacra and other motifs of modern love , jealousy, the question of three and one ; of one and two ~ so the poetry of hate. and love. reminiscent of proust and others...






but is it us who manufactures our own misery? how does misery come about in the world of love?
the economics of desire is ever deceptive ~ we hate what we love and love what we hate ~



______________



 

2009/02/05

kaddish

au radio france _ Vivace ~

such ...
intense ~



for a
death
there is
life ~
Kaddish

Par Germain Trouvé
2006V8829E0034
rediffusion de 29.05.06
#

11:52

Henryk Mikolaj Gorecki
3ème Symphonie op.36 " Symphonie des chants plaintifs ", pour soprano et orchestre : " Lento, sostenuto tranquillo ma cantabile " / " Lento e largo, tranquillissimo - cantabilissimo - dolcissimo - legatissimo " / " Lento, cantabile - semplice "
Zofia Kilanowicz, soprano
Orchestre Philharmonique de Cracovie
Jacek Kasprzyk, direction
réf ...
#
et à...
12:49

Serge Kaufmann
Suite Yiddish, extrait : " Prière " pour violoncelle et piano
Philippe Pennanguer, Violoncelle
Marie-Josèphe Truys, Piano
réf : PAV



_____________




in spite of and






and the child rose... scattering ... flowrs
'Talitha cumiTalitha cumi '

----------------

for sum1 with yr edukatshun. you make alotta spellin'misstakes. mister D.
ya no that? yes.
The Dead Christ Manet ~ how different is the Vision of Manet. Audition and Vision.







The Dead Christ and the Angels





' a miracle'

'Talitha cumiTalitha cumi '



'and the child was raised _________ sitting up in her coffin '



-- Interestingly in spite of all the passion and drama and extreme expression of emotion and love and hate, is there a scene in Dostoevsky where anyone kisses, they embrace momentarily but no one kisses, no goes to bed, none wake up in bed with a partner. that is why the drama is perhaps so frustrating as it leads to no consummation except more and more dramas. Slavs are not great lovers? Does anyone kiss in Tolstoy? I don't remember. Does Anna Karenina kiss and caress and make love and go to bed? Do bodies do more than hug cling and embrace. ? Screaming alcoholic high drama of russian drama queens and their sentimental alcoholism. it is this i find in any group that gets too folksy. it is disgusting. a lot of frenzy and action which leads to nothing, except the madness of the peasant.An d is that not what Stalin was: the stupid peasant as ruler. The Shrewd ultimate peasant of peasants: ruling guard over his paranoid empire of shrew stupid loathsome fear. and his legacy now in russia. of course the delays of gratification Karamazov have everything to do with religion and greed. the old man's lascivious greed toward even his own sons.

_______________________________________________________

and I like any lover __ generalize __ which might lead to philosophy




so let us listen to Miss Luba

and not
generalize or reterritorialize about great nations and their peoples and habits



let us dance
instead