Poems, Lyrics, & Short Stories I Like

Spidey Revivey

Porn is okay here long as it ain't dudes.
(Anyone can contribute)

8bc5910e4d96d29d8bd088f5b4c2f990.jpg

"Desert Rose" by Sting

I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand
I dream of fire
These dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire
And in the flames
Her shadows play in the shape of a man's desire
This desert rose
Each of her veils, a secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this
And as she turns
This way she moves in the logic of all my dreams
This fire burns
I realise that nothing's as it seems
I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand
I dream of rain
I lift my gaze to empty skies above
I close my eyes, this rare perfume
Is the sweet intoxication of her love
I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand
Sweet desert rose
Each of her veils, a secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this
Sweet desert rose
This memory of Eden haunts us all
This desert flower, this rare perfume
Is the sweet intoxication of the fall
 
51BiUWPD-9L._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg

"The American Night" by Jim Morrison

for leather accrues
The miracle of the streets
The scents & smogs &
pollens of existence

Shiny blackness
so totally naked she was
Totally un-hung-up

We looked around
lights now on
Top see our fellow travellers
~~~

I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes

I am struck
By the feather
of your soft
Reply

The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain

And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain
~~~

She looked so sad in sleep
Like a friendly hand
just out of reach
A candle stranded on
a beach
While the sun sinks low
an H-bomb in reverse
~~~

Everything human
is leaving
her face

Soon she will disappear
into the calm
vegetable
morass

Stay!

My Wild Love!
~~~

I get my best ideas when the
telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun
To feel like a fool-when your
baby’s gone. A new ax to my head:
Possession. I create my own sword
of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time.
A little tot prancing the boards playing
w/Revolution. When out there the
World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs
of murderers & real madmen. Hanging
from windows as if to say: I’m bold-
do you love me? Just for tonight.
A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines
at the glass sliding door (why can’t I
be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine
revs & races against the grain- dry
rasping carbon protest. I put the book
down- & begin my own book.
Love for the fat girl.
When will SHE get here?
~~~

In the gloom
In the shady living room
where we lived & died
& laughed & cried
& the pride of our relationship
took hold that summer
What a trip
To hold your hand
& tell the cops
you’re not 16
no runaway
The wino left a little in
the old blue desert
bottle
Cattle skulls
the cliche of rats
who skim the trees
in search of fat
Hip children invade the grounds
& sleep in the wet grass
’til the dogs rush out
I’m going South!
 
Since even short stories are a bit too much for the word counter on here, I've decided to make a Top Five Short Stories that I have enjoyed lately. May rank them later, but for now they aren't in any order of favorites. Just a list of those I read in the past couple of weeks.




1. "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber" by Ernest Hemingway

2. "The Birthmark" by Nathaniel Hawthorne

3. "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson

4. "Popsy" by Stephen King

5. "Here There Be Tygers" by Stephen King

I'm a little on a King kick right now, at least for his short stories. Included "Here There Be Tygers" because I find it fascinating that this was one of King's first stories. He had written it while still in high school. "Popsy" was just a fascinating tale of perhaps the most cliched monster in all of horror. It does something new, and is highly underrated. I'll leave the avid reader to discover what it is for themselves.

The other three are of course classics and if you haven't read them, you're doing yourself a disservice.



There's a good chance I'll do this with novels, novellas, flash fiction and other forms of writing as well.
 
422022._UY200_.jpg


My favorite short story of all time. In the very brief, six or so, pages that this story covers, you'll be given one of the most haunting endings you'll ever read.

The entire story can be read here. It's amazing to me that such a compelling story was written in 1890, and I can tell where parts of this story were repurposed for certain blockbuster films.
 
That's actually a brilliant idea to link a few stories that are in public domain. I'll keep that in mind.

And I've read Occurrence at Owl Creek back in Middle School. Probably the first short story I read that had a twist ending. Well worth skimming over.
 
ThinkstockPhotos-501123466_field_img_hero_988_380.jpg


"Last Song" by Jason Webley

One day,
The snow began to fall,
And slowly, inch by inch,
Covered up the earth.
'Til finally,
The top of the tallest building,
Was lost beneath a powdered sea,
As quiet as a shadow's grave.

And we say that the world isn't dying.
And we pray that the world isn't dying.
And just maybe the world isn't dying.
Maybe she's heavy with child.

One night,
A woman took my hand.
I left my home and followed her
Into an icy field.
When I wanted to go back,
I'd lost the way.
So she beckoned me to lie beneath
The stone that always bore my name.

One morning,
We woke up in an alley.
To the smell of urine, alcohol,
Trash and gasoline,
With a dim sense of a notion
We'd held something in our hands,
That was bigger than us or God,
And we can never touch again.

I've been looking at the symptoms for a while,
Maybe she's heavy with child.
 
srilankaredrain.jpg


"Red Rain" by Peter Gabriel

red rain is coming down
red rain
red rain is pouring down
pouring down all over me

I am standing up at the water's edge in my dream
I cannot make a single sound as you scream
it can't be that cold, the ground is still warm to touch
this place is so quiet, sensing that storm

red rain is coming down
red rain
red rain is pouring down
pouring down all over me

well I've seen them buried in a sheltered place in this town
they tell you that this rain can sting, and look down
there is no blood around see no sign of pain
hay ay ay no pain
seeing no red at all, see no rain

red rain is coming down
red rain
red rain is pouring down
pouring down all over me

red rain
putting the pressure on much harder now
to return again and again
just let the red rain splash you
let the rain fall on your skin
I come to you defences down
with the trust of a child

red rain is coming down
red rain
red rain is pouring down
pouring down all over me
and I can't watch any more
no more denial
it's so hard to lay down in all of this
red rain is coming down
red rain is pouring down
red rain is coming down all over me
I see it
red rain is coming down
red rain is pouring down
red rain is coming down all over me
I'm bathing in it
red rain coming down
red rain is coming down
red rain is coming down all over me
I'm begging you
red rain coming down
red rain coming down
red rain coming down
red rain coming down
over me in the red red sea
over me
over me
red rain
 
The-Temple-cover.jpg


Lovecraft is essential for fans of short stories. I prefer "The Temple" because it focuses on the conversations a high ranking German military officer has in his head. It's therefore less about all the fun associations we tend to make with the Lovecraft mythos. The Temple can be read here, and I'll admit that it's a bit of an acquired taste.
 
million-man-march-940x394.jpg


"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
close-up-slow-motion-shot-of-american-flag-projection-on-womans-face-video-id555815491

"New Americana" by Halsey

Cigarettes and tiny liquor bottles
Just what you'd expect inside her new Balenciaga
Vile romance, turned dreams into an empire
Self made success now she woes with Rockefellers

Survival of the richest
The city's ours until the fall
They're Monaco and Hamptons bound
But we don't feel like outsiders at all

We are the new Americana
High on legal marijuana
Raised on Biggie and Nirvana
We are the new Americana

Young James Dean, some say
He looks just like his father
But he could never love somebody's daughter
Football team loved more than just the game
So he vowed to be his husband at the alter

Survival of the richest
The city's ours until the fall
They're Monaco and Hamptons bound
But we don't feel like outsiders at all

We are the new Americana
High on legal marijuana
Raised on Biggie and Nirvana
We are the new Americana

We know very well who we are
So we hold it down when summer starts
What kind of dough have you been spending
What kind of bubblegum have you been blowing lately

We are the new Americana
High on legal marijuana
Raised on Biggie and Nirvana
We are the new Americana

We are the new Americana
High on legal marijuana
Raised on Biggie and Nirvana
We are the new Americana
 
48480810.jpg

"I Know a Man" by Robert Creeley

As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking,—John, I

sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what

can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for
christ’s sake, look
out where yr going.
 
635931202398473900-El-Galeon.JPG

"O Captain! My Captain!" by Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.​

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.​

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.​
 
image002.jpg

"Eldorado" by Edgar Allan Poe

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—
This knight so bold—
And o’er his heart a shadow—
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
‘Shadow,’ said he,
‘Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?’

‘Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,’
The shade replied,—
‘If you seek for Eldorado!’
 
cute-dreamy-girl-pastel-Favim.com-2754847.jpg


"Ordinary Day" by Dolores O'Riordan

This is just an ordinary day
Wipe the insecurities away
I can see that the darkness will erode
Looking out the corner of my eye
I can see that the sunshine will explode
Far across the desert in the sky
Beautiful girl
Won't you be my inspiration?
Beautiful girl
Don't you throw your love around
What in the world, what in the world
Could ever come between us?
Beautiful girl, beautiful girl
I'll never let you down
Won't let you down
This is the beginning of your day
Life is more intricate than it seems
Always be yourself along the way
Living through the spirit of your dreams
Beautiful girl
Won't you be my inspiration?
Beautiful girl
Don't you throw your love around
What in the world, what in the world
Could ever come between us?
Beautiful girl, beautiful girl
I'll never let you down
Won't let you down
Down, down
 
Top 5 Short Stories I've Read In The Past Few Weeks:

1. "The Necklace" or "The Diamond Necklace" by Guy de Maupassant (link here)

2."What You Pawn I Will Redeem" by Sherman Alexie

3."Recitatif" by Toni Morrison

4."Candide" by Voltaire

5."Hunters In The Snow" by Tobias Wolff


I have shared a link for only one of these stories because it's the only one I know for sure that's in the public domain (Candide gets a pass because technically it's a novella). Don't want to share anything on this site that could constitute as advertising of course. I implore anybody to try and find these short stories on their own, as a couple I've mentioned I looked up and could find immediately.

No boogeymen in this list, but all of them share monsters of some sort. Each story is jam packed with what it means to be human, and explore such problems as race, religion, love, hate, etc. In fact peering over this list now it makes me more comfortable to say that these stories are the pinnacle of realism. If you're tired of vampires and perfect horny rich men, they're all worth a peek.
 
ec055afb12dde926569bf67ffcad691c.jpg


"The Cave" by Mumford and Sons

It's empty in the valley of your heart
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears
And all the faults you've left behind

The harvest left no food for you to eat
You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see
But I have seen the same
I know the shame in your defeat

But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

'Cause I have other things to fill my time
You take what is yours and I'll take mine
Now let me at the truth
Which will refresh my broken mind

So tie me to a post and block my ears
I can see widows and orphans through my tears
I know my call despite my faults
And despite my growing fears

But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

So come out of your cave walking on your hands
And see the world hanging upside down
You can understand dependence
When you know the maker's hand

So make your siren's call
And sing all you want
I will not hear what you have to say

'Cause I need freedom now
And I need to know how
To live my life as it's meant to be

And I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again
 
tumblr_lxhpik0hMm1r74bpd_1326043329_cover.jpg


"Moon River" by Audrey Hepburn

Moon River
Wider than a mile
I'm crossin' you in style
Some day
Old dream maker
You heart breaker
Wherever you're goin'
I'm goin' your way
Two drifters
Off to see the world
There's such a lot of world
To see
We're after the same
Rainbow's end
Waitin' round the bend
My huckleberry friend
Moon River
and me
 
Devil-businessman-e1464697478526.jpg


"Thou Shalt Not Kill" by Kenneth Rexroth

I
They are murdering all the young men.
For half a century now, every day,
They have hunted them down and killed them.
They are killing them now.
At this minute, all over the world,
They are killing the young men.
They know ten thousand ways to kill them.
Every year they invent new ones.
In the jungles of Africa,
In the marshes of Asia,
In the deserts of Asia,
In the slave pens of Siberia,
In the slums of Europe,
In the nightclubs of America,
The murderers are at work.


They are stoning Stephen,
They are casting him forth from every city in the world.
Under the Welcome sign,
Under the Rotary emblem,
On the highway in the suburbs,
His body lies under the hurling stones.
He was full of faith and power.
He did great wonders among the people.
They could not stand against his wisdom.
They could not bear the spirit with which he spoke.
He cried out in the name
Of the tabernacle of witness in the wilderness.
They were cut to the heart.
They gnashed against him with their teeth.
They cried out with a loud voice.
They stopped their ears.
They ran on him with one accord.
They cast him out of the city and stoned him.
The witnesses laid down their clothes
At the feet of a man whose name was your name—
You.


You are the murderer.
You are killing the young men.
You are broiling Lawrence on his gridiron.
When you demanded he divulge
The hidden treasures of the spirit,
He showed you the poor.
You set your heart against him.
You seized him and bound him with rage.
You roasted him on a slow fire.
His fat dripped and spurted in the flame.
The smell was sweet to your nose.
He cried out,
“I am cooked on this side,
Turn me over and eat,
You
Eat of my flesh.”


You are murdering the young men.
You are shooting Sebastian with arrows.
He kept the faithful steadfast under persecution.
First you shot him with arrows.
Then you beat him with rods.
Then you threw him in a sewer.
You fear nothing more than courage.
You who turn away your eyes
At the bravery of the young men.


You,
The hyena with polished face and bow tie,
In the office of a billion dollar
Corporation devoted to service;
The vulture dripping with carrion,
Carefully and carelessly robed in imported tweeds,
Lecturing on the Age of Abundance;
The jackal in double-breasted gabardine,
Barking by remote control,
In the United Nations;
The vampire bat seated at the couch head,
Notebook in hand, toying with his decerebrator;
The autonomous, ambulatory cancer,
The Superego in a thousand uniforms;
You, the finger man of behemoth,
The murderer of the young men.

II
What happened to Robinson,
Who used to stagger down Eighth Street,
Dizzy with solitary gin?
Where is Masters, who crouched in
His law office for ruinous decades?
Where is Leonard who thought he was
A locomotive? And Lindsay,
Wise as a dove, innocent
As a serpent, where is he?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


What became of Jim Oppenheim?
Lola Ridge alone in an
Icy furnished room? Orrick Johns,
Hopping into the surf on his
One leg? Elinor Wylie
Who leaped like Kierkegaard?
Sara Teasdale, where is she?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


Where is George Sterling, that tame fawn?
Phelps Putnam who stole away?
Jack Wheelwright who couldn’t cross the bridge?
Donald Evans with his cane and
Monocle, where is he?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


John Gould Fletcher who could not
Unbreak his powerful heart?
Bodenheim butchered in stinking
Squalor? Edna Millav who took
Her last straight whiskey? Genevieve
Who loved so much; where is she?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


Harry who didn’t care at all?
Hart who went back to the sea?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


Where is Sol Funaroff?
What happened to Potamkin?
Isidor Schneider? Claude McKay?
Countee Cullen? Clarence Weinstock?
Who animates their corpses today?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


Where is Ezra, that noisy man?
Where is Larsson whose poems were prayers?
Where is Charles Snider, that gentle
Bitter boy? Carnevali,
What became of him?
Carol who was so beautiful, where is she?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

III
Was their end noble and tragic,
Like the mask of a tyrant?
Like Agamemnon’s secret golden face?
Indeed it was not. Up all night
In the fo’c’sle, bemused and beaten,
Bleeding at the rectum, in his
Pocket a review by the one
Colleague he respected, “If he
Really means what these poems
Pretend to say, he has only
One way out—.” Into the
Hot acrid Caribbean sun,
Into the acrid, transparent,
Smoky sea. Or another, lice in his
Armpits and crotch, garbage littered
On the floor, gray greasy rags on
The bed. “I killed them because they
Were dirty, stinking Communists.
I should get a medal.” Again,
Another, Simenon foretold,
His end at a glance. “I dare you
To pull the trigger.” She shut her eyes
And spilled gin over her dress.
The pistol wobbled in his hand.
It took them hours to die.
Another threw herself downstairs,
And broke her back. It took her years.
Two put their heads under water
In the bath and filled their lungs.
Another threw himself under
The traffic of a crowded bridge.
Another, drunk, jumped from a
Balcony and broke her neck.
Another soaked herself in
Gasoline and ran blazing
Into the street and lived on
In custody. One made love
Only once with a beggar woman.
He died years later of syphilis
Of the brain and spine. Fifteen
Years of pain and poverty,
While his mind leaked away.
One tried three times in twenty years
To drown himself. The last time
He succeeded. One turned on the gas
When she had no more food, no more
Money, and only half a lung.
One went up to Harlem, took on
Thirty men, came home and
Cut her throat. One sat up all night
Talking to H. L. Mencken and
Drowned himself in the morning.
How many stopped writing at thirty?
How many went to work for Time?
How many died of prefrontal
Lobotomies in the Communist Party?
How many arc lost in the back wards
Of provincial madhouses?
How many on the advice of
Their psychoanalysts, decided
A business career was best after all?
How many are hopeless alcoholics?
René Crevel!
Jacques Rigaud!
Antonin Artaud!
Mayakofsky!
Essenin!
Robert Desnos!
Saint Pol Roux!
Max Jacob!
All over the world
The same disembodied hand
Strikes us down.
Here is a mountain of death.
A hill of heads like the Khans piled up.
The first-born of a century
Slaughtered by Herod.
Three generations of infants
Stuffed down the maw of Moloch.

IV
He is dead.
The bird of Rhiannon.
He is dead.
In the winter of the heart.
He is Dead.
In the canyons of death,
They found him dumb at last,
In the blizzard of lies.
He never spoke again.
He died.
He is dead.
In their antiseptic hands,
He is dead.
The little spellbinder of Cader Idris.
He is dead.
The sparrow of Cardiff.
He is dead.
The canary of Swansea.
Who killed him?
Who killed the bright-headed bird?
You did, you son of a bitch.
You drowned him in your cocktail brain.
He fell down and died in your synthetic heart.
You killed him,
Oppenheimer the Million-Killer,
You killed him,
Einstein the Gray Eminence.
You killed him,
Havanahavana, with your Nobel Prize.
You killed him, General,
Through the proper channels.
You strangled him, Le Mouton,
With your mains étendues.
He confessed in open court to a pince-nezed skull.
You shot him in the back of the head
As he stumbled in the last cellar.
You killed him,
Benign Lady on the postage stamp.
He was found dead at a Liberal Weekly luncheon.
He was found dead on the cutting room floor.
He was found dead at a Time policy conference.
Henry Luce killed him with a telegram to the Pope.
Mademoiselle strangled him with a padded brassiere.
Old Possum sprinkled him with a tea ball.
After the wolves were done, the vaticides
Crawled off with his bowels to their classrooms and quarterlies.
When the news came over the radio
You personally rose up shouting, “Give us Barabbas!”
In your lonely crowd you swept over him.
Your custom-built brogans and your ballet slippers
Pummeled him to death in the gritty street.
You hit him with an album of Hindemith.
You stabbed him with stainless steel by Isamu Noguchi,
He is dead.
He is Dead.
Like Ignacio the bullfighter,
At four o’clock in the afternoon.
At precisely four o’clock.
I too do not want to hear it.
I too do not want to know it.
I want to run into the street,
Shouting, “Remember Vanzetti!”
I want to pour gasoline down your chimneys.
I want to blow up your galleries.
I want to burn down your editorial offices.
I want to slit the bellies of your frigid women.
I want to sink your sailboats and launches.
I want to strangle your children at their finger paintings.
I want to poison your Afghans and poodles.
He is dead, the little drunken cherub.
He is dead,
The effulgent tub thumper.
He is Dead.
The ever living birds are not singing
To the head of Bran.
The sea birds are still
Over Bardsey of Ten Thousand Saints.
The underground men are not singing
On their way to work.
There is a smell of blood
In the smell of the turf smoke.
They have struck him down,
The son of David ap Gwilym.
They have murdered him,
The Baby of Taliessin.
There he lies dead,
By the Iceberg of the United Nations.
There he lies sandbagged,
At the foot of the Statue of Liberty.
The Gulf Stream smells of blood
As it breaks on the sand of Iona
And the blue rocks of Canarvon.
And all the birds of the deep sea rise up
Over the luxury liners and scream,
“You killed him! You killed him.
In your God damned Brooks Brothers suit,
You son of a bitch.”
 
the-future-1.jpg


"The Future" by Leonard Cohen

Give me back my broken night
my mirrored room, my secret life
it's lonely here,
there's no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby,
that's an order!
Give me crack and anal sex
Take the only tree that's left
and stuff it up the hole
in your culture
Give me back the Berlin wall
give me Stalin and St Paul
I've seen the future, brother:
it is murder.

Things are going to slide, slide in all directions
Won't be nothing
Nothing you can measure anymore
The blizzard, the blizzard of the world
has crossed the threshold
and it has overturned
the order of the soul
When they said REPENT REPENT
I wonder what they meant
When they said REPENT REPENT
I wonder what they meant
When they said REPENT REPENT
I wonder what they meant

You don't know me from the wind
you never will, you never did
I'm the little jew
who wrote the Bible
I've seen the nations rise and fall
I've heard their stories, heard them all
but love's the only engine of survival
Your servant here, he has been told
to say it clear, to say it cold:
It's over, it ain't going
any further
And now the wheels of heaven stop
you feel the devil's riding crop
Get ready for the future:
it is murder

Things are going to slide ...

There'll be the breaking of the ancient
western code
Your private life will suddenly explode
There'll be phantoms
There'll be fires on the road
and the white man dancing
You'll see a woman
hanging upside down
her features covered by her fallen gown
and all the lousy little poets
coming round
tryin' to sound like Charlie Manson
and the white man dancin'

Give me back the Berlin wall
Give me Stalin and St Paul
Give me Christ
or give me Hiroshima
Destroy another fetus now
We don't like children anyhow
I've seen the future, baby:
it is murder

Things are going to slide ...

When they said REPENT REPENT ...
 
12036388.jpg


"Let America Be America Again" by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!
 
aesthetic-black-fairylights-girl-Favim.com-3982599.jpg


"She Walks In Beauty" by Lord Byron

1

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

2

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

3

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
 
One of the few things I truly love in this world is discovering an art-form that can seem simple, only to defeat me with what turns out to be its complexity and eventually earn my respect when I spend the time needed to satisfactorily figure it out.

When I read "The King in Yellow" by Robert William Chambers (which can be read here) as a young kid, I was pretty befuddled.

I made a few mistakes, one was reading as though the author, and not the main characters, was the perspective that was attempting to convey information to me. I had to consider that the characters were testifying unto their experiences, which thankfully included the appeals of other characters in regard to what may have really been going on.

Another mistake I made was assuming that what would be explained would be entirely factual, because it would be silly to mislead the reader. Again, I was placing emphasis on the reputation of the author and not on the reputation of the character.

What I love most about The King in Yellow is that I had to read it multiple times to truly understand what was happening, and on top of that I grew more interested in the book the more times I read it. I admit that I have always had a pathetically short attention span, so it's no small accolade for a book to be able to make me want to read it multiple times.
 
I enjoy finding answers to the question of "What inspired this?"

One consistent crux of philosophical mental meanderings is the idea of character being more powerful than physical dominance, and the many fun ways that can be rehashed.

Seneca the Younger once mused "I do not distinguish by the eye, but by the mind, which is the proper judge of the man". This quote was made shortly after The Gregorian Calendar acknowledges that Jesus Christ was born, and is the earliest credible example I've found showing someone stating that a virtuous identity is more indicative of worth than a powerful physical presence.

A slightly less obscure 18th century philosopher known as Isaac Watts elaborated on this idea by penning this poem:

Were I so tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measured by my soul;
The mind's the standard of the man

That poem can be easily lost within the mountain of inspirational quotes that are attributed to Isaac Watts, but it's powerful to me for a personal reason. I've always been fascinated by the idea of being able to learn to not be so obsessed with physical beauty, which seems to be a very natural obsession.

A man known as Joseph Merrick to friends and family, and known as The Elephant Man to most everyone else who's been made aware of his existence, adapted his studies of philosophy into his own unique perspective on the physical world. Anyone who would pay to stare in horror at his physical frame would be presented with a brochure before hand, and on that brochure was this poem created by Joseph Merrick:

Tis true, my form is something odd
but blaming me, is blaming God,
Could I create myself anew
I would not fail in pleasing you.
 
I've been sick the past few weeks with a cold, so I haven't been the avid reader I usually am. I do recommend a few books though for those looking for a fresh experience.

I'm talking about visual literature. Not visual novels (that gets its own category one day), but the books that use imagery in a very interesting way. These are not short stories, and I don't know any poetry off the top of my head that fits in with what I'm talking about. But you guys are more than welcome to either look these three books up and/or grab a copy at your closest bookstore.


1. "The Unfinished Life of Addison Stone" by Adele Griffin: If you're a fan of Lana Del Rey, and want to see the rise and fall of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope, than do yourself a favor and read this. It uses paintings, photographs, etc in a very real manner and you will wonder to yourself if you're reading an autobiography or not. Excellent novel.

2. "House of Leaves" by Mark Z. Danielewski: Admittedly I am not finished with this book, but from the get-go it hits you that this is not an average horror story. It will twist and change words around on you. It will make them different colors. It will legit fuck with you. It's exciting. This may deserve a full review one of these days, but I can only comment on what I've read so far, and it does several visual things a book never does.

3. "Chopsticks" by Jessica Anthony & Rodrigo Corral: This may be my favorite of the three due to how subtle the mystery is. Read it once and you're under the impression it's a normal lovesick story. Read it again and you'll know it's a psychological thriller. Did I mention there are no words to this story? Like no narrative whatsoever. The reader is given images and must follow along to the best of their ability. A story you can't breeze through at all, as every page is a small puzzle you're forced to piece together.
 

Users who are viewing this thread

Members online

No members online now.

Forum statistics

Threads
174,825
Messages
3,300,727
Members
21,726
Latest member
chrisxenforo
Back
Top