Dead? Well so long

"That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and beautiful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck You" right under your nose."

"I hope to hell that when I do die somebody has the sense to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddamn cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who want's flowers when you're dead? Nobody."

Alright man, see you later.

Draw attention to yourself

Yves Klein

“Believe me, one is not robbed when one buys such paintings; it is I who am always robbed because I accept money.”

you were young and man that was sad

Nature's Way

City of Orgies

CITY of orgies, walks and joys!

City whom that I have lived and sung in your midst will one day make

you illustrious,

Not the pageants of you--not your shifting tableaux, your spectacles,

repay me;

Not the interminable rows of your houses--nor the ships at the

wharves,

Nor the processions in the streets, nor the bright windows, with

goods in them;

Nor to converse with learn'd persons, or bear my share in the soiree

or feast;

Not those--but, as I pass, O Manhattan! your frequent and swift flash

of eyes offering me love,

Offering response to my own--these repay me;

Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.

W. Whitman

A Woman Waits For Me

A WOMAN waits for me--she contains all, nothing is lacking,

Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the

right man were lacking.

Sex contains all,

Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results,

promulgations,

Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal

milk;

All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,

All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,

All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth,

These are contain'd in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of

itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his

sex, 10

Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,

I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that

are warm-blooded and sufficient for me;

I see that they understand me, and do not deny me;

I see that they are worthy of me--I will be the robust husband of

those women.

They are not one jot less than I am,

They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,

Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,

They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,

retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,

They are ultimate in their own right--they are calm, clear, well-

possess'd of themselves. 20

I draw you close to me, you women!

I cannot let you go, I would do you good,

I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for

others' sakes;

Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards,

They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.

It is I, you women--I make my way,

I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable--but I love you,

I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,

I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States--I

press with slow rude muscle,

I brace myself effectually--I listen to no entreaties, 30

I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated

within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,

In you I wrap a thousand onward years,

On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,

The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new

artists, musicians, and singers,

The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,

I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,

I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you

interpenetrate now,

I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I

count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,

I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,

immortality, I plant so lovingly now. 40

W. Whitman

Exelsior

WHO has gone farthest? For lo! have not I gone farther? And who has been just? For I would be the most just person of the earth; And who most cautious? For I would be more cautious; And who has been happiest? O I think it is I! I think no one was ever happier than I; And who has lavish'd all? For I lavish constantly the best I have; And who has been firmest? For I would be firmer; And who proudest? For I think I have reason to be the proudest son alive--for I am the son of the brawny and tall-topt city; And who has been bold and true? For I would be the boldest and truest being of the universe; And who benevolent? For I would show more benevolence than all the rest; And who has projected beautiful words through the longest time? Have I not outvied him? have I not said the words that shall stretch through longer time? 10 And who has receiv'd the love of the most friends? For I know what it is to receive the passionate love of many friends; And who possesses a perfect and enamour'd body? For I do not believe any one possesses a more perfect or enamour'd body than mine; And who thinks the amplest thoughts? For I will surround those thoughts; And who has made hymns fit for the earth? For I am mad with devouring extasy to make joyous hymns for the whole earth! W. Whitman

Jesus gonna be here soon

Murder In The Red Barn

There was a murder in the red barn

Murder in the red barn

The trees are bending over

The cows are lying down

The atumn's taking over

You can hear the buckshot hounds

The watchman said to Reba the loon

Was it pale at Manzanita

Or Blind Bob the raccoon?

Pin it on a drifter

They sleep beneath the bridge

One plays the violin

And sleeps inside a fridge

There was a murder in the red barn

A murder in the red barn

Someone's crying in the woods

Someone's burying all his clothes

Now Slam the Crank from Wheezer

Slept outside last night and froze

Road kill has its seasons

Just like anything

It's possums in the autumn

And it's farm cats in the spring

There was a murder in the red barn

A murder in the red barn

Now thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house

Or covet thy neighbor's wife

But for some

Murder is the only door through which they enter life

Now they surrounded the house

They smoke him out

They took him off in chains

The sky turned black and bruised

And we had months of heavy rains

Now the raven's nest in the rotted roof

Of Chenoweth's old place

And no one's asking Cal

About that scar upon his face

'Cause there's nothin' strange

About an axe with bloodstains in the barn

There's always some killin'

You got to do around the farm

A murder in the red barn

Murder in the red barn

Now the woods will never tell

What sleeps beneath the trees

Or what's buried 'neath a rock

Or hiding in the leaves

'Cause road kill has it's seasons

Just like anything

It's possums in the atumn

And it's farm cats in the spring

A murder in the red barn

A murder in the red barn

Now a lady can't do ntohin'

Without folks' tongues waggin'

Is this blood on the tree

Or is it autumn's red blaze

When the ground's soft for diggin'

ANd the rain will bring all this gloom

There's nothing wrong with a lady

Drinking alone in her room

But there was a murder in the red barn

A murder in the red barn

T. Waits

Blue Valentine

She sends me blue valentines All the way from Philadelphia To mark the anniversary Of someone that I used to be And it feels just like there's A warrant out for my arrest Got me checkin in my rearview mirror And I'm always on the run That's why I changed my name And I didn't think you'd ever find me here To send me blue valentines Like half forgotten dreams Like a pebble in my shoe As I walk these streets And the ghost of your memory Is the thistle in the kiss And the burgler that can break a roses neck It's the tatooed broken promise That I hide beneath my sleeve And I see you every time I turn my back She sends me blue valentines Though I try to remain at large They're insisting that our love Must have a eulogy Why do I save all of this madness In the nightstand drawer There to haunt upon my shoulders Baby I know I'd be luckier to walk around everywhere I go With a blind and broken heart That sleeps beneath my lapel She sends me my blue valentines To remind me of my cardinal sin I can never wash the guilt Or get these bloodstains off my hands And it takes a lot of whiskey To take this nightmares go away And I cut my bleedin heart out every nite And I die a little more on each St. Valentines day Remember that I promised I would Write you... These blue valentines Blue valentines Blue valentines

T. Waits

oh god, I must be dreaming

If you're the least bit interested in the origins of rap then this man is a must listen.

He's 60 years old and has been doing street poetry since the age of 13.

Gil Scott-Heron may have had his run-ins with the law and drugs (but who hasn't?) he's still a fantastic poet.

Last Year's Man

"Summer Night"

The moon dangling wet like a half-plucked eye
was bright for my friends bred in close avenues
of stone, and let us see too much.
The vast treeless field and huge wounded sky,
opposing each other like continents,
made us and our smoking fire quite irrelevant
between their eternal attitudes.
We knew we were intruders. Worse. Intruders
unnoticed and undespised.
Through orchards of black weeds
with a sigh the river urged its silver flesh.
From their damp nests bull-frogs croaked
warnings, but to each other.
And occasional birds, in a private grudge,
flew noiselessly at the moon.
What could we do? We ran naked into the river,
but our flesh insulted the thick slow water.
We tried to sit naked on the stones,
but they were cold and we soon dressed.
One squeezed a little human music from his box:
mostly it was lost in the grass
where one struggled in an ignorant embrace.
One argued with the slight old hills
and the goose-fleshed naked girls, I will not be old.
One, for his protest, registered a sexual groan.
And the girl in my arms
broke suddenly away, and shouted for us all,
Help! Help! I am alone. But then all subtlety was
gone
and it was stupid to be obvious before the field and
sky,
experts in simplicity. So we fled on the highways,
in our armoured cars, back to air-conditioned
homes.

LC

Wheels, Fireclouds

I shot my eyes through the drawers of your empty coffins,

I was loyal,

I was one who lifted up his face.

LC

Seven Pillars of Wisdom

"I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands
and wrote my will across the sky in stars
To gain you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,
that your eyes might be shining for me
When I came."

"All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible. This I did."

"This creed of the desert seemed inexpressible in words, and indeed in thought."

the breaking of the waves

Appromixately

Found this awesome video of Bob Dylan laying it on the line. Enjoy

death shall have no dominion

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

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 that 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.

D. Thomas

Rosemary, heaven restores you to light

When I first stumbled across Annie Kevans' work I'll admit I first took it for merely a few beautiful paintings. And what beauty at that! The milky liquidity of her stroke is so fluid yet ghostly, I am reminded of warm breath against a cold window.

But when I explored her work on deeper levels (and read her personal intentions for the work; here) it came to me that behind the smouldering eyes of her portraits lay dark studies of humanity.

Many of her portraits are modeled after real people and their documented photographs, but with an important difference. Kevans depicts these figures in many ways, both accurately and askew, but through her manipulation of their physical appearance new realities are born that express unseen truth. In the series 'Boys' Kevan's depicts famous dictators as children, exploring purity and corruption and, "in particular, the notion of the 'innocent child'."

but there's more! and I'm rambling on, so check it all out at her website.

there's gonna be a meter on your bed

Everybody knows Leonard Cohen,

nobody knows what's up with the spanish subtitles

today is blamesday

Are You Drinking?

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook out again I write from the bed as I did last year. will see the doctor, Monday. "yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head- aches and my back hurts." "are you drinking?" he will ask. "are you getting your exercise, your vitamins?" I think that I am just ill with life, the same stale yet fluctuating factors. even at the track I watch the horses run by and it seems meaningless. I leave early after buying tickets on the remaining races. "taking off?" asks the motel clerk. "yes, it's boring," I tell him. "If you think it's boring out there," he tells me, "you oughta be back here." so here I am propped up against my pillows again just an old guy just an old writer with a yellow notebook. something is walking across the floor toward me. oh, it's just my cat this time. c. bukowski

hindu love gods

bringing out the beast in all of us; the intent of these paintings is to demonstrate the voracity of the female gender. even the givers of life can bring violence and dominance to the bedroom.

Skin Fetish

The Art of Skinner

I don't have much to give

Naoko Ito

The Grand Opening of BirdLand's new complimentary blog; Loser Cruiser.

Expect to be updated on literary news and events, and other articles on art and culture.