Stars and stars and stars
keep it to themselves
Have you ever noticed how private
a wet tree is
a curtain of razor blades
Love me because nothing happens
***
Why should I be alone
if what I say is true
I confess I mean to find
a passage or forge a passport
or talk a new language
Love me because nothing happens
***
I confess I meant to grow
wings and lose my mind
I confess that I've
forgotten what for
Why wings and a lost mind
Love me because nothing happens
L. Cohen
Córdoba.
Far away, and lonely.
Full moon, black pony,
olives against my saddle.
Though I know all the roadways
I’ll never get to Córdoba.
Through the breezes, through the valley,
red moon, black pony.
Death is looking at me
from the towers of Córdoba.
Ay, how long the road is!
Ay, my brave pony!
Ay, death is waiting for me,
before I get to Córdoba.
Córdoba.
Far away, and lonely.
F. Lorca
'Find meat on bones that soon have none, And drink in the two milked crags, Before the ladies' breasts are hags And the limbs are torn. Disturb no winding-sheets, my son, But when the ladies are cold as stone Then hang a ram rose over the rags. 'Rebel against the binding moon And the parliament of sky, The kingcrafts of the wicked sea, Autocracy of night and day, Dictatorship of sun. Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.' 'The thirst is quenched, the hunger gone, And my heart is cracked across; My face is haggard in the glass, My lips are withered with a kiss, My breasts are thin. A merry girl took me for man, I laid her down and told her sin, And put beside her a ram rose. 'The maggot that no man can kill And the man no rope can hang Rebel against my father's dream That out of a bower of red swine Howls the foul fiend to heel. I cannot murder, like a fool, Season and sunshine, grace and girl, Nor can I smother the sweet waking.' Black night still ministers the moon, And the sky lays down her laws, The sea speaks in a kingly voice, Light and dark are no enemies But one companion. 'War on the spider and the wren! War on the destiny of man! Doom on the sun!' Before death takes you, O take back this. D. Thomas |
| I've come by, she says, to tell you that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's over. this is it. I sit on the couch watching her arrange her long red hair before my bedroom mirror. she pulls her hair up and piles it on top of her head- she lets her eyes look at my eyes- then she drops her hair and lets it fall down in front of her face. we go to bed and I hold her speechlessly from the back my arm around her neck I touch her wrists and hands feel up to her elbows no further. she gets up. this is it, she says, this will do. well, I'm going. I get up and walk her to the door just as she leaves she says, I want you to buy me some high-heeled shoes with tall thin spikes, black high-heeled shoes. no, I want them red. I watch her walk down the cement walk under the trees she walks all right and as the pointsettas drip in the sun I close the door. C. Bukowski |
outside my window stands a culling man
his feet are doused in ivory for
they hold nothing of what is human
on his hip he wears the bowie knife
at his side he carries the tombstone rifle
raised to extinguish the solitary flame
that spat upon the land once
six thousand years ago
and gave birth to bale
gave birth to me and you
he draws the knife and enters my house
I hear the doorknob rattle
S. Sparling
No comments:
Post a Comment