Wednesday, April 23, 2008

throw your mind away

nothing solid here

Throw your mind away
Fall into the sea
There's nothing solid here
Dissolve your body today
There's a sun in the sky.
We're in the atmosphere
Throw yourself in the sea
There's nothing solid down here



an unclear word

liquid lust

My frozen empty violent mind caressed the hidden hair
That shines with liquid lust I left behind
Your body stained with ruined eyes
I cut the skin
Concealed the crimes
With liquid hate I left inside
And loneliness is buried here
In rotting holes beneath your fear
Your agony
Your twisted struggle
Two bodies sink in meat-blood strangled
The smell of death
Your tortured gash
Enfold me in your mother's arms
Now hold me in your mother's arms

My Buried Child

Saturday, April 12, 2008

fire walk with me

In principle a work of art has always been reproducible

An analysis of art in the age of mechanical reproduction must do justice to these relationships, for they lead us to an all-important insight: for the first time in world history, mechanical reproduction emancipates the work of art from its parasitical dependence on ritual. To an ever greater degree the work of art reproduced becomes the work of art designed for reproducibility. From a photographic negative, for example, one can make any number of prints; to ask for the 'authentic' print makes no sense. But the instant the criterion of authenticity ceases to be applicable to artistic production, the total function of art is reversed. Instead of being based on ritual, it begins to be based on another practice -- politics. (The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, by Walter Benjamin, 1935)

Friday, April 11, 2008

stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

nothing false and possible is love

nothing false and possible is love
(who's imagined,therefore is limitless)
love's to giving as to keeping's give;
as yes is to if,love is to yes


nothing false and possible is love
e.e. cummings

Friday, April 04, 2008

where your memory ends

that pale sustenance

I CANNOT live with you,
It would be life,
And life is over there
Behind the shelf


So we must keep apart,
You there, I here,
With just the door ajar
That oceans are,
And prayer,
And that pale sustenance,

Emily Dickinson
XII. In Vain.
Poems, Series 1

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

a fragment

that clear wine the angels drank

The Universe: His wine cellar;
The atom’s heart: His measuring cup.
Intellect is drunk, earth drunk, sky drunk
heaven perplexed with Him, restlessly seeking,
Love in its heart, hoping at least
for a single whiff of the fragrance
of that wine, that clear wine the angels drank
from that immaterial pot, a sip of the dregs,
the rest poured out upon the dust:
one sip, and the Elements whirl in drunken dance
falling now into water, now in blazing fire.
And from the smell of that spilled cup
man rises from the dust and soars to heaven.

Mahmud Shabestari (
Rosegarden of the Mystery