The world will end tomorrow.
Go back to sleep America
We have everything under control
Now back to your regularly scheduled program
of shutting the fuck up and
being happy with the little freedoms you have left.
While we devise new ways to make you surrender them
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my ANNABEL LEE;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the side of the sea.
the corpulent rosebushes stirred
As time dragged on I felt the slow meandering of oceanic, shattering vibrations
With flesh flayed and spattered out onto the gravelly pavement
Broken and blistered in the barren hovel that men and women call truth
With the weight of monastic guilt and filthy pretense on my shoulders
I broke the back of madness, for fear, for the fat opening of cuts
That bled, tearing, sutured, stained with bandaged innocence
As the daylight spiked into a heat of pain and flesh and disgust
What is the passing over of this viscous, liquid crutch that holds us
Like children, like adult impulse given name and a destination
At the cold, embittered heart of speech grown loud, or maybe else
The burning ambiguity that helps the cripples on the street shout their lies.
As the withering sun turned its head over onto the septic, selfish horizon
With its arms laid neatly beneath the seething mass of clouds and polluted sky
Airing out whatever pleasant theme the faceted, belligerent populace could bear
To hear, to cry for the bothersome, ponderous, dry gargling
Spat forth into the night, breathing copiously and heavier
Than the pulsating, writhing combines could bear
Than the onerous, apathetic will of the people, of the nations great could bear
I counted ten thousand, intent on meaning more than what they could see
Before their eyes, before their hearts gave into the grudging plod
And there I sat watching the flies consume garbage behind the malls
And behind the temples I watched naked skin flay its own fears into nothingness.
As our vicarious lovers lay weeping in the courts of law and trust
They made hovels into homes and called them theirs as they sat pouting hopeless
Weary and breathless in the cold darkness of lunacy and perjury, and there, nude
Skins to the smog and the cigarette smoke drafting in from every crack
In every window that creaked with the walls, snapping in the windy embrace of cold
Tethered by the limitlessness of love and light they were told were present
Even during their blackest horrors and their most terrible mistaken impulses
Painless and pining for the frosty winter to come faster than the glorious spring
So in the ice of new sprouts they could crash cars and explode in righteous faith
Though their pins poked and their shins snapped between metal and teething bones
They crept along silently through their insane, godly wanderings.
As the pointed, poisonous resin of transience slips carefully between our saintly ribs
And the tips of glass slide precariously into the first layers of tissue
Which our crusty exteriors of posturing have held so tight and delicate and close
This cursory affection that has been seamlessly mastered despite ages of turmoil
Becoming as effortless and useless as chipping stone from stone
Collecting the sharpened pieces in canvas bags and heaving them away
We should drop these sacks into chimneys, over jagged, abysmal cliffs
Build homes below the stacks and cracking boulders, an asylum, labyrinthine
Instead of row upon tortuous row of pre-fabrication and incorporated insatiability
Allow our smoke to gust freely in intricate tangles between the mineral fissures
Only in a place such as this might I feel peace despite the fleeting conditions of life.
As the foreign signs and roadmaps gave everyone their potent direction
Their fragrant possibility, their fragile and tenuous importance
I sat, tearful, milking the anger with which I strode across the boundaries
I sat and stared belligerently at the copulating majority as they bred
Incessantly and without modesty, pleasantly and engorged with joyous freedoms
Mounting their wreaths on certain dates and ignoring the rest of the year
That passes without trace or vitality or significance or longevity of moral thoughts
I crouched under the passive concrete bridge and held my yelling breaths in
And I was patient but for the roaring of automobiles and trailers that buzzed
And rang, and blasted my senses with tremors and asphalt, entombed
In their lacking permanence, I discovered my raining doubts and spilling pleasures.
As my weathered, watery heart decried its pathetic, lonely estate
I strode among blizzards and buildings covered in sheets of fabricated wind
Expanding my contempt and swelling tongue, speaking angers of lightness
And the numbness that held my mouth strictly in the presence of failure
I watched passively as the fires of lust and agony consumed my wearisome body
Singing high halleluiah, singing high harmony, singing sacred sanctimony
And brutal determination that washed into a bleak, starry expanse
Quivering with smoke and sparks and delirious infernal discharge
In the tempest of consummate greed, in the heaving breast of failure
I watched the contest of the complete and competitive oath-takers
Dream of catastrophe and bombs, of exploding cars and towers of envy toppling.
As the corpulent rosebushes stirred in the smog-coated breeze
Washing in from the tranquil sea and merging desperately with effluent waste
The spineless worms towed blissful dirt back and forth above the hill’d plains
Metal containers lifted by metal machines, metal chains, iron-clad, forlorn
And the flagrant, youthful howling of curled-back fathers and mothers and children
Who brought fortune and moonlit ruin to each narrow city street, draped in oil
In the shrines of a deadened, lifeless god, a dreary, worthless, loveless god
These disastrous familial groups vanished frantically into a hole in the floor
While their hallucinating, vicious god gazed down in scorn and tired pride
At most an empty husk, at least a long-lost and circular pattern of imagination
And I pushed and I shoved my way through the crowd to the roof, where I fell too.
As the giant mechanical politicians stir emotional discord and bleat “Pity!”
One hundred thousand citizens or more breed and scrape up wooden ladders
In a misguided attempt to climb higher than their brothers and sisters, graven
At the top of each rung is a mausoleum of clutching hands, separated from arms
And shoulders, and bodies, for the rest of these have fallen down, crippled
Sunken beneath the asphalt, beneath the concrete, beneath the dust and the soil
Sunken beneath the layers of bone, piled high from all those shrunken souls
Who called and who culled their meaning from worthlessness and vacant boxes
Wrapping paper, birthdays, blank celebrations and dinners that devoured their own
Trapped inside with fears of death, fears of dark, fears of living free and living fast
And I parried blow with blow, steaming and incensed, filled with rage and liberty.
As viral, pathogenic beliefs were bought and sold by street vendors, small carts
Colourful lips spoke precious lines and bright secrets that only the shadows knew
Off to the side, off in the corners of the alleyways where drunkards slept, cold
And where all the addicts never went; no coffee, acetaminophen, no pacifying falsehood
No peaceful, ignorant, heavenly comfort or wishful, fictitious promise to satisfy
The anxious ecstasy, the restless frenzy of reassurance at Death’s swift approach
For the graceful passing with which, as it hovered adrift, made cycles of life and time
O, reverent bereavement! O, demented mortality! Make martyrs of these shells
Drown these ashen sailors of distress and entomb these embracing liars in mud
Let the Reaper’s claw sow clarity among these belligerent, sadistic men and women
Whose methods and manners I so despise, whose covetous fingers I would break.
As the pillars of dogged temptation are driven deeply with nails into splendid coils
Of twine, of splinters, and of shavings, I pushed over those drowsy crosses
In favour of stony conception and hollow originality, and laid a formless foundation
To rally and to wrestle my deadly impulse, my ragged sense of purpose, into shape
To ravage my treacherous lack and instead exist in both logic and feeling
Rather than succumb to beaten, worn ideologies or gleaming interpretations
And so hopefully assume an overflowing of significance, far beyond capacity
If it is not too lost for us to regain our clutch on the spirit born in dead languages
Then I would nod my head and raise my brow, spitting at those drunk on perversion
Clenching until my knuckles turn white enough for me to strike, hard
And trembling with the stormy bolts of wrath, as they swirl frantically even now.
As the birds built weaving nests from scattered bits of the frames we left behind
And the isolated ribs, clipped fingers, and polished teeth from the lake’s bottom
Diving below the depths, swirling and grey, to break the surface anew
Sending spirals of ripples to collide, bursting and shifting, disturbing the surface
While howling dogs shook their throats and sent out mad wailing shrieks
Sleek black cats rubbed against the bark of drooping willows, dying slowly
And they too were all skin, all bone, all tiny, blistered tracks left in the dirt
All contorted and convoluted, their bodies bent, withered, blank, and blurred
A deliberate progression towards the valley’s edge where a bright demise awaits
In a capillary trail, a pulmonary divide, and the measured stalk of melancholy
That I caress and nurture, fervently holding an inferno for the end of cheerless days.
you who are the sons,
this is addressed to you.
you who are comets,
you who are not,
cannot believe, you are
but are nonetheless.
You who awake and say,
be whom you must,
pretend not to be
the son of...
no matter how many
millions of miles must be
traveled till you are visible,
no matter how brief your life,
you are more than Ison,
your are yourself, part son,
but all man, unique.
set your own course,
if to the sun you must fly,
set the course you choose,
and we will call you by your
Like Icarus, Comet Ison flew too close to the sun and perished. After passing near the solar surface on Thanksgiving Day, Ison vanished in a ghostly puff. Ice and dust proved no match for infernal heat. Next up is Comet Lovejoy, whose close encounter with the sun will take place on Christmas Day.
Here on the island of Nantucket, we know well the heartbreak of comets. In 1847, Maria Mitchell became world famous for discovering a comet from the rooftop of her family's home on this fleck of land 30 miles out to sea, the first comet ever found using a telescope. Mitchell's calculation of the comet's orbit showed that its trajectory would carry it away from the solar system, never to return. Within three months of its discovery, the comet had faded from view, beyond the light-gathering capabilities of even the most powerful telescopes. All that remains today is a memory.
According to Greek legend, when Icarus and his father, Daedalus, were imprisoned by King Minos on the island of Crete, Daedalus built wings of feathers and wax for their escape, cautioning Icarus not to fly too high because the sun would melt the wax. But Icarus was so overjoyed by his ability to soar and swoop like a bird that he forgot his father's warning. As he flew higher and higher, the feathers came loose and he fell to his death in the sea below.
Ison was once a prisoner too, held for billions of years in our solar system's dark netherworld, the Oort cloud, a place so remote it takes a beam of sunlight a year to arrive there. Freed by a sudden gust of gravity from a passing star, the comet began its exhilarating but ill-fated flight to the sun a few million years ago.
Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.