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st64 Feb 2014
I ran up six flights of stairs
to my small furnished room  
opened the window
and began throwing out
those things most important in life.

First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:
"Don't! I'll tell awful things about you!"
"Oh yeah? Well, I've nothing to hide ... OUT!"

Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement:  
"It's not my fault! I'm not the cause of it all!"
"OUT!"  

Then Love, cooing bribes: "You'll never know impotency!  
All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!"
I pushed her fat *** out and screamed:
"You always end up a ******!"

I picked up Faith, Hope, Charity
all three clinging together:
"Without us you'll surely die!"
"With you I'm going nuts! Goodbye!"

Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty—
As I led her to the window
I told her: "You I loved best in life
... but you're a killer; Beauty kills!"  

Not really meaning to drop her
I immediately ran downstairs
getting there just in time to catch her  
"You saved me!" she cried
I put her down and told her: "Move on."

Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out.

The only thing left in the room was Death  
hiding beneath the kitchen sink:
"I'm not real!" It cried
"I'm just a rumor spread by life ... "  

Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all  
and suddenly realized Humor
was all that was left—

All I could do with Humor was to say:  
"Out the window with the window!"
Gregory Corso (1930–2001)



Gregory Corso was a key member of the Beat movement, a group of convention-breaking writers who were credited with sparking much of the social and political change that transformed the United States in the 1960s. Corso's spontaneous, insightful, and inspirational verse once prompted fellow Beat poet Allen Ginsberg to describe him as an "awakener of youth." Although Corso enjoyed his greatest level of popularity during the 1960s and 1970s, he continued to influence contemporary readers and critics late into the twentieth century. Writing in the American Book Review, Dennis Barone remarked that Corso's 1989 volume of new and selected poems was a sign that "despite doubt, uncertainty, the American way, death all around, Gregory Corso will continue, and I am glad he will."

Born in 1930 to teenaged parents who separated a year after his birth, Corso spent his early childhood in foster homes and orphanages. At the age of eleven, he went to live with his natural father, who had remarried. A troubled youth, Corso repeatedly ran away and was eventually sent to a boys' home. One year later he was caught selling a stolen radio and was forced to testify in court against the dealer who purchased the illegal merchandise. While he was held as a material witness in the trial, the twelve-year-old boy spent several months in prison where, as he wrote in a biographical sketch for The New American Poetry, the other prisoners "abused me terribly, and I was indeed like an angel then because when they stole my food and beat me up and threw *** in my cell, I . . . would come out and tell them my beautiful dream about a floating girl who landed before a deep pit and just stared." He later spent three months under observation at Bellevue Hospital.

When Corso was sixteen, he returned to jail to serve a three-year sentence for theft. There he read widely in the classics, including Fyodor Dostoevsky, Stendahl, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Thomas Chatterton, and Christopher Marlowe. After his release in 1950, he worked as a laborer in New York City, a newspaper reporter in Los Angeles, and a sailor on a boat to Africa and South America. It was in New York City that he first met Ginsberg, the Beat poet with whom he was most closely associated. The pair met in a Greenwich Village bar in 1950 while Corso was working on his first poems. Until then he had read only traditional poetry, and Ginsberg introduced him to contemporary, experimental work. Within a few years Corso was writing in long, Whitmanesque lines similar to those Ginsberg had developed in his own work. The surreal word combinations that began to appear in Ginsberg's work about the same time may in turn suggest Corso's reciprocal influence.

Corso once explained his use of rhythm and meter in an interview with Gavin Selerie for Riverside Interviews: "My music is built in—it's already natural. I don't play with the meter." In other words, Corso believes the meter must arise naturally from the poet's voice; it is never consciously chosen.

Corso shaped his poems from 1970 to 1974 into a book he planned to call Who Am I—Who I Am, but the manuscript was stolen, and there were no other copies. Aside from chapbooks and a few miscellaneous publications, he did not issue other work until 1981 when Herald of the Autochthonic Spirit appeared. Shorter than any of his major books since Gasoline, it contains several critically acclaimed poems, many of them written in clipped, almost prosaic lines more reminiscent of William Carlos Williams than of Whitman. "Return" deals with barren times in which there had been no poems but also asserts that the poet can now write again and that "the past is my future." The new poems, however, are generally more subdued than the earlier ones, though there are surreal flights, as in "The Whole Mess . . . Almost," in which the poet cleans his apartment of Truth, God, Beauty, Death, and essentially everything but Humor.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGam9Z6PSWk
Michael John Mar 2018
i

hey..siesta..what a way
lily will slide and sway
slink over a randy black
widow spider..

to the dark gods a prayer
spinning a sweet hop on her back..
after reinacting death throes..
paint her toes..

she sings lotus eater blues
making my soul sore through
a little ditty with no tune
i say, i love her too..

ii

i read corso´ s
friends
for the first
time
in many
years..

there is so laughter
and tears
in his economy
and so wise..
every one in there..!

some of the lines
like old friends
some just so
fresh too
gregory corso..

iii

i had the legendary
penguin
what was the no..
gens berg
ferlengetti
corso..

iv
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.how  dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...

)            that's all i wanted to disclose...
what comes now,
is all the unnecessary details
that would constitute a prose piece...
albeit in cascade - for the ease
of the eyes bunddled up in a
claustrophobia of a paragraph:

i know: the mere word 'dignified'
seems rather obnoxious...
but... how dignified it is,
to take a walk at night...
esp. when one is recycling leftover
bottles of whiskey, whiskey,
beer... whiskey...

after reading Knausgård vol. 1 -
with his father strapped to the house
with his mother drinking himself
to death...
perhaps i'm also akin...

but... there's "****" to do in between...
good god! mein gott!
greta thunberg! run! i said run idiot!
run to the recycling center with
those glass bottles!
success though: cutting the ingestion
by over a half...

current bank balance?
nearing 2 thousand pounds...
and there's the garbage to sort between
the recyclable and the non-recyclable...
there's the tending to keeping
the house clean...

there's a remnant spark about giving
a toss about some sporting event...
there's cooking a dinner...
but... it seems i miss the man who would
find about an hour and a half
to walk the streets at night...

somehow i missed it -
but... i imagine the sight of a week's worth
of empty bottles in the wardrobe...
i've had enough and...
i call the dog that's the dignity to take
a walk at night...
to never overthink anything except
thinking - that i can leave in the basket
of nothing...

sometimes the ego-automaton jumps
in and makes my walking meditation
fuzzy... that's where i find this mythological
ego of psychology -
ego the anti-narrator...

which implies: not myself... reflexive...
not my, self... the reflective circumstance...

and there's no familiar presence
of an mp3 player (broken, ****** lasted
for 3 years, good enough lifespan)
and no headphones...

perhaps i was anti-radio some time ago...
i've amassed a decent personal library
of audio... but now i rarely use it
having made a discovery of the gramaphone
and vinyls...
and being the late 20th century colt...
i should still be ripping c.d.s onto
mp3... but...
i just wanted to check out what i was
missing...
perhaps... the crazed sound of passing
cars, will indeed, never replace
the cobblestones and hooves...
but... there's a right to heave a sigh...
for no apparent reason other than:
i've met myself this very first time
having aged...

this is not a time for west coast
1990s pop punk or punk rock or whatever
they called it... when you would
either run in gallop jumping
in a jonathan edwards style...
or looking down and walking into
a lamp-post... this is no time to be
refreshing the cinema of youth...
with the offspring's ignition...

not when you're walking: and trying not to think...

also of today: my jewish newly converted
to islam neighbour came round
asking about my mother's slight bout
of depression concerning...
her recent hip-replacement...
and what's still in the post...
the aesthetic surgery...
after all: what surgery, proper...
is also a plastic surgery - an aesthetic...
obviously the muscles and the bones
are intact... but there is always a chance
that waste tissue will be removed...
fat... etc. and it hasn't even been 2 weeks
since the surgery...
and she said: your mum should look
at my surgery scars...
i lifted up my t-shirt and turned
to show her my back... namely my
right shoulder-blade...

and i said to her: you know why i didn't
get aesthetic surgery on this mark
of cain? that's the same reason why i don't
have tattoos...
nothing against tattoos...
i have the only tattoo i need:
a mark of cain and some historical tattoos...
dates... that i keep close to me
from my time in the pedagogy meat-mincer
effort... how it began with the romans: per se...
later began with hastings 1066...
but it would never begin with:
the first battle of Tannenberg (1410)...
so you don't know how i think my mother
is exaggerating?
it's a good thing she's my mother...
she can have her ******* pass...
i'd give her the same ******* pass if...
we were married for 35 years and...
she was a woman i could grow with...
otherwise? the ******* pass i reserve for
children...

i subsequently signed her will...
yes... she came round looking for a second
witness for her will being made official...
or ****** bureucratic paper...
but nonetheless official...
i didn't mention the fact that...
the two witnesses that have signed the paper:
need to be present simultaneously...
i asked her... what's my occupation?
oh... right... i'm a scribbler...
a chicken-scratcher... writer of no
guild... a writ pusher...  

but all i wanted to write was...
i'm not a fan of the haiku...
esp. the western haiku... or a maxim:
i abhor maxims...
but if you put Kant into the juicer
and you spit out the congested
categorical imperative...
and it doesn't sound like the original, should:

act only according to that maxim whereby you can,
at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.

id est:

act only according to that haiku whereby you can...
at some distant point of time,
convene for it be a shared experience
in the ratio of a 1:2 point of seperation...
2:4 4:8 8:16...
but that's not really a categorical imperative
to begin with... what sort of "idiot" would strive
for a maxim to become a universal law...
universal laws are maxim spin-offs...
or i'm just blah-blahing too much...
waiting dear god: for the razor's edge (and drowning)...
or a punchline on stage in front of a dumb / mute
audience...

o.k. 5-7-5...
syllables... given the japanese don't use
letter but have syllables instead...
again: i'm not a fan...
if it took my long enough...
i'd find my 5 syllables and my 7 and again
my 5 syllables...
but i am a westerner...
i deal with letters... i don't deal with syllables...
unless they are prefixes akin to trans-...
meta-... anti-... post-...
the western adoption of the haiku implies
the boredom achieved from too many
sonnets... is the haiku the new sonnet?

i'll try... but i'll need to open a dictionary
for this effort...

water knee deep truce (5)
to the drowning man imploring (8)
signature the soul with this last breath (9)

or however many... it's just a passing thought:
i don't know how it would be worthwhile
to think inside a box... standing outside it
to begin with...
a haiku and no punctuation:
if you're going to be puritanical about it...
no punctuation?!
no diacritical markers?!

the Kant reference is just to ease up on:
who the hell would live by a maxim,
a stand-alone maxim at that...
one maxim to make it into the realm
of gravity...

there's the plethora of aphorisms that
are observations that... well...
let's just say it's no an imitation game... (

since how the hell does:
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
all of the above?
darwinism in images:

stopped climbing trees...
stopped being furry...
stopped dreaming about snakes...
stopped fearing snakes...
stopped wrestling with tigers...
stopped king kong versus tiger gorgon...
jumped into a whale...
came out sonar Jonah with hell'io Job
to boot...
stopped climbing trees...
took toward the complexity
of climbing rocks...
esp. boulders... later desired
the great big button of a cookie i.e.;
desired the moon...
brewed some moonshine...
build the mirror corridor
at Versailles...
dug up lazy dinosaur bones of
that thick glutton splodge and...
retired the horse... drove a car...
etc. etc.: came across
the happy birthday of death by
gregory corso and said:
that be one of the best recitations
of poetry i have ever heard...
in youth and Paris and Paris was
the signature...

all of this but there's still...
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
more to the point...
how dignified it is, to walk at one's own
leisure...
a bottle of england's finest ale...
theakston's the old peculier in one hand...
a marlboro cigarette in the other...
how dignified it is...
to walk: but to also walk... at one's leisure...
not running a marathon...
not... running the concrete or the tarmac
dry with new year's even resolutions
to loße mass... (yes... since weight involves
gravity blah blah)...

this auto-correct science factoid rubric
around each corner...
i can only admit that walking...
is a sport for gentlemen...
cognitive ping pong ensues...
a solo game... perhaps...
it's not a matter of sport...
or attempting gentlemanly stature...
which could be the case...
say... if i were 75... years old...
but...

that's all fine and dandy... the psychology
behind darwinism 2.0
not even copernicus made it that far
with his "revolutionary discovery"...
or not that Ptolemy was still...
index... bibliography and historical
constipation when attempting to be
democratic and historical...
in a single poo'em... with no rhyme...
and certainly no overt-technique biases
to: "identify with"...

it's still an image burning in my head...
the gorilla that would / could wrestle
a lion to sleep with a ripped-off jaw...
the thumb-king of the jungle
and the savannah...
and of course the donning of the conquered's
mane...

but beside all the discoveries in the past
and the present...
i will find myself smirking...
laughing to myself...
that someone will find this too...
i can't stress it enough:

when i see people driving their cars...
some fast, some slow...
walking onto a bus is not a leisure activity...
it's not even a dignity...
it's a time-warp... a short-cut...
besides the point...

even this brain sometimes allow for
the dignity of walking to be eclipsed...
what its sometimes-odd bursts of egomania /
megalomania or all those other:
traits of the rational man...

perhaps this is the first day i've truly
appreciated the sensibility of walking -
much more in that: it became a dignity...
like the time i found the antithesis of narcissus
in my shadow...
once upon a nightly promenade
in the english outer-suburban labyrinth...
20 minutes walk from the fields,
grazing horses... foxes, badgers and...
no wordsworthian naturalism... i.e. the idyll...

superior intelligence, the fork,
the knife, the screwdriver the *****...
the hammer and the nail...
the scythe, the sickle and the lollipop...
the telephone the radio the television
the soap opera addicts...
the bedsheets the bed the cushion
the shampoo and soap...
all of it... but none of it at the same time...
with what comes a priori and with
what comes a posteriori...
the dignity of walking...
perhaps the only state of grace...

perhaps less "abilism" and more - upon reflection...
a mother strapped to a bed
after a hip-replacement surgery?
i.e. in a personal, very personal,
non-Teheran specific vicinity?!

perhaps the most basic meditation is required...
nothing grandiose...
nothing temporal or non-temporal...
something basic...
i.e. spatial... a meditation on cross the street
like a mindful hedgehog that you are...
and not panic driven like a mother goose
with her nursery...

walk long enough and you can even
experience bouts of spontaneous amnesia...
which is not related to actual memories
and their totality...
more in the immediacy: amnesia ex cogitans...
amnesia out of thinking...
10 minutes apart and you can almost
forget what you were thinking of...
10 minutes more pass... the labyrinth spits
you out and you recover from that temp.
bout of crucible amnesia: to forget what you
were thinking about...
which is a variant to that other escapism
of day-dreaming...
since you're walking... and no day-dreamer
is synonym of the thinker who also walks...

this variant of escapism comes of its own
accord... perhaps it's an ontological built-in-mechanism
that when you couple walking with thinking...
you'll most certainly experience these
bouts of "amnesia"... which of course doesn't
include walking in circles... but in a labyrinth
of your unconscious motives...
that the body is dissociated from a conscious will...

since... what sort of thinking exists
on a treadmill... or during running... to begin with?

how  dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
dignified in that: one is not so much able
to come across one's best ideas there...
but that one can simply come across... cogitans per se
-

yes... i.e.: to be free from cogito ergo sum...
to come across the res cogitans medium...
only while walking...
and not like Descartes imagining oneself
sitting at a desk of doubt...

i find no better alternative: walking opens up...
thinking-in-itself... sometimes that's merely translated
as: being... it does not specify / reveal itself
as a: necessity of narration...
thinking is not narration is not thinking...
if you have experienced the ugly spontaneity of
the ego... in that vein of psychology's
three-tier meta-brain dissection of the mind:
subsequently the soul... blah blah...

now i see... this has become a sit-down meditation...
it has to end...
now that the arms have been employed for
a period longer, than the legs were employed
for, prior.
Oliver Philip Jan 2019
A series of  Acrostic poems noting the healing properties of the crystals to the Zodiacal signs. .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Capricorn  ♑️  December 23-January 20.
~~~~~~~~
Capricornian don’t mind me. I can’t live as you.
As you have the highest of standards always.
Peridot,Garnets, Agate or Turquoise to wear
Ruby’s grace a  beautiful young maidens hair.
I see the jewels in your eyes when you smile
Carnelian stones or Malachite for soul healing
Or Jet ,Smokey Quartz or shiny Black Onyx.
Red Garnets,Blue Aragonite,Green Tourmaline
Nonsuch is the birth symbol ,graceful as thee
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aquarius ♒️  January 21 -February 19
~~~~~~~
Aquarius the symbolism for the water carrier.
Quite an important member of our community
Under spells by an association of the heart
Aquarian crystals are Garnets and Amethyst
Rainbow moonstone, Labradorite, Magnetite
I would buy thee Lithium Quartz ,Moss agate.
Under your care placing Crysoprase n Cryolite
Some Rainforest Jasper for love of this lady.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pisces ♓️  February 20 - March 20
~~~~~
Pisces are healed by birthstones of Amethyst
In tune also with Turquoise,Aquamarine,Amber
Sapphires,Sunstones,Smithsonite, Labradorite
Chrysoprase of green, Ocean Jasper, Flurite
Especially Bluelace Agate,Rainbow Moonstone
Stones Charolite, Calcite,Ametrine,Bloodstone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aries ♈️  March 21 -April 20
~~~~
Aries children tackle life head on.
Ruby,Diamond,Amethyst and bloodstone
I know she’s into Aquamarine and Tourmaline
Especially pink, Dravite aka Tourmaline brown
Stellerite, Sardonyx , Citrine, Kunzite n Axinite
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taurus ♉️  April 21 -May 21
~~~~~
Tourean girls have an inbuilt stubbornness
And are partial to the birthstone Sapphire
Understanding An Emerald and Aquamarine
Rhodonite, Amber,Lapis Lazuli and Tiger’s Eye
Universal faith in crystal’s Kayanite n Kunzite
Spiritually in tune with Carnelian

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gemini ♊️ May 22 -June 21.
~~~~~
Gemini never grow up.They are so  flirtatious
Ever wooing and seducing their audiences
Moonstone,Agate,Aquamarine,Tigers Eye
Into the healing powers of Chrystoprase stone
Naturally Green Tourmaline and Serpentine
I also see Anyolite, Citrine,Thulite and Variscite
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cancer  ♋️  June 22 - July 23
~~~~~~
Cancerarians are high on the emotional scale.
And they benefit from Emeralds and Rubies
Natural Amber,Rhodonite ,Rainbow Moonstone
Chrysoprase,Carnelian, Citrine, Moss Agate.
Even with the beautiful crystal Fire Agate
Ruby stone and Pink Tourmaline healing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Leo ♌️  July 24- August 23
~~~
Leo has birthstones of Onyx, Peridot,Ruby,
Even Turquoise,Amber,Citrine,Larimar,Petalite
Or Fire Agate,Red Garnet,Sunstones,Sardonyx
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Virgo ♍️  August 24-September 23
~~~~
Virgo needs be a person advocating virginity
I know because I have fusion and experience.
Realistically fusing together two personalities
God knows n loves my approach and approves
Of Peridot,Carnelian, Blue Sapphire,Tourmaline
      Of Green ........
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Libra ♎️  September 24-October 23
~~~~
Libra uses healing properties of Lapis Lazuli
In Peridot,& Sapphires, Aquamarine stones
Bloodstones,Emerald stones, Sunstones,
Rainbow Moonstones, Morganite, Lepidolite
Aventurine,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scorpio ♏️  October 24- November 22.
~~~~~
Scorpio needs the healing of Aquamarine
Charolite, Turquoise, Malachite or Emerald
Obsidian Black , Golden Topaz and Boji Stone
Ruby, Lapis Lazuli,Green Tourmaline,Kunzite
Peridot , Rainbow Moonstone, Rhodochrosite.
I know of Variscite Hiddenite n Apache tears.
Or Herkimer Diamond ,Hiddenite , or Variscite
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sagittarius ♐️  November 23- December 22
~~~~~~~~~~
Sagittarius is so joyous and very fun loving
Amethyst,Turquoise,Lapis Lazuli n Blue Topaz
Grace her body with healing properties now.
I recommend Azurite stone, Blue lace Agate
Tourmaline pink, Malachite, n Yellow Sapphire
Topaz of white and beautiful Ruby Stones
A Zircon Crystal and Snowflake Obsidian
Rich Merlinite, Labralite ,Dioptase n Charolite
In these healing crystals wear them with faith
Understanding the powers the Universe grants
Sacred is the space that you take upon Earth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written and inspired by Sacred Space.
Shop 10 /74-78 The Corso , Manly , 2095 NSW . Australia. Louise Winchester.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Written by Philip.
December 2018.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
A series of 12 Acrostic poems linking crystals to the Zodiacal signs.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i only started collecting a library, because, would you believe it, my local library was a pauper in rags and tatters; apologies for omitting necessary diacritic marks, the whiskey was ******* on icecubes to a shrivel.*

ernest hemingway, e.m. forster, mary shelley,
aesop, r. l. stevenson, jean-paul sartre,
jack kerouac, sylvia plath, evelyn waugh,
chekhov, cortazar, freud, virginia woolf,
philip k. ****, dostoyevsky, aleksandr solzhenitsyn,
oscar wilde, malcolm x, kafka, nabokov,
bukowski, sacher-masoch, thomas a kempis,
yevgeny zamyatin, alexandre dumas,
will self, j. r. r. tolkien, richard b. bentall,
james joyce, william burroughs, truman capote,
herman hesse, thomas mann, j. d. salinger,
nikos kazantzakis, george orwell,
philip roth, joseph roth, bulgakov, huxley,
marquis de sade, john milton, samuel beckett,
huysmans, michel de montaigne, walter benjamin,
sienkiewicz, rilke, lipton, harold norse,
alfred jarry, miguel de cervantes, von krafft-ebing,
kierkegaard, julian jaynes, bynum porter & shephred,
r. d. laing, c. g. jung, spinoza, hegel, kant, artistotle,
plato, josephus, korner, la rochefoucauld, stendhal,
nietzsche, bertrand russell, irwin edman,
faucault, anwicenna, descartes, voltaire, rousseau,
popper,  heidegger, tatarkiewicz, kolakowski,
seneca, cycero, milan kundera, g. j. warnock,
stefan zweig, the pre-socratics, julian tuwim,
ezra pound, gregory corso, ted hughes,
guiseppe gioacchino belli, dante, peshwari women,
e. e. cummings, ginsberg, will alexander, max jacob,
schwob, william blake, comte de lautreamont,
jack spicer, zbigniew herbert, frank o'hara,
richard brautigan, miroslav holub, al purdy,
tzara, ted berrigan, fady joudah, nikolai leskov,
anna kavan, jean genet, albert camus, gunter grass,
susan hill, katherine dunn, gil scott-heron,
kleist, irvine welsh, clarice lispector, hunter thompson,
machado de assisi, reymont, tolstoy, jim bradbury,
norman davies, shakespeare, balzac, dickens,
jasienica, mary fulbrook, stuart t. miller,
walter la feber, jan wimmer, terry jones & alan ereira,
kenneth clark, edward robinson, heinrich harrer,
gombrowicz, a. krawczuk, andrzej stasiuk, ivan bunin,
joseph heller, goethe, mcmurry, atkins & de paula,
bernard shaw, horace, ovid, virgil, aeschyles,
rumi, omar khayyam, humbert wolfe, e. h. bickersteth,
asnyk, witkacy, mickiewicz, slowacki, lesmian,
lechon, lep szarzynski, victor alexandrov, gogol,
william styron, krasznahorkai, robert graves,
defoe, tim burton, antoine de saint-exupery,
christiane f., salman rushdie, hazlitt, marcus aurelius,
nick hornby, emily bronte, walt whitman,
aryeh kaplan, rolf g. renner, j. p. hodin, tim hilton... etc.
Ken Pepiton Jul 2019
Were your mind the soil from which words rise,
autochthonic,

filled with meaning-ment-al
ready to write asif

you exist, dear reader, and know
autochthonic
people are some different from

Gaijins, gegenes, genetical offspring of Gaia,
I imagine, gollum mud men, goy-soulish sorts,

were, once thought,
asreal as death itself, by those in the know;

but

we never know ever, ever being as it is and

this being mortality,
the act of dying,

asif we were seeds, words whispered in darkness,

come and see. Buy of me gold,
without money,
without price.

Grace, take it for granted, and grow on.
Become that which the seed demanded you to be,

when autochthonic was re
cognized as some word Nunzio Corso knew, but you

never heard of him.
https://allpoetry.com/Gregory-Corso -- How many poets have I never heard, who found solace in such a once dark word by adding self. Self-chthonic, almost spontaneous generation of more than existed before the word came to be known, and shared, just in case you never gave it any thought.
Chapter XXI
Hegira to Patmos

They dropped their moorings from Cala Cogone early, when the tide seemed to be separated from the waters like a head distanced from its body. On a lavish and romantic day they went to Genoa, to continue the logistics of the trip to Piacenza. During the trip Etréstles was stretched out in the bow under a Sun that seemed to be fearsome as it was a digestive task that would make him ingest his own dream, which perhaps he aspired to be more than a journey. While he slept, at the helm Etréstles dressed in a black robe and the comrades also sleeping with dreams that they painted with sign gestures on their faces.

Dream of Etréstles: "With the memory off-center ..., I was still in Izzana, dancing by the clouds on gray tulles of the layers of the sky that tried to stop being a Kingdom without a Crown and Sword". They glimpsed the stones melting and turning into gauze juxtaposed to the aerosolites that unfolded from the Sorcery, landing on the hands and heads of Vernarth and Himself. As he continued his dreamy journey, he dialogued with the auxiliary legate of his own dream. “He tells her that he sees them beyond where their liturgies collide. They cross eroding the vanished and itinerant reason”. He gets up and takes the moorings of the ship and ties them to his neck. Then everyone cooperates to walk along the edge of the ship, which all moved barefoot. This is how I would wake up!

Vernarth tries to wake him up, shakes him, but doesn't wake up. And when he tried to avoid him from sleep, he saw that he had the moorings around his neck, along with two Unicorns who were escorting him and were looking towards infinity, auspicious that Genoa was already coming in front of their horns. The others began to wake up and ate reclining, almost as if without any desire to get up from the deck full of self-sliding linen, which allowed everyone to pass their own meals, including those that were semi-consumed rolling on the deck. Etréstles,  transferred the dream to Vernarth, once he went to his bedroom to rest before they touched the roadstead at the foot of the homonymous promontory, 36 km from Genoa.  Portofino, close to the hydro form of the Portofino Regional Natural Park.  Being able to find different entrance doors through S. Rocco, Portofino Vetta and Nozaregoino  that led you to paths with different levels of accessibility and landscape. On the route of the path that traveled from Northwest to Southwest on the same promontory, he received the full beauty of the Mediterranean vegetation, with its beautiful pines, bluish and clean waters of the Mediterranean, which filled his lungs and especially his stem, which silenced of peace to those who accompany you through this interesting and beautiful Natural Park with deep blue eyes.
Vernarth is wrapped with two layers of linen and stands in between eclipsing each of the Unicorns. They pass her horn through her pectoral, as if wanting to insinuate affection. But her propitiated gesture was to crown her with the Power of her phalanx, the impetus in Gaugamela, an Onyx Crown, to lighten the burden of sleep and wake up before reaching the shores of Genoa.
Calling in Genoa, they all descend in a separate part and say goodbye from afar, gesturing with their hands. Their ramblings revealed multi-level radiographs of the resolved aura that invited them to an enclave hostel, to re-enter the world of their daily chores. The Unicorns who would return back to Sardinia stayed on the ship that was in the blue bay. They positioned themselves at the bow one and at the stern the other, to lighten the sails and return to Izzana.

Vernarth and Etréstles walked with their bags, letting go of their feet towards La Via ** Settembre, they travel in an east-west direction, next to Corso Italia, the promenade that runs along the promenade, which is one of the favorite places to reform the destination of Piacenza. From this road they moved near the adjacent carriage station to the Caruggio neighborhood in Sottoripa. Here they entered an inn to eat and drink liqueurs made from natural herbal recipes and sweet citrus, some fish with bread, sauce and Genovés sourdough. to satisfy their hunger.
They had dinner and opened the exit to the terminal. Before, they went to the Ponte Monumentale where the church dedicated to Santa Rita is, called Iglesia de la Consolación, whose entrance, at the level of the old streets, is slightly lower than the current street. They pass a porch and enter. "Almost like a grand cloister sensation they perceived during their stay, as if centuries had passed, but which never ended in the wanderings of any secular period. It was the impression once entered and soaked on this road, which still remains active. From this original cloister, the invocation of images on the sides placed towards the church towards Via ** Settembre, as well as the closed portal in the market access plaza on Via Galata, recur, while the other two sides are they completed attractions to admire when the eastern market in Genoa appeared before them ”.

When they entered, the masks were passed over the bones of their faces, indulgent towards both faces of the visitors, under a freshness of gravitational atmospheric fragrance, perhaps from the connected baptismal font or the lateral nave or the three naves separated by square pillars illuminating them. This is where Vernarth places his right hand on his forehead and his mouth, as a sign of catechesis detached from The Vault, the central nave and the counter-facade that were painted in fresco in 1874 by Giuseppe Isola, after reading about the intertextual verifying thus Vernarth. (Visioni dell'Apocalisse, Gloria di Nostra Signora della Consolazione and Giuditta rientra trionfante in Betulia), while Etréstles frenziedly admitted the frescoes through the side aisles that are the work of Giovanni Quinzio at an angle close to him. Observing everything, he was already indoctrinating to reprint new vigor to enter Piacenza triumphantly and head to the Region of Patmos. Giuseppe Isola's fresco was the great motive that struck his reason for being where he was to continue the threads upon threads of his lineage as the great Commander of the troops of Gaugamela and his Phalanges. Here is the church in its first tune with the duty of limitlessness before its steps to dominions that will make it recover their powers, from where they were first seen dressing in the clothes of an innocent child.


In the apse, there was the choir singing baroque pieces, and followed by elaborate wooden stalls from the 17th century. In the Altars on the left, on the Fifth Altar, Etréstles, captures a simultaneous vision. From that moment when it was the disappearance of this Santa Maria della Pace church, which could have been one structure on top of the other, perhaps in ruins but if the columns could go further from where their originals are born. Until then both had separated from each other, and they would meet again here in the apse, where they never lose sight of each other again, to turn towards the exit that required them to leave the sacred precinct. In the terminal, a grayish float awaited them, with silver trim on the edges of the structure, at the top of the front roof it said "Where you must never go and be". It was just the transport of an allegorical float. They were theatrical traveling artists, who had places available for travelers to Piacenza. The one that they just approached to move to the home, where they had to register at their own will and rejoin this excellent session "Parapsychological Regression".The Trebbia valley, a few kilometers from Piacenza. Vernarth noted that a shaft of the chariot made a strange sound. To which he notified the driver, telling him what he caught on the rear axle of the carriage. They go down to inspect all; not being able to detect anything that it would suppose would be an anomaly of filming of the instrumental east. Etréstles sees that some steeds were grazing on some meadows and he tells them all. Vernarth warns him and immediately heads to them. It reaches only a sorrel that was running its tongue over its hoof. The others flee. Vernarth approaches, and notices that he had a wound in his left hoof, noticing that in the center there was a strip of Green color, He takes his leg, and examines it. He takes out his dagger and begins to remove the stake that was inserted into his damaged leg. The others were gone, restarting the trip to Piacenza. Etréstles managed to climb a steed, and followed him - The float remained without them supposedly to arrive safely at Piacenza. But at 5 km, before reaching the city they are struck by a lightning bolt from a sudden storm. What misdirects his route - the passengers were left intact, only fatally suffered the loss of the driver. (It was verified by Vernarth when he arrived at his home in Piacenza).   As  Vernarth rode fast in the storm, trying to catch up with the carriage. Stress them towards the same to reach their brother. They rode propagating the pastures that passed near the forests of Val Trebbia. When the storm intensified instantly, it was wise to take refuge and wait for the flood to decrease. They were always close to each other. Etréstles about 18 km from Vernarth, they did not know it, but the horses sensed each other. They already distinguished, that they were close to each other, but it was necessary to take care of the horse, and have to check its hoof again. He checks it and notices that it had a green stripe in the four parts, like a pigment already placed concentrically in the middle of each hoof.


Ellipses Gaugamela - Final War
Vernarth bids farewells farewell. Once the Achaemenides are surrendered, he prepares to review them. Walk with Alikanto across the ****** plain. Reviewing his five hundred dead and three thousand wounded, he goes to recirculate in the footsteps of the attack, manages to see lead as a sentinel gathered wounded horses, but not serious. He approaches him and says Khaire; asking what unit they came from. He tells them of the Hosts of the command of Hefestion. The sentinel tells him, that he was enraptured by the fact before his eyes to see that all the horses of the line of Hefestion, Alexander the Great and Vernarth, to fascinate him that they had a green stripe on his left hoof. Wedge riders are formed, lining up the stable, towards the court of the guards and Macedonian monarchs. She dismounts from Alikanto and checks the chestnut trees, managing to insinuate that it could be Medea's ploy of the smiling charm towards her Hetairoi dancers, whose elite had bracelets on each leg on each chestnut. Also with the offensive weapon, they acted as the Macedonian's personal guard. Vernarth recalled that, before starting the offensive, with his blessed Xifos he inflicted light wounds on the left foot of his Phalanges in the act of "overtaking them before being stained by the enemy"

Vernarth says: Here is the cavalry that has received so much praise for «hammer» in the strategies, because it crushed the enemy units retained by the «anvil» or the «phalanx» that I had to command and lead the charge, intoning the riders. And even more the circumcisions that he gave them before entering combat. With the Hetairoi I was organizing squadrons of 200 to 300 soldiers, while they were checking the chestnut trees. In the campaign, they would ride the best horses, ******* or on the blanket, they were awarded the best weapons available. Each carried his long throwing spear Xyston, accompanied by a Kopis sword, for hand-to-hand combat, which in the interlude would defend his flax and bronze breastplate, with respective protective armbands and helmet, before lightly tackling his aggression . The horses were also partially protected, but not their hooves! I gave them the final instruction by decree to take them to the altarpieces and attend to them, so that they check their left hoof.Thus giving signs of great concern about the green stripe on each of its left hooves. Sentinel Hetairoi, with some of his servants, gather the animals and transport them where they have been ordered to tend and examine them. As the designs collapse over the night in gloomy litanies, Medea bursts into a great green outfit saying:

Medea: Vernarth, rancid are on my memory the potions and designs of those who want to talk about me or offer me in their lust.Where the zeal of anxiety deceives the wishful arms that welcome the victorious pleasure. Hooves are my skeptics and famous decisions, because I am weak in will but not in character. Green is the pouring of my converted powers into the veins of the horses. They were carriers in their eloquent ferocity. Instead of blood, I had sap from the magic vessels that I transferred to them so as not to doubt the doubts. Their object is that a green band was encased in their hooves as a sign of the Hipnos promontory through their Son Clovis, to plunge all the forests of the raging underworld, towards the heart of each "Valiant Hetairoi".


Outside ellipsis / near Piacenza
Vernarth and Etréstles in a post-storm clearing, a soft breeze greets them and they meet again, they greet Khaire! And together they reroute to the empty pastures, which would gradually begin to venture them through the farthest forests of the Val Trebbia. On some brown plains with poor colors that visited him falling as they faded on his mirage. From this unusual crossroads they will supremely perceive the closeness of Piacenza in their breathing.
Now they are in the vicinity of the Cimitero de Piaceza. Then they will have to go home on the Via Giovanni Codagnello, on the calendar of January 2020. The Parapsychological Regression continues.


Piacenza Cemetery, January 20, 2020
Vernarth and Etréstles entered the necropolis long before sunset. They were carrying a cake to celebrate Vernarth's birthday. Night Patrol joined the visit. In particular, they followed a night watch service that was active, trusting their guide Piacenza or the surrounding area, with 3 internal night patrol passages 365 days a year, for the rest of lives beyond all material life, perhaps turned into marble statues.
They hired a special service dedicated to the approved service for 2 people .; They were active during the caretaker's office opening hours (the same opening hours as the cemetery). With this service they overcame difficulties to walk after so much traveling. They leave the green-hoofed horses, now turned into statues. They request authorization from the entrance cemetery offices, to honor their belonging and to please those who visit them on their behalf. In Genoa, after having passed through the exterior without entering, they were ecstatic with the Staglieno Cemetery in Genoa (the most monumental in Italy).But if they enter the Piacenza, where the sanitary monumentality passed through the real function of such an enclosure in the contingency. It was commented by the neighboring offices that the migration of corpses from Bergamos were moved to Modena, Acqui Terme, Domodossola, Parma, Piacenza to carry out the respective ceremonies. Due to the great Viral Pandemic that decimated a great majority of Italian citizens in these areas. Vernarth became aware of the current reality, saw how a gravedigger conversed with the crowds, there was a nurse, a doctor and a prodigal man who concentrated on uploading moods to those who were there, almost like a caster, to relieve them of this transitory despite humanity.
They continue past the pyramidal pines, to the central pavilion. They sit on the edge of some flagstones, and take the cake to celebrate their birthday. They sing a hymn and they both enjoy it lovingly. Etréstles saw that he had a little cream left on his nose and cheekbone, running his hand to remove it. In the instant, the guard calls them; it was time to go because it was time to close the compound. They say goodbye with a monumental hug paying tribute to their brother!


Etréstles says: Honors Vernarth, for your immeasurable Valor! It is a great contribution that we divide our work and commitments. From here I go to the Messolonghi Cemetery. I will only wait for the crescent moon to meet the Charioteer, then leave with him and my beloved Drestnia. My Xifos Sword in my right hand and the head that I cut off in my left hand, in Gaugamela before that rugged fate! Khaire, My honors Commander Etréstles!. It remains in the shadow of some pyramidal pine trees of this sublime night, and then they distance themselves. Vernarth leaves the compound heading towards his house relatively close to the cemetery, on the Via Giovanni Codagnello.


Final session in Vía Codagnello, Piacenza:
Vernarth enters opens the door and everyone is waiting for him. Huge groups of friends, work colleagues, family, their pets, and especially the Parapsychologist, who had commanded this whole great session. They all approach her and in the instant, Vernarth awakes abruptly from the parapsychological session. They stabilize it and check your vital signs. There were many days of this odyssey. His awakening was mediatic, since they were attentive to him to question him and confess everything, but he was clear that his purpose would lead him to the confines of Patmos along with Raeder and Petrobus. It remained only to wait for the tenuity of a simple immortal warrior to assist in the services of John the Evangelist. The parapsychologist says you have to wake up, you can no longer be AND stay here in this temporary tube!
Once he has refused to wake up, he takes the itinerary to return to Macedonia. The visibly worn and stunned parapsychologist demands that he give up and obey his command. The effort was unproductive, only letting himself be carried by the grip of his right hand, taking his other with great vigor to remove it from shamelessness, from whom he does not suppress his pride to who still remains wounded by the swords that bleed his soul in Gaugamela. "Everyone is amazed and resigned !, pointing out that he must have always been in the surroundings of his beloved Macedonia, cutting the bursts of succulent insolence on the same temperate cliffs, where some variation of the sounds of the wind would make him saddle his Alikanto to acclaim the gods who came looking for him ”

Vernarth is engulfed in ambivalence, almost celebrating his birthday and waking up from his parapsychological journey. Both will take place, but the session will continue irrevocably. After a few days close to the first day of the crescent moon, he greeted him from a privileged place on his house Etréstles de Kalavrita who was with the Charioteer in his car and Drestnia, they went in that masterful car to join the chores of the Koumetrium Messolonghi (Editorial Palibrio - USA) .So returning to Messolonghi, to meet his disciples and essences of the foundation of his naturalness.


Hegira to Patmos
On a gray day in July 1820. Piacenza slept under the ambush of the revolution, in Italy there was a situation similar to that of another European nation. Vernarth was preparing his last details with the parapsychologist, to undertake his Hegira to Patmos, since he was a revolutionary and this was of great motivation to emigrate from this constant stage of Wars and sociopolitical processes. Manage to be a participant in this revolt in the Piedmont area. Its ideological axes were liberalism and nationalism. Given that the most affected countries were those of southern Europe (episodes from other areas, such as Germany or France, were much less important), with Spain as epicenter of a movement that extended to Italy and Portugal, and on the other hand Greece; It has been called the Mediterranean cycle as opposed to the Atlantic cycle that had preceded it in the previous generation (the first liberal revolutions or bourgeois revolutions, produced on both sides of the ocean: the Independence of the United States -1776- and the French Revolution -1789- ). As compromised great principalities of much of Europe were banned, it participates in great dissolution of collisions and invasions that involved it. In this way he would liberate his Homeland, especially his province of Piacenza.

Although the "Kingdom of Italy" as such did not exist, there were two great kingdoms that participated in the Revolutions of 1820: the Kingdom of Naples and the Kingdom of Piedmont. However, most of the revolutionary movements were driven by secret societies, such as coal. The Kingdom of Piedmont was also one of the most affected, since it was at the epicenter of Italian nationalism. It was controlled by Víctor Manuel I, member of the House of Savoy and defender of the Old Regime. The monarch had only been on the throne for 6 years, since he returned to Turin in 1814 due to the defeat of Napoleon. Since his return, various factions within the country advocated for a unification of all the Italian kingdoms. The unstable situation of its neighbor, the Kingdom of Naples, caused the carbonarians within Piedmont to revolt in March 1821.

Conclusive Hegira ellipsis to Patmos:
After this great conflict, he orders his parapsychologist to resume his final session in Patmos; he begins the procedure for the era that he had to trespass anachronistically, returning to the era of the Macedonian Empire. The parapsychologist asks him time, place, dates, clothing, customs, and manages to meet his request. He enters the portal, and in the backwaters of Messolonghi he meets Raeder and Petrobus. They were close to this heroic land, Messolonghi in the Gulf of Patras, the capital of Aetolia-Acarnania. Nothing less than in the land of his Brother Etréstles "Koumeterium Messolonghi".


"They all approach the vicinity, pray three times to heaven, and manage to be abducted to the underworld of Messolonghi. When they were snooping through the catacombs, they make out the surroundings of a luminous vault, thus distinguishing a woman passing by with others. It was the beautiful nymph Eurydice inaugurating The Constitution of a new Government”.
Eurydice and the gravediggers worked for the new government to be instituted. They were reviewing the last ground plans that converged on the tenth cemetery.
Eurydice ...: with the absence of Etréstles and Drestnia we will make her awakening continue, whose awakening phase closely relates to her wife.
Grave ...: Where do we start?
Eurydice ...: by the southwestern statue of Ashurbanipal, to pay tribute to Botsaris. Then, we will go up to receive the cordoned off tomb of Bramante and Ghiberti, so that the latter can advise us regarding the work to be erected.
They climb the northeast pavilion to the foundations of a mausoleum. They approach the slab of Ghiberti, who was loosening his fingers, sitting on the shore of a Pyramid-shaped cypress. Bramante vanished into the gray beams of light...

Ghiberti ...: I already know your mission. I am summoned to the Council on the day of the sailors' return. To start, they went to the mines to look for precious stones, stones to build Markos Botsaris.
Eurydice ...: Good! Well, in nine moons and nine suns they will return from the coasts of Morocco, the last docking point, so that they can then return. At the moment they are already warned.
Just back, there was a Lover with her right hand holding her chin.

Inamorada In Love ...: Five centuries ago I awaited my awakening, my lover promised to return ... with these verses...:
"I want to be different,
I want to take you my love...
and tell you that by missing you
there is no greater sadness than not seeing you ...
Forgive me for not coming back...
before my absence caused your death,
Wait for me ... I'm going to tell you ... how I miss you
Along with my immortality of feeling...!  How I miss you...!!

... He still tells me this, but from here, under the embankment of the cemetery I feel that he is far away and I can do nothing. Also, I have it in my memory and one day we will meet here. The Enamorada continues to sit and watch armies of soldiers being thrown into graves, their bodies severed. As she continues; ... there is more life here than on the surface, and the trenches replace the concave wombs, as vessels! As everything here lives, even the flowing and hallucinatory invocations are perceived from the Poets, Alchemists and Astronomers. They make the invisible go in a formidable adventure to the site of their magical hallucinations.
Eurydice ...: Stay on your stone, with your chiffon dress; here you will see the arrival of Etréstles. He will bring news from other lands to answer you. Now dispense if we delay, sadness will fall on the other beings who are being buried and transhumated. The Enamorada remained on the stone with her knees resting on her chest. Eurydice and her assistants went to their rooms. "
All this they manage to witness, and then go in search of Etréstles on the same tenth cemetery floor. Raeder and Petrobus were laughing and at the same time they were impressed, as if wanting to remember him when they have to leave directly from Messolonghi to Patmos, towards the Dodecanese region. In the meantime Vernarth was searching for his brother in all the nearby areas of the catacombs flashing penetrating light, unable to find him. He arrives at the ninth cemetery and is fascinated by a feminine image that would seem like a phantasmagorical chimera ..., it was Drestnia moistening some ferns on some crypts making gestures to see them already grown, even if they had just been planted...!

They approach her intimacy and ask her greetings, Drestnia answers them abstractedly that Etréstles traveled to Patmos to applaud the maiden ceremonies that would be wed in the spring in the nearby meadows. Being able to settle in The Monastery of Zoodochos Pigi, and who later went to the hills of Castelli, as it has been known that everything has been celebrated on a hill that many hundreds of years ago has sheltered our historical fragrances in the unity of the ethereal until the present. Such ruins among some works as well as the Temple of Apollo that will continue to survive with its prevailing mystery not revealed.
Etréstles gives them their congratulations and wraps his arms around Drestnia. They evacuate the cemetery, remaining abstracted in the internal darkness of the catacombs with fewer lights than a feasible twilight of darkness, as if immediately leaving Etréstles to be with him in the spring, shedding light on herself taking them to the Castelli hills, which they would figure in the sweetened exaltation of the pollinations of the nymphs on the maternal and ****** maidens.

They go out and spread their impulses over the promontory of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi with Raeder and Petrobus on Raeder's shoulders. Vernarth invoked the north with her staff where Alikanto would appear with her hooves with greenish stripes.

Raeder says:  Let's go. On those warm currents to follow we will not unite you Vernarth. Smiling, the fantastic boy danced, forming figures that enlivened him to hold on to the legs of Petrobus. They both stared at Vernarth and raised high above the warm clouds. Beneath the Messolonghi miniature, she had Vernarth's sights on them; she was putting reins and her Hoplite tunic, to mount Alikanto. He looks around and makes a big sign to Raeder to follow him to where he was, they suspend themselves and manage to go back to the highest mass of misty airs that would take them against the clock towards Patmos to meet Saint John and Etréstles.
HEGIRA TO PATMOS  /  COPYRIGHT
Colin Anhut Jan 2014
Corso told me that
there are levels to
this [poetry] thing:
talent; genius;
Divine,
"Ok," I said
and put a gun
in my mouth,
"Wait, wait!" he said,
"What are you doing?"
"Joining the divine," I said.
tangshunzi Aug 2014
Ci sono matrimoni ti adoro e poi ci sono i matrimoni ti adoro .drop-dead cose bellissime che sono così assolutamente bella .siete quasi a corto di parole.Questo è uno di quei matrimoni.Una serata italiana mozzafiato con una splendida attrice sposarla focoso produttore musicale sposo .il tutto circondato da familiari .amici e momento dopo momento di "Miss Havisham incontra Florence and the Machine " pretty ( SI ) .E 'il tipo di giornata che sarà quasi certamente passerà alla storia SMP e si può vedere tutto catturato beauitfully da Matthew Moore nel pieno galleria .

Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSettingsHistoric VenueStylesRomanticVintage

Da Sposa.Come attrice e sceneggiatrice dal commercio in Hollywood era destinato fin dall'inizio che il nostro matrimonio sarebbe stato una produzione.Invece del matrimonio norma mio marito ed io stavamo cercando di creare il set di un film che sarebbe davvero trasportare i nostri ospiti in un altro mondo .

Oltre al fatto che siamo entrambi persone molto artistici in generale .Zach ed io sono piuttosto contrario.ehm.voglio dire gratuito .Zach è più di un ragazzo jeans e t -shirt .E sono più di una Jimmy Choo e vintage sequined vestito da cocktail tipo di ragazza .Così.quando è arrivato il momento di sposarsi .volevamo trovare un modo per fondere i nostri due gusti : lui .casual e me.fantasia .Lui .rilassata e me .drammatico .

Entrambi abbiamo subito concordato un matrimonio di destinazione perché sapevamo che volevamo che il matrimonio sia intimo.E abbiamo voluto l'evento per essere più di una vacanza collettiva di una sorta di omaggio al nostro coupledom .E non posso dirti quello che una decisione perfetta che fu.Abbiamo optato per l'Italia .un piccolo paese vicino a Lucca chiamato Borgo a Mozzano dove avevo trascorso del tempo in un college di canto lirico .( . Te l'avevo detto che ero toity hoity ) Borgo a Mozzano è in Garfagna - i monti selvaggi e selvagge della Toscana .

Sono ossessionato con la grandiosità sbiadita si possono trovare in Italia - e la villa che abbiamo scelto per il matrimonio (Villa Catureglio ) incarna proprio questo - edera a crescere senza di pietra antichi .ulivi dappertutto .quella luce splendida che sembraesistere solo in Italia .Per noi .non c'è niente di più bello di patina e abbiamo voluto fare che l'attenzione estetica del matrimonio .

A tal fine .i colori del matrimonio sono



tirati direttamente dalla decolorazione della pietra dal salmone al grigio al blu al verde .C'è un intero caleidoscopio di colori solo nella pietra .Volevamo la decorazione di nozze per avere un tatto organico ad essa come se fosse parte della villa .
Il tema per il matrimonio è stata Miss Havisham incontra Florence and the Machine .La descrizione mi piace dare è il matrimonio dovrebbe apparire come se fosse istituito un centinaio di anni fa e poi solo dimenticato .Nel corso del secolo gli elementi ha assunto l'edera e muschio ha cominciato a crescere nel l'arredamento .l'età sbiadito la tovaglia .E ora il matrimonio è quasi una sensazione spettrale ad esso .Per me non c'è niente di più romantico della storia Havisham di un matrimonio congelato nel tempo .E mi piace l'accostamento di bellezza e decadenza .

Abbiamo ovviamente avuto un po ' di una sfida tirare fuori questa visione dall'altra parte del mondo .Inoltre .abbiamo voluto utilizzare uno stile più eclettico decorazione di solito si può affittare da fornitori di nozze ( in particolare in Italia .dove l'estetica matrimonio sembra essere per lo piu vestiti da sposa ' permette di trasformare la villa in un club di Miami ! ' ) .Così abbiamo dovuto ottenere creativo che è dove abbiamo avuto così tanto divertimento .Io e mia mamma .insieme con i nostri wedding planner .pettinate attraverso diverse Thrifts negozi a Firenze di raccolta ( ad un prezzo abbastanza ragionevole) antiquariato favolosi che abbiamo usato per decorare il tutto .Abbiamo trovato splendidi vecchi specchi che abbiamo appeso nella limonaia .Siamo andati in un vecchio magazzino di tessuto a Prato e aveva le tende fatte per la cappella e altrove.Abbiamo anche trovato il tessuto lì per fare la nostra bella pizzo tovaglia di tela !La sua incredibile come se siete disposti a caccia .si possono trovare cose incredibili ad una certa sconto .Pettinatura attraverso depositi di risparmio italiane potrebbe non essere il paradiso per tutti .ma per me e mia mamma è stata veramente !

Zach .ovviamente .a condizione che la musica .che era un misto di corrente di musica indie con musica dal 1920 per la cena per riflettere il nostro desiderio che il matrimonio si sentono sia d'epoca e indie .Abbiamo finito per avere 55 dei nostri amici più cari e familiari .e non avrebbe potuto essere più perfetto .Abbiamo tutti trascorso alcuni giorni insieme prima del matrimonio .

Il matrimonio è iniziato nella cappella privata in loco : una splendida .piccola cappella di pietra abbiamo trasformato in una scatola gioiello etereo .Abbiamo comprato un po ' di velluto stupendo e tessuto di seta floreale da un magazzino a Prato .che abbiamo trasformato in tende romantiche per vestire le finestre .La cappella era piena di Kartell Louis Ghost in armonia con l'atmosfera un po ' spettrale del matrimonio .

Le damigelle d'onore camminato lungo la navata nella splendida marina .1930 ispirato abiti da David Meister come il nostro indie amico musicista rock ( mio cugino ) ci serenata con le versioni acustiche delle nostre canzoni preferite ( "C'è l'Amore " di Firenzee la macchina ." primo giorno della nostra vita " di Bright Eyes .ecc ) e 'stato così incredibilmente speciale per avere mio cugino cantare per noi .

** indossato un abito di Reem Acra ( Olivia ) che scorre in avorio con maniche argento cappuccio bordato .Mia mamma e mia sorella e ** preso a Kleinfeld in un trunk show .Il look era molto presto Grey Gardens glamour del 1930 .Pensate Poco Edie quando era giovane e bella e piena di promesse .O signorina Havisham in gioventù .

Una volta sposati.ci siamo spostati nel cortile della villa per cocktail e antipasti .Qui abbiamo avuto una splendida sorpresa in programma per i nostri ospiti .In lontananza .hanno iniziato a sentire una band che suona celebrativo della musica tradizionale italiana .La musica gradualmente si avvicinava sempre di più fino a quando attraverso l'ingresso alberato oliva villa apparve una marching band di 30 elementi ( concerto bandistico ) !Tradizionalmente .in matrimoni italiani .la banda del paese suona dopo la cerimonia e quindi abbiamo avuto la band Lucca locale non solo per noi !Sono un gruppo favoloso composto da tutti.da 8 anni a 80 anni di età che suonano musica tradizionale popolare italiana con una perfetta imperfezione .

Il look del momento dell'aperitivo era stupendo !Le bevande erano servite nella Limonaia (dove sono memorizzati i limoni durante l'inverno ) .La limonaia è onestamente da morire - è così Giardini di Miss Havisham / grigio con bellissime porte francesi che si aprono in questo spazio magico coperto di edera e altri vitigni appesi .Inoltre abbiamo decorato le pareti con un miscuglio di bellissime .specchi antichi d'oro che abbiamo comprato a diversi negozi di spedizione intorno a Firenze tutte in diverse dimensioni e forme .tra cui un gigantesco specchio antico ( 6 ​​metri di altezza ).che poggiava sul pavimento .Abbiamo chiesto il fiorista per portare ancora più edera da aggiungere alle pareti e tessere intorno gli specchi per farli sentire come se fossero lì da secoli .Sono sicuro che io sono l' unica sposa che ha chiesto il fiorista per rendere il luogo un aspetto più decrepito .ma onestamente .hanno fatto il più magnifico lavoro .Fiori Toscana ( il migliore !) Hanno fatto i fiori .

decorare l'interno della limonaia sono stati sedie antiche e divano acquistati al mercato dell'antiquariato di Lucca .Abbiamo finito per trasformare la limonaia in una grande e formale salotto che era stata troppo presa dagli elementi .La vestiti da sposa giustapposizione di mobili antichi con la limonaia rustico e il suo pavimento sporco di terra è esattamente il tipo di contraddizione abbiamo giocato con tutto il matrimonio tutto .

Dopo le bevande è venuto a cena.I nostri ospiti hanno camminato attraverso la villa - su un altro bel cortile alberato con alberi di ulivo decorati con centinaia di candele appese .Tra gli alberi .c'era un lungo tavolo coperto da una tela di pizzo splendida avevamo fatto in una tovaglia di tessuto che abbiamo comprato da un magazzino all'ingrosso a Prato .Il tavolo era decorato con candelabri e vasi antichi .pieni di arrangiamenti romantici e selvaggi fiori traboccanti sul tavolo .come l'edera salì i candelabri .Kartell sedie fantasma linea la tabella interrotto solo dalla sedia antico occasionale alle due estremità - e un divanetto d'epoca al centro del tavolo per la sposa e lo sposo .Veramente il tavolo era un capolavoro .E come gli ospiti mangiavano .abbiamo avuto 1920 riproduzione di musica che ha appena aggiunto all'atmosfera .

Invece di una società di catering .siamo stati fortunati a trovare ( grazie ai nostri wedding planner ).un famoso chef per cucinare il pasto per noi .E ' fondamentalmente la Paula Deen d'Italia e che ha fatto un lavoro impeccabile .L'abbiamo presentato con un po 'una sfida .perché volevamo un pasto completamente vegetariano .Ma lei tirò fuori splendidamente !

Dopo cena la torta è stata istituita nel grande salone della villa circondata da splendidi muschio e posto su una base antico con una splendida patina - abbiamo acquistato da un vicino cantiere di salvataggio .La torta è stato ispirato da Wedgewood con intricati avorio dettagli su ogni livello completo di cammei fatti a mano dal nostro artista torta maestro .Melanie .e sormontato da una corona di ispirazione vintage .E ' stata veramente mozzafiato.(E assaggiato incredibile come bene ! )

Dopo aver mangiato .abbiamo camminato lungo una passerella a lume di candela .giù la proprietà alla loggia ( una veranda coperta di sorta ) - in pietra antica .Abbiamo trasformato questa sala in sala sigari / grappa .Abbiamo voluto contrastare la pietra semplice e maschile con la decorazione femminile e morbido .Abbiamo drappeggiato le finestre aperte con ricco tessuto in velluto .E abbiamo acquistato un assortimento di mobili antichi da negozi di spedizione per vestire lo spazio come lampadari splendidi pendevano dal soffitto .

Poi sulla danza .Abbiamo convertito abiti da sposa on line il vecchio fienile in pietra in una pista da ballo / club - completo di photobooth !Qui abbiamo avuto la più divertente giustapponendo il moderno con l'antico .Una barra incandescente con avvolgono una delle colonne centrali della stalla .come il barista ci ha servito bevande.Lampadari di cristallo appesi alle pareti .Abbiamo decorato la stalla con decorazioni semplici e moderne - divani moderni bianche pulite - tutto arredamento bianco contro la pietra - come abbiamo ballato nella notte .Uno dei lighting designer premiere in Toscana illuminato lo spazio in blu e viola per aiutare a completare la trasformazione.

nostro matrimonio è stato davvero la notte più magica che mai.I nostri fotografi .Matteo e Katie hanno fatto un lavoro impeccabile come catturare la bellezza e l'atmosfera della manifestazione .Fotografia

: Matthew Moore Fotografia | Fiorista : Toscana Flowers | Abito da sposa: Reem Acra | Cake: Melanie Seccaini | Coordinamento evento: matrimoni Internazionale | Hair + Trucco : Katie Moore di Matthew Moore Fotografia | Luogo : Villa CatureglioMatthew Moore Fotografia .L'Arte Della Torta di Melanie Secciani .Toscana Fiori e matrimoni internazionali sono membri del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Matthew Moore Fotografia VIEW PORTFOLIO L'Arte Della Torta di Melanie ... vedi portfolio Toscana Fiori vedi portfolio Matrimoni internazionale VIEW
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Romantico italiana sposa di destinazione da Matthew Moore Fotografia_abiti da sposa corti
Yo, Beremundo el Lelo, surqué todas las rutas
y probé todos los mesteres.
Singlando a la deriva, no en orden cronológico ni lógico -en sin orden-
narraré mis periplos, diré de los empleos con que
nutrí mis ocios,
distraje mi hacer nada y enriquecí mi hastío...;
-hay de ellos otros que me callo-:
Catedrático fui de teosofía y eutrapelia, gimnopedia y teogonía y pansofística en Plafagonia;
barequero en el Porce y el Tigüí, huaquero en el Quindío,
amansador mansueto -no en desuetud aún- de muletos cerriles y de onagros, no sé dónde;
palaciego proto-Maestre de Ceremonias de Wilfredo el Velloso,
de Cunegunda ídem de ídem e ibídem -en femenino- e ídem de ídem de Epila Calunga
y de Efestión -alejandrino- el Glabro;
desfacedor de entuertos, tuertos y malfetrías, y de ellos y ellas facedor;
domeñador de endriagos, unicornios, minotauros, quimeras y licornas y dragones... y de la Gran Bestia.

Fui, de Sind-bad, marinero; pastor de cabras en Sicilia
si de cabriolas en Silesia, de cerdas en Cerdeña y -claro- de corzas en Córcega;
halconero mayor, primer alcotanero de Enguerrando Segundo -el de la Tour-Miracle-;
castrador de colmenas, y no de Casanovas, en el Véneto, ni de Abelardos por el Sequana;
pajecillo de altivas Damas y ariscas Damas y fogosas, en sus castillos
y de pecheras -¡y cuánto!- en sus posadas y mesones
-yo me era Gerineldos de todellas y trovador trovadorante y adorante; como fui tañedor
de chirimía por fiestas candelarias, carbonero con Gustavo Wasa en Dalecarlia, bucinator del Barca Aníbal
y de Scipión el Africano y Masinisa, piloto de Erik el Rojo hasta Vinlandia, y corneta
de un escuadrón de coraceros de Westmannlandia que cargó al lado del Rey de Hielo
-con él pasé a difunto- y en la primera de Lutzen.

Fui preceptor de Diógenes, llamado malamente el Cínico:
huésped de su tonel, además, y portador de su linterna;
condiscípulo y émulo de Baco Dionisos Enófilo, llamado buenamente el Báquico
-y el Dionisíaco, de juro-.

Fui discípulo de Gautama, no tan aprovechado: resulté mal budista, si asaz contemplativo.
Hice de peluquero esquilador siempre al servicio de la gentil Dalilah,
(veces para Sansón, que iba ya para calvo, y -otras- depilador de sus de ella óptimas partes)
y de maestro de danzar y de besar de Salomé: no era el plato de argento,
mas sí de litargirio sus caderas y muslos y de azogue también su vientre auri-rizado;
de Judith de Betulia fui confidente y ni infidente, y -con derecho a sucesión- teniente y no lugarteniente
de Holofernes no Enófobo (ni enófobos Judith ni yo, si con mesura, cautos).
Fui entrenador (no estrenador) de Aspasia y Mesalina y de Popea y de María de Mágdalo
e Inés Sorel, y marmitón y pinche de cocina de Gargantúa
-Pantagruel era huésped no nada nominal: ya suficientemente pantagruélico-.
Fui fabricante de batutas, quebrador de hemistiquios, requebrador de Eustaquias, y tratante en viragos
y en sáficas -algunas de ellas adónicas- y en pínnicas -una de ellas super-fémina-:
la dejé para mí, si luego ancló en casorio.
A la rayuela jugué con Fulvia; antes, con Palamedes, axedrez, y, en época vecina, con Philidor, a los escaques;
y, a las damas, con Damas de alto y bajo coturno
-manera de decir: que para el juego en litis las Damas suelen ir descalzas
y se eliden las calzas y sustentadores -no funcionales- en las Damas y las calzas en los varones.

Tañí el rabel o la viola de amor -casa de Bach, búrguesa- en la primicia
de La Cantata del Café (pre-estreno, en familia protestante, privado).
Le piqué caña jorobeta al caballo de Atila
-que era un morcillo de prócer alzada: me refiero al corcel-;
cambié ideas, a la par, con Incitato, Cónsul de Calígula, y con Babieca,
-que andaba en Babia-, dándole prima
fui zapatero de viejo de Berta la del gran pie (buen pie, mejor coyuntura),
de la Reina Patoja ortopedista; y hortelano y miniaturista de Pepino el Breve,
y copero mayor faraónico de Pepe Botellas, interino,
y porta-capas del Pepe Bellotas de la esposa de Putifar.

Viajé con Julio Verne y Odiseo, Magallanes y Pigafetta, Salgan, Leo e Ibn-Batuta,
con Melville y Stevenson, Fernando González y Conrad y Sir John de Mandeville y Marco Polo,
y sólo, sin De Maistre, alredor de mi biblioteca, de mi oploteca, mi mecanoteca y mi pinacoteca.
Viajé también en tomo de mí mismo: asno a la vez que noria.

Fui degollado en la de San Bartolomé (post facto): secundaba a La Môle:
Margarita de Valois no era total, íntegramente pelirroja
-y no porque de noche todos los gatos son pardos...: la leoparda,
las tres veces internas, íntimas, peli-endrina,
Margarita, Margotón, Margot, la casqui-fulva...-

No estuve en la nea nao -arcaica- de Noé, por manera
-por ventura, otrosí- que no fui la paloma ni la medusa de esa almadía: mas sí tuve a mi encargo
la selección de los racimos de sus viñedos, al pie del Ararat, al post-Diluvio,
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Fui topógrafo ad-hoc entre El Cangrejo y Purcoy Niverengo,
(y ad-ínterim, administré la zona bolombólica:
mucho de anís, mucho de Rosas del Cauca, versos de vez en cuando),
y fui remero -el segundo a babor- de la canoa, de la piragua
La Margarita (criolla), que navegó fluvial entre Comiá, La Herradura, El Morito,
con cargamentos de contrabando: blancas y endrinas de Guaca, Titiribí y Amagá, y destilados
de Concordia y Betulia y de Urrao...
¡Urrao! ¡Urrao! (hasta hace poco lo diríamos con harta mayor razón y con aquese y este júbilos).
Tras de remero de bajel -y piloto- pasé a condueño, co-editor, co-autor
(no Coadjutor... ¡ni de Retz!) en asocio de Matías Aldecoa, vascuence, (y de un tal Gaspar von der Nacht)
de un Libraco o Librículo de pseudo-poemas de otro quídam;
exploré la región de Zuyaxiwevo con Sergio Stepánovich Stepansky,
lobo de donde se infiere, y, en más, ario.

Fui consejero áulico de Bogislao, en la corte margravina de Xa-Netupiromba
y en la de Aglaya crisostómica, óptima circezuela, traidorcilla;
tañedor de laúd, otra vez, y de viola de gamba y de recorder,
de sacabuche, otrosí (de dulzaina - otronó) y en casaciones y serenatas y albadas muy especializado.
No es cierto que yo fuera -es impostura-
revendedor de bulas (y de mulas) y tragador defuego y engullidor de sables y bufón en las ferias
pero sí platiqué (también) con el asno de Buridán y Buridán,
y con la mula de Balaám y Balaám, con Rocinante y Clavileño y con el Rucio
-y el Manco y Sancho y don Quijote-
y trafiqué en ultramarinos: ¡qué calamares -en su tinta-!,
¡qué Anisados de Guarne!, ¡qué Rones de Jamaica!, ¡qué Vodkas de Kazán!, ¡qué Tequilas de México!,
¡qué Néctares de Heliconia! ¡Morcillas de Itagüí! ¡Torreznos de Envigado! ¡Chorizos de los Ballkanes! ¡Qué Butifarras cataláunicas!
Estuve en Narva y en Pultawa y en las Queseras del Medio, en Chorros Blancos
y en El Santuario de Córdova, y casi en la de San Quintín
(como pugnaban en el mismo bando no combatí junto a Egmont por no estar cerca al de Alba;
a Cayetana sí le anduve cerca tiempo después: preguntádselo a Goya);
no llegué a tiempo a Waterloo: me distraje en la ruta
con Ida de Saint-Elme, Elselina Vanayl de Yongh, viuda del Grande Ejército (desde antaño... más tarde)
y por entonces y desde años antes bravo Edecán de Ney-:
Ayudante de Campo... de plumas, gongorino.
No estuve en Capua, pero ya me supongo sus mentadas delicias.

Fabriqué clavicémbalos y espinetas, restauré virginales, reparé Stradivarius
falsos y Guarnerius apócrifos y Amatis quasi Amatis.
Cincelé empuñaduras de dagas y verduguillos, en el obrador de Benvenuto,
y escriños y joyeles y guardapelos ad-usum de Cardenales y de las Cardenalesas.
Vendí Biblias en el Sinú, con De la Rosa, Borelly y el ex-pastor Antolín.
Fui catador de tequila (debuté en Tapachula y ad-látere de Ciro el Ofiuco)
y en México y Amecameca, y de mezcal en Teotihuacán y Cuernavaca,
de Pisco-sauer en Lima de los Reyes,
y de otros piscolabis y filtros muy antes y después y por Aná del Aburrá, y doquiérase
con El Tarasco y una legión de Bacos Dionisos, pares entre Pares.
Vagué y vagué si divagué por las mesillas del café nocharniego, Mil Noches y otra Noche
con el Mago de lápiz buido y de la voz asordinada.
Antes, muy antes, bebí con él, con Emmanuel y don Efe y Carrasca, con Tisaza y Xovica y Mexía y los otros Panidas.
Después..., ahora..., mejor no meneallo y sí escanciallo y persistir en ello...

Dicté un curso de Cabalística y otro de Pan-Hermética
y un tercero de Heráldica,
fuera de los cursillos de verano de las literaturas bereberes -comparadas-.
Fui catalogador protonotario en jefe de la Magna Biblioteca de Ebenezer el Sefardita,
y -en segundo- de la Mínima Discoteca del quídam en referencia de suso:
no tenía aún las Diabelli si era ya dueño de las Goldberg;
no poseía completa la Inconclusa ni inconclusa la Décima (aquestas Sinfonías, Variaciones aquesas:
y casi que todello -en altísimo rango- tan Variaciones Alredor de Nada).

Corregí pruebas (y dislates) de tres docenas de sota-poetas
-o similares- (de los que hinchen gacetilleros a toma y daca).
Fui probador de calzas -¿prietas?: ceñidas, sí, en todo caso- de Diana de Meridor
y de justillos, que así veníanle, de estar atán bien provista
y atán rebién dotada -como sabíalo también y así de bien Bussy d'Amboise-.
Temperé virginales -ya restaurados-, y clavecines, si no como Isabel, y aunque no tan baqueano
como ése de Eisenach, arroyo-Océano.
Soplé el ***** bufón, con tal cual incongruencia, sin ni tal cual donaire.
No aporreé el bombo, empero, ni entrechoqué los címbalos.

Les saqué puntas y les puse ribetes y garambainas a los vocablos,
cuando diérame por la Semasiología, cierta vez, en la Sorbona de Abdera,
sita por Babia, al pie de los de Úbeda, que serán cerros si no valen por Monserrates,
sin cencerros. Perseveré harto poco en la Semántica -por esa vez-,
si, luego retorné a la andadas, pero a la diabla, en broma:
semanto-semasiólogo tarambana pillín pirueteante.
Quien pugnó en Dénnevitz con Ney, el peli-fulvo
no fui yo: lo fue mi bisabuelo el Capitán...;
y fue mi tatarabuelo quien apresó a Gustavo Cuarto:
pero sí estuve yo en la Retirada de los Diez Mil
-era yo el Siete Mil Setecientos y Setenta y Siete,
precisamente-: releed, si dudaislo, el Anábasis.
Fui celador intocable de la Casa de Tócame-Roque, -si ignoré cuyo el Roque sería-,
y de la Casa del Gato-que-pelotea; le busqué tres pies al gato
con botas, que ya tenía siete vidas y logré dar con siete autores en busca de un personaje
-como quien dice Los Siete contra Tebas: ¡pobre Tebas!-, y ya es jugar bastante con el siete.
No pude dar con la cuadratura del círculo, que -por lo demás- para nada hace falta,
mas topé y en el Cuarto de San Alejo, con la palanca de Arquimedes y con la espada de Damocles,
ambas a dos, y a cual más, tomadas del orín y con más moho
que las ideas de yo si sé quién mas no lo digo:
púsome en aprietos tal doble hallazgo; por más que dije: ¡Eureka! ...: la palanca ya no servía ni para levantar un falso testimonio,
y tuve que encargarme de tener siempre en suspenso y sobre mí la espada susodicha.

Se me extravió el anillo de Saturno, mas no el de Giges ni menos el de Hans Carvel;
no sé qué se me ficieron los Infantes de Aragón y las Nieves de Antaño y el León de Androcles y la Balanza
del buen Shylock: deben estar por ahí con la Linterna de Diógenes:
-¿mas cómo hallarlos sin la linterna?

No saqué el pecho fuera, ni he sido nunca el Tajo, ni me di cuenta del lío de Florinda,
ni de por qué el Tajo el pecho fuera le sacaba a la Cava,
pero sí vi al otro don Rodrigo en la Horca.
Pinté muestras de posadas y mesones y ventas y paradores y pulquerías
en Veracruz y Tamalameque y Cancán y Talara, y de riendas de abarrotes en Cartagena de Indias, con Tisaza-,
si no desnarigué al de Heredia ni a López **** tuerto -que era bizco-.
Pastoreé (otra vez) el Rebaño de las Pléyades
y resultaron ser -todellas, una a una- ¡qué capretinas locas!
Fui aceitero de la alcuza favorita del Padre de los Búhos Estáticos:
-era un Búho Sofista, socarrón soslayado, bululador mixtificante-.
Regí el vestier de gala de los Pingüinos Peripatéticos,
(precursores de Brummel y del barón d'Orsay,
por fuera de filósofos, filosofículos, filosofantes dromomaníacos)
y apacenté el Bestiario de Orfeo (delegatario de Apollinaire),
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Nada tuve que ver con el asesinato de la hija del corso adónico Sebastiani
ni con ella (digo como pesquisidor, pesquisante o pesquisa)
si bien asesoré a Edgar Allan Poe como entomólogo, cuando El Escarabajo de Oro,
y en su investigación del Doble Asesinato de la Rue Morgue,
ya como experto en huellas dactilares o quier digitalinas.
Alguna vez me dio por beberme los vientos o por pugnar con ellos -como Carolus
Baldelarius- y por tomar a las o las de Villadiego o a las sus calzas:
aquesas me resultaron harto potables -ya sin calzas-; ellos, de mucho volumen
y de asaz poco cuerpo (si asimilados a líquidos, si como justadores).
Gocé de pingües canonjías en el reinado del bonachón de Dagoberto,
de opíparas prebendas, encomiendas, capellanías y granjerías en el del Rey de los Dipsodas,
y de dulce privanza en el de doña Urraca
(que no es la Gazza Ladra de Rossini, si fuéralo
de corazones o de amantes o favoritos o privados o martelos).

Fui muy alto cantor, como bajo cantante, en la Capilla de los Serapiones
(donde no se sopranizaba...); conservador,
conservador -pero poco- de Incunables, en la Alejandrina de Panida,
(con sucursal en El Globo y filiales en el Cuarto del Búho).

Hice de Gaspar Hauser por diez y seis hebdémeros
y por otras tantas semanas y tres días fui la sombra,
la sombra misma que se le extravió a Peter Schlémil.

Fui el mozo -mozo de estribo- de la Reina Cristina de Suecia
y en ciertas ocasiones también el de Ebba Sparre.
Fui el mozo -mozo de estoques- de la Duquesa de Chaumont
(que era de armas tomar y de cálida sélvula): con ella pus mi pica en Flandes
-sobre holandas-.

Fui escriba de Samuel Pepys -¡qué escabroso su Diario!-
y sustituto suyo como edecán adjunto de su celosa cónyuge.
Y fuí copista de Milton (un poco largo su Paraíso Perdido,
magüer perdido en buena parte: le suprimí no pocos Cantos)
y a la su vera reencontré mi Paraíso (si el poeta era
ciego; -¡qué ojazos los de su Déborah!).

Fui traductor de cablegramas del magnífico Jerjes;
telefonista de Artajerjes el Tartajoso; locutor de la Esfinge
y confidente de su secreto; ventrílocuo de Darío Tercero Codomano el Multilocuo,
que hablaba hasta por los codos;
altoparlante retransmisor de Eubolio el Mudo, yerno de Tácito y su discípulo
y su émulo; caracola del mar océano eólico ecolálico y el intérprete
de Luis Segundo el Tartamudo -padre de Carlos el Simple y Rey de Gaula.
Hice de andante caballero a la diestra del Invencible Policisne de Beocia
y a la siniestra del Campeón olímpico Tirante el Blanco, tirante al blanco:
donde ponía el ojo clavaba su virote;
y a la zaga de la fogosa Bradamante, guardándole la espalda
-manera de decir-
y a la vanguardia, mas dándole la cara, de la tierna Marfisa...

Fui amanuense al servicio de Ambrosio Calepino
y del Tostado y deMatías Aldecoa y del que urdió el Mahabarata;
fui -y soylo aún, no zoilo- graduado experto en Lugares Comunes
discípulo de Leon Bloy y de quien escribió sobre los Diurnales.
Crucigramista interimario, logogrifario ad-valorem y ad-placerem
de Cleopatra: cultivador de sus brunos pitones y pastor de sus áspides,
y criptogramatista kinesiólogo suyo y de la venus Calipigia, ¡viento en popa a toda vela!
Fui tenedor malogrado y aburrido de libros de banca,
tenedor del tridente de Neptuno,
tenedor de librejos -en los bolsillos del gabán (sin gabán) collinesco-,
y de cuadernículos -quier azules- bajo el ala.
Sostenedor de tesis y de antítesis y de síntesis sin sustentáculo.
Mantenedor -a base de abstinencias- de los Juegos Florales
y sostén de los Frutales -leche y miel y cerezas- sin ayuno.
Porta-alfanje de Harún-al-Rashid, porta-mandoble de Mandricardo el Mandria,
porta-martillo de Carlos Martel,
porta-fendiente de Roldán, porta-tajante de Oliveros, porta-gumía
de Fierabrás, porta-laaza de Lanzarote (¡ búen Lancelot tan dado a su Ginevra!)
y a la del Rey Artús, de la Ca... de la Mesa Redonda...;
porta-lámpara de Al-Eddin, el Loca Suerte, y guardián y cerbero de su anillo
y del de los Nibelungos: pero nunca guardián de serrallo ni cancerbero ni evirato de harem...
Y fui el Quinto de los Tres Mosqueteros (no hay quinto peor) -veinte años después-.

Y Faraute de Juan Sin Tierra y fiduciario de
1

Lo di che han detto a' dolci amici addio.    (Dante)
Amor, con quanto sforzo oggi mi vinci!    (Petrarca)

Come back to me, who wait and watch for you:--
    Or come not yet, for it is over then,
    And long it is before you come again,
So far between my pleasures are and few.
While, when you come not, what I do I do
    Thinking "Now when he comes," my sweetest when:"
    For one man is my world of all the men
This wide world holds; O love, my world is you.
Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pang
    Because the pang of parting comes so soon;
    My hope hangs waning, waxing, like a moon
        Between the heavenly days on which we meet:
Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang
    When life was sweet because you call'd them sweet?

    2

Era gia 1′ora che volge il desio.    (Dante)
Ricorro al tempo ch' io vi vidi prima.    (Petrarca)

I wish I could remember that first day,
    First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
    If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
    So blind was I to see and to foresee,
    So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
    A day of days! I let it come and go
    As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seem'd to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
    First touch of hand in hand--Did one but know!

    3

O ombre vane, fuor che ne l'aspetto!    (Dante)
Immaginata guida la conduce.    (Petrarca)

I dream of you to wake: would that I might
    Dream of you and not wake but slumber on;
    Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone,
As summer ended summer birds take flight.
In happy dreams I hold you full in sight,
    I blush again who waking look so wan;
    Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone,
In happy dreams your smile makes day of night.
Thus only in a dream we are at one,
    Thus only in a dream we give and take
        The faith that maketh rich who take or give;
    If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake,
        To die were surely sweeter than to live,
Though there be nothing new beneath the sun.

    4

Poca favilla gran fliamma seconda.    (Dante)
Ogni altra cosa, ogni pensier va fore,
E sol ivi con voi rimansi amore.    (Petrarca)

I lov'd you first: but afterwards your love
    Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song
As drown'd the friendly cooings of my dove.
    Which owes the other most? my love was long,
    And yours one moment seem'd to wax more strong;
I lov'd and guess'd at you, you construed me--
And lov'd me for what might or might not be
    Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.
For verily love knows not "mine" or "thine;"
    With separate "I" and "thou" free love has done,
        For one is both and both are one in love:
Rich love knows nought of "thine that is not mine;"
        Both have the strength and both the length thereof,
Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

    5

Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona.    (Dante)
Amor m'addusse in si gioiosa spene.    (Petrarca)

O my heart's heart, and you who are to me
    More than myself myself, God be with you,
    Keep you in strong obedience leal and true
To Him whose noble service setteth free,
Give you all good we see or can foresee,
    Make your joys many and your sorrows few,
    Bless you in what you bear and what you do,
Yea, perfect you as He would have you be.
So much for you; but what for me, dear friend?
    To love you without stint and all I can
Today, tomorrow, world without an end;
    To love you much and yet to love you more,
    As Jordan at his flood sweeps either shore;
        Since woman is the helpmeet made for man.

    6

Or puoi la quantitate
Comprender de l'amor che a te mi scalda.    (Dante)
Non vo' che da tal nodo mi scioglia.    (Petrarca)

Trust me, I have not earn'd your dear rebuke,
    I love, as you would have me, God the most;
    Would lose not Him, but you, must one be lost,
Nor with Lot's wife cast back a faithless look
Unready to forego what I forsook;
    This say I, having counted up the cost,
    This, though I be the feeblest of God's host,
The sorriest sheep Christ shepherds with His crook.
Yet while I love my God the most, I deem
    That I can never love you overmuch;
        I love Him more, so let me love you too;
    Yea, as I apprehend it, love is such
I cannot love you if I love not Him,
        I cannot love Him if I love not you.

    7

Qui primavera sempre ed ogni frutto.    (Dante)
Ragionando con meco ed io con lui.    (Petrarca)

"Love me, for I love you"--and answer me,
    "Love me, for I love you"--so shall we stand
    As happy equals in the flowering land
Of love, that knows not a dividing sea.
Love builds the house on rock and not on sand,
    Love laughs what while the winds rave desperately;
And who hath found love's citadel unmann'd?
    And who hath held in bonds love's liberty?
My heart's a coward though my words are brave
    We meet so seldom, yet we surely part
    So often; there's a problem for your art!
        Still I find comfort in his Book, who saith,
Though jealousy be cruel as the grave,
    And death be strong, yet love is strong as death.

    8

Come dicesse a Dio: D'altro non calme.    (Dante)
Spero trovar pieta non che perdono.    (Petrarca)

"I, if I perish, perish"--Esther spake:
    And bride of life or death she made her fair
    In all the lustre of her perfum'd hair
And smiles that kindle longing but to slake.
She put on pomp of loveliness, to take
    Her husband through his eyes at unaware;
    She spread abroad her beauty for a snare,
Harmless as doves and subtle as a snake.
She trapp'd him with one mesh of silken hair,
    She vanquish'd him by wisdom of her wit,
        And built her people's house that it should stand:--
        If I might take my life so in my hand,
And for my love to Love put up my prayer,
    And for love's sake by Love be granted it!

    9

O dignitosa coscienza e netta!    (Dante)
Spirto piu acceso di virtuti ardenti.    (Petrarca)

Thinking of you, and all that was, and all
    That might have been and now can never be,
    I feel your honour'd excellence, and see
Myself unworthy of the happier call:
For woe is me who walk so apt to fall,
    So apt to shrink afraid, so apt to flee,
    Apt to lie down and die (ah, woe is me!)
Faithless and hopeless turning to the wall.
And yet not hopeless quite nor faithless quite,
Because not loveless; love may toil all night,
    But take at morning; wrestle till the break
        Of day, but then wield power with God and man:--
        So take I heart of grace as best I can,
    Ready to spend and be spent for your sake.

    10

Con miglior corso e con migliore stella.    (Dante)
La vita fugge e non s'arresta un' ora.    (Petrarca)

Time flies, hope flags, life plies a wearied wing;
    Death following ******* life gains ground apace;
    Faith runs with each and rears an eager face,
Outruns the rest, makes light of everything,
Spurns earth, and still finds breath to pray and sing;
    While love ahead of all uplifts his praise,
    Still asks for grace and still gives thanks for grace,
Content with all day brings and night will bring.
Life wanes; and when love folds his wings above
    Tired hope, and less we feel his conscious pulse,
        Let us go fall asleep, dear friend, in peace:
        A little while, and age and sorrow cease;
    A little while, and life reborn annuls
Loss and decay and death, and all is love.

    11

Vien dietro a me e lascia dir le genti.    (Dante)
Contando i casi della vita nostra.    (Petrarca)

Many in aftertimes will say of you
    "He lov'd her"--while of me what will they say?
    Not that I lov'd you more than just in play,
For fashion's sake as idle women do.
Even let them prate; who know not what we knew
    Of love and parting in exceeding pain,
    Of parting hopeless here to meet again,
Hopeless on earth, and heaven is out of view.
But by my heart of love laid bare to you,
    My love that you can make not void nor vain,
Love that foregoes you but to claim anew
        Beyond this passage of the gate of death,
    I charge you at the Judgment make it plain
        My love of you was life and not a breath.

    12

Amor, che ne la mente mi ragiona.    (Dante)
Amor vien nel bel viso di costei.    (Petrarca)

If there be any one can take my place
    And make you happy whom I grieve to grieve,
    Think not that I can grudge it, but believe
I do commend you to that nobler grace,
That readier wit than mine, that sweeter face;
    Yea, since your riches make me rich, conceive
    I too am crown'd, while bridal crowns I weave,
And thread the bridal dance with jocund pace.
For if I did not love you, it might be
    That I should grudge you some one dear delight;
        But since the heart is yours that was mine own,
    Your pleasure is my pleasure, right my right,
Your honourable freedom makes me free,
    And you companion'd I am not alone.

    13

E drizzeremo gli occhi al Primo Amore.    (Dante)
Ma trovo peso non da le mie braccia.    (Petrarca)

If I could trust mine own self with your fate,
    Shall I not rather trust it in God's hand?
    Without Whose Will one lily doth not stand,
Nor sparrow fall at his appointed date;
    Who numbereth the innumerable sand,
Who weighs the wind and water with a weight,
To Whom the world is neither small nor great,
    Whose knowledge foreknew every plan we plann'd.
Searching my heart for all that touches you,
    I find there only love and love's goodwill
Helpless to help and impotent to do,
        Of understanding dull, of sight most dim;
        And therefore I commend you back to Him
Whose love your love's capacity can fill.

    14

E la Sua Volontade e nostra pace.    (Dante)
Sol con questi pensier, con altre chiome.    (Petrarca)

Youth gone, and beauty gone if ever there
    Dwelt beauty in so poor a face as this;
    Youth gone and beauty, what remains of bliss?
I will not bind fresh roses in my hair,
To shame a cheek at best but little fair,--
    Leave youth his roses, who can bear a thorn,--
I will not seek for blossoms anywhere,
    Except such common flowers as blow with corn.
Youth gone and beauty gone, what doth remain?
    The longing of a heart pent up forlorn,
        A silent heart whose silence loves and longs;
        The silence of a heart which sang its songs
    While youth and beauty made a summer morn,
Silence of love that cannot sing again.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
I Am 25**

Play Poem Video
With a love a madness for Shelley
Chatterton Rimbaud
and the needy-yap of my youth
has gone from ear to ear:
I HATE OLD POETMEN!
Especially old poetmen who retract
who consult other old poetmen
who speak their youth in whispers,
saying:--I did those then
but that was then
that was then--
O I would quiet old men
say to them:--I am your friend
what you once were, thru me
you'll be again--
Then at night in the confidence of their homes
rip out their apology-tongues
and steal their poems.
Not my favorite Beat. Too many amphetamines driving too many words too fast.
Last nite I dreamed of T.S. Eliot
welcoming me to the land of dream
Sofas couches fog in England
Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbows
curtains on his windows, fog seeping in
the chimney but a nice warm house
and an incredibly sweet hooknosed
Eliot he loved me, put me up,
gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious
asked my opinion on Mayakovsky
I read him Corso Creeley Kerouac
advised Burroughs Olson Huncke
the bearded lady in the Zoo, the
intelligent puma in Mexico City
6 chorus boys from Zanzibar
who chanted in wornout polygot
Swahili, and the rippling rythyms
of Ma Rainey and Vachel Lindsay.
On the Isle of the Queen
we had a long evening's conversation
Then he tucked me in my long
red underwear under a silken
blanket by the fire on the sofa
gave me English Hottie
and went off sadly to his bed,
Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad
to have met a fine young man like you.
At last, I woke ashamed of myself.
Is he that good and kind? Am I that great?
What's my motive dreaming his
manna? What English Department
would that impress? What failure
to be perfect prophet's made up here?
I dream of my kindness to T.S. Eliot
wanting to be a historical poet
and share in his finance of Imagery-
overambitious dream of eccentric boy.
God forbid my evil dreams come true.
Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg.
T.S. Eliot would've been ashamed of me.
tangshunzi Jun 2014
Questa storia d'amore che è iniziato con un incontro casuale .è cresciuto nel corso lettera per lettera scritta abiti da sposa 2014 a mano e culminata in un matrimonio costruito per dueèè uscito da un film .Un buon pazzo.romantico come vengono flick .E la fuga risultante con immagini di Fotografia Brita .altrettanto romantico.Vedere l'intera giornata svolgersi nella galleria e ancora di più su vestiti da sposa questo amore da favola .hanno un ascolto qui .

Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsWinterSettingsOutdoorStylesElopement

Kate ha incontrato Brad durante una tappa .Avevano chimica immediata .ma lei gli disse che se voleva continuare a crescere quello che avevano .avrebbe dovuto farloè? Ia lettera scritta a mano .Così ha fatto .Ha ottenuto la prima lettera di San Valentino 'Day .e nel corso di un movimento vestiti da sposa ( lui per la sua città ) e una quarantina di lettere .che cosa è stato messo a punto una proposta .nascosto nel codice scrittoè' Dal giorno del nostro primo incontro sono stato affascinato dala tua bellezza



.la personalità e la vostra fede .Sono stato benedetto per arrivare a sapere che in tal modo divertente e unico .** veramente sentito come l'uomo più fortunato a causa del vostro sforzo e il desiderio di conoscere me.Sono onorato che si vorrebbe perseguire vicenda mentre ancora tiene fedele a te stesso e la tua promessa.C'è stato qualcosa che ** pensato per molto tempo .Katherine Anne . "Allora .ha proposto !
Mi dà i brividi ogni volta che l'** letto !Le parole non possono nemmeno cominciare a descrivere quanto sia speciale Kate \u0026Giorno delle nozze Brad ' stato per noi .E ' stata un'esperienza incredibile .Nick e io eravamo gli unici ospiti e ci siamo chiesti in tutto centro di Savannah e Tybee Island.E 'stata una giornata perfetta

Fotografia : Brita Fotografia | Abito da sposa : ! Wedding Angels | Cerimonia : Troup Square.Savannah | Hair \u0026 Makeup : Heather Ferguson | Bridal Shoes : Kelly e Katie | Radio Show : The Bert MostraFotografia Brita è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Fotografia Brita VIEW
Eleganza tradizionale a Battery Gardens_vestiti da sposa
Marielle indicates: “Your luminosity, Copernicus vibrating in Giordano Bruno, expresses hypotheses that they revive to Quentinnais from the third hour, from here now I am hospitalized and without light to line the end where I will put my feet evasive. Raymond Bragasse is here where I met him, and I saw him with his holy rosary on his necklace, and on Andrés Panguiette's claw. That you grumble, they excommunicate my sentences, which are that of the rooster that becomes gentle in a Corso, Sardinian or Roman Praetorian, in the leap I relegate to San Gabriel, with its magical art that excites the retentiveness of Saint George. Under what science do they moderate me by joining you, or what century will intuit us with its own splendor, whose obscurantism under his revolution mutes anyone in the darkness of the cave of Dionysius. The divinity postpones itself, to leave its daily chores where souls fly daily ..., they do not stop leaving with their spoils after the fairies that fly to purgatory. But many have passed over me, and I was wondering where to find you, I never thought that I should fly over a swarm of wasps to reach your divine lair, full of regulatory darkness for those who live against the light, and of an Elizabethan garment that dismisses my ring, where Its natural original magic is isolated from our semi-alive body, with brittle Egyptian suns that redoubled where I had to wait for you at the Pentecost bench. What retarding essence dries up who does not show any vital or symbolic avital sign, where the rough cyclicality does not allow me to chastise my hair in any vanity for you. Oh that Moral spellings referring to my commendation, if it is not apostasy! What else would I dare to speak, through the sky flying away from the lunar books of Vivencia, where it is sent from its orbit towards the cosmos free of all and of all with Wonthelimar free of me, confined of Marielle. I know that I am analogous **** of the Libri Dei Viventi, perhaps sackcloths or coats have to be spun in Parnassus, to gird myself to myself, and not Marielle cloistered in her solitude, who does not receive the Vivendi torpor of her paradisiac sacrilege when seducing a supposed daughter of Hecate, fortunately, I have to guess with a swarm, and stay in the nets of your cave. With the stanza that is invested in rhetorical values, I go crazy for love to which I am conjured, but from Marielle now or in hundreds of years that pester on my sackcloth, which will never be used for the liturgy with you, if I revive in the crisis of resurrection in the arms of Saint George in the stained glass window in Avignon, and in his forearm that passes through the worst emotional crypts of my author.

As I have to contest hostile votes that are netted in the puritanism of those who only wear sackcloth in the unstitched Mausoleums of Quentinnais, and in the strident leaves that move elected in his advent, where the subclavian of Luzbel stands. Unanimous I have to dare by asininity ...! Moderating threads of horror and silver light, which revives us in the beasts and in their perches, ad libitum in the lattices where it emerges from the conspiracy of our tragedy. Oh, what an impetuous incarnation of the anti-Christian verb has to express itself in your incarnations of light and restless shadow, in the apse of the discanted in Avignon, and in the acroteria shadow, suffering from cowardice by not wanting to see me angelic, universal predisposition, just to know fit and what to say with your soul lineage and twin life, who only knows how to love you. Our reincarnations are rescued, now that we go to Patmos intimidated, in the sound of shining the veiled Vernarth, reprimanded in his acquiescent morality under his own law and his glasses, born from his rib that ends in the exception of a foul dialogue. It is premature for me to say what I do not have to write, but the particles slowly fall through the beam of their adjective essences, reshaping exterminated historiographies that want to make green, in colloquia that draw the eyes of whoever wants to blind the profane cult, absorbed in sallow particles in four sciences and elements… What unresolved probe and mass can strike your heart poured into you Wonthelimar? You know when we get to Profitis I will go holding your hand in the morning, to adore you and kneel down, we will deal with why we lost ourselves, and why the sun has not stained me with so much fury, carrying me burned in tongues of its consumptive and guttural infinity. After taking the hand of dawn, I will sue the impossible quagmire and its Áullos Kósmos, weakened by theoretical openness, lacking unity, but not far from my vanistory, nor from the sessile fluff of my hair, waiting for you with your stormy return to hold me. Ayia Lavra will declare war on the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, with solidity and sanctity that frees my chains in a single trident, paling in the rust of it, methodological treatise, and where the determination of veracity is annihilated.

Because I have to go to heaven when I want to offer myself to you, without any century that has received me with fewer wounds than those I had yesterday in its indolent septicemia, with miracles and incense burners that burn in imprecate, and provide a pagan theology of human filth. , not portraying biblical when your plurality dressed as a secular thirteenth, by referrals or Greco-Gallic that arise from the love that has no end or beginning in the autonomy of an incorruptible being, and even less when you wear sweets in its lavender lex. Genius Loci, or amplified reality, rather your idea of sticking with me when I have not been, and of attracting me when the future in the portal is made in the perfect symmetry of him, or whoever looms excited in his cabal. The body is no longer inscrutable, overworking with poetry to constrict my torn voice, running at great speed to seize the cosmetic that paints our faces, Selene and her luster aggravate punctuality and the status of science in creation. I have read volume VIII, and I saw that tears flowed by where I never thought ... !, for exchanges that marginalize an established authority, nor with more childish will I undone the garments of his self-description. Mime or jester in front of me in my catalog of the tragic actress with the anemic volume of her, pointing out uprisings in new waves, on seas that did not have them ..., loaded in new skeptical allegorical clouds, on truths that were already understood in the jealous name. It is incumbent on us to navigate with lamps that have to guide us through dark Ptolemaic hexahedra or henbane crusts, which do not manage to go over the sentry boxes of a divine gesture. How to dare to a final gesture of inflaming with you in factions and premises beyond an apocalypse, or of a Penelope that is gestated in a god, or becomes unknowable of a prevailing divine plan.

Charged with our dissidence, we will go far from the unknown burdens, that scripts are annexed in the new birth of our fiefdom and in their great expectation. Now four elytra have been born on my back, who hope to reveal to you the categories of the deleterious vanquished, reduced to only two Ptolemic emetics ..., you and I in a final judgment, which we already know well about, about the seventh eras that await us in the Southern Sporades, and in his final judgment in the eighth. O Jerusalem, I deprive my oldest sin by conceiving, but rather by confessing it with you. What insurgent dualism will make me get rid of myself and be reborn indestructible in its dizzying relish where the multi-chained temptation of redemption runs towards you? Wonthelimar…, I'm here, in this thunder slip writing for you. I have distanced my head united to yours so that it is not destroyed, for all thoughts, where although you are my diluted kingdom, I will beg You to leave me in the growing vertical anticipated flight from my body, but later in my consciousness which is what which will pre-exist with his Roman staff intertwining with his lusters, and in the syntagmas of Vernarth, which come from the Sporades of Patmos. As I honor and glorify Him in the southern part of him, my dear sackcloth has warmed away from my myopic eyes, already feeling your face breath on me, I will be able to vindicate narrated stories after we part before God!
Marielle Sporades
Filmore Townsend Mar 2014
I am rich
I’ve used my blood
like an extravagance

An archetype of oralcry
whose silence
               smells of cheap wine
A poetman
become an olding messenger boy
O silver tongue of spiritus!
I whoop it up
       in all my wealth
              like Great Mercurio
                      twirling his white ribboned caduceus
                                             in heavened air
Bathed & gowned
               by the Pifs of Prophecy
Asoak in a tub of soft flashes
               I step into talaria
And into my hand
               the twined winged wand was wound

I sat on the toilet of an old forgotten god
and divined a message thereon
I bring it to you
       in cupped hands
poet:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gregory_Corso
collection:
http://ndbooks.com/book/herald-of-the-autochthonic-spirit

user does not claim this as his own work.
                   -FT
Nella Torre il silenzio era già alto.
Sussurravano i pioppi del Rio Salto.
I cavalli normanni alle lor poste
frangean la biada con rumor di croste.
Là in fondo la cavalla era, selvaggia,
nata tra i pini su la salsa spiaggia;
che nelle froge avea del mar gli spruzzi
ancora, e gli urli negli orecchi aguzzi.
Con su la greppia un gomito, da essa
era mia madre; e le dicea sommessa:
"O cavallina, cavallina storna,
che portavi colui che non ritorna;
tu capivi il suo cenno ed il suo detto!
Egli ha lasciato un figlio giovinetto;
il primo d'otto tra miei figli e figlie;
e la sua mano non toccò mai briglie.
Tu che ti senti ai fianchi l'uragano,
tu dai retta alla sua piccola mano.
Tu ch'hai nel cuore la marina brulla,
tu dai retta alla sua voce fanciulla".
La cavalla volgea la scarna testa
verso mia madre, che dicea più mesta:
"O cavallina, cavallina storna,
che portavi colui che non ritorna;
lo so, lo so, che tu l'amavi forte!
Con lui c'eri tu sola e la sua morte.
O nata in selve tra l'ondate e il vento,
tu tenesti nel cuore il tuo spavento;
sentendo lasso nella bocca il morso,
nel cuor veloce tu premesti il corso:
adagio seguitasti la tua via,
perché facesse in pace l'agonia... "
La scarna lunga testa era daccanto
al dolce viso di mia madre in pianto.
"O cavallina, cavallina storna,
che portavi colui che non ritorna;
oh! Due parole egli dové pur dire!
E tu capisci, ma non sai ridire.
Tu con le briglie sciolte tra le zampe,
con dentro gli occhi il fuoco delle vampe,
con negli orecchi l'eco degli scoppi,
seguitasti la via tra gli alti pioppi:
lo riportavi tra il morir del sole,
perché udissimo noi le sue parole".
Stava attenta la lunga testa fiera.
Mia madre l'abbracciò su la criniera
"O cavallina, cavallina storna,
portavi a casa sua chi non ritorna!
A me, chi non ritornerà più mai!
Tu fosti buona... Ma parlar non sai!
Tu non sai, poverina; altri non osa.
Oh! ma tu devi dirmi una cosa!
Tu l'hai veduto l'uomo che l'uccise:
esso t'è qui nelle pupille fise.
Chi fu? Chi è? Ti voglio dire un nome.
E tu fa cenno. Dio t'insegni, come".
Ora, i cavalli non frangean la biada:
dormian sognando il bianco della strada.
La paglia non battean con l'unghie vuote:
dormian sognando il rullo delle ruote.
Mia madre alzò nel gran silenzio un dito:
disse un nome... Sonò alto un nitrito.
Qui su l'arida schiena
Del formidabil monte
Sterminator Vesevo,
La qual null'altro allegra arbor né fiore,
Tuoi cespi solitari intorno spargi,
Odorata ginestra,
Contenta dei deserti. Anco ti vidi
Dè tuoi steli abbellir l'erme contrade
Che cingon la cittade
La qual fu donna dè mortali un tempo,
E del perduto impero
Par che col grave e taciturno aspetto
Faccian fede e ricordo al passeggero.
Or ti riveggo in questo suol, di tristi
Lochi e dal mondo abbandonati amante,
E d'afflitte fortune ognor compagna.
Questi campi cosparsi
Di ceneri infeconde, e ricoperti
Dell'impietrata lava,
Che sotto i passi al peregrin risona;
Dove s'annida e si contorce al sole
La serpe, e dove al noto
Cavernoso covil torna il coniglio;
Fur liete ville e colti,
E biondeggiàr di spiche, e risonaro
Di muggito d'armenti;
Fur giardini e palagi,
Agli ozi dè potenti
Gradito ospizio; e fur città famose
Che coi torrenti suoi l'altero monte
Dall'ignea bocca fulminando oppresse
Con gli abitanti insieme. Or tutto intorno
Una ruina involve,
Dove tu siedi, o fior gentile, e quasi
I danni altrui commiserando, al cielo
Di dolcissimo odor mandi un profumo,
Che il deserto consola. A queste piagge
Venga colui che d'esaltar con lode
Il nostro stato ha in uso, e vegga quanto
È il gener nostro in cura
All'amante natura. E la possanza
Qui con giusta misura
Anco estimar potrà dell'uman seme,
Cui la dura nutrice, ov'ei men teme,
Con lieve moto in un momento annulla
In parte, e può con moti
Poco men lievi ancor subitamente
Annichilare in tutto.
Dipinte in queste rive
Son dell'umana gente
Le magnifiche sorti e progressive .
Qui mira e qui ti specchia,
Secol superbo e sciocco,
Che il calle insino allora
Dal risorto pensier segnato innanti
Abbandonasti, e volti addietro i passi,
Del ritornar ti vanti,
E procedere il chiami.
Al tuo pargoleggiar gl'ingegni tutti,
Di cui lor sorte rea padre ti fece,
Vanno adulando, ancora
Ch'a ludibrio talora
T'abbian fra sé. Non io
Con tal vergogna scenderò sotterra;
Ma il disprezzo piuttosto che si serra
Di te nel petto mio,
Mostrato avrò quanto si possa aperto:
Ben ch'io sappia che obblio
Preme chi troppo all'età propria increbbe.
Di questo mal, che teco
Mi fia comune, assai finor mi rido.
Libertà vai sognando, e servo a un tempo
Vuoi di novo il pensiero,
Sol per cui risorgemmo
Della barbarie in parte, e per cui solo
Si cresce in civiltà, che sola in meglio
Guida i pubblici fati.
Così ti spiacque il vero
Dell'aspra sorte e del depresso loco
Che natura ci diè. Per questo il tergo
Vigliaccamente rivolgesti al lume
Che il fè palese: e, fuggitivo, appelli
Vil chi lui segue, e solo
Magnanimo colui
Che sé schernendo o gli altri, astuto o folle,
Fin sopra gli astri il mortal grado estolle.
Uom di povero stato e membra inferme
Che sia dell'alma generoso ed alto,
Non chiama sé né stima
Ricco d'or né gagliardo,
E di splendida vita o di valente
Persona infra la gente
Non fa risibil mostra;
Ma sé di forza e di tesor mendico
Lascia parer senza vergogna, e noma
Parlando, apertamente, e di sue cose
Fa stima al vero uguale.
Magnanimo animale
Non credo io già, ma stolto,
Quel che nato a perir, nutrito in pene,
Dice, a goder son fatto,
E di fetido orgoglio
Empie le carte, eccelsi fati e nove
Felicità, quali il ciel tutto ignora,
Non pur quest'orbe, promettendo in terra
A popoli che un'onda
Di mar commosso, un fiato
D'aura maligna, un sotterraneo crollo
Distrugge sì, che avanza
A gran pena di lor la rimembranza.
Nobil natura è quella
Che a sollevar s'ardisce
Gli occhi mortali incontra
Al comun fato, e che con franca lingua,
Nulla al ver detraendo,
Confessa il mal che ci fu dato in sorte,
E il basso stato e frale;
Quella che grande e forte
Mostra sé nel soffrir, né gli odii e l'ire
Fraterne, ancor più gravi
D'ogni altro danno, accresce
Alle miserie sue, l'uomo incolpando
Del suo dolor, ma dà la colpa a quella
Che veramente è rea, che dè mortali
Madre è di parto e di voler matrigna.
Costei chiama inimica; e incontro a questa
Congiunta esser pensando,
Siccome è il vero, ed ordinata in pria
L'umana compagnia,
Tutti fra sé confederati estima
Gli uomini, e tutti abbraccia
Con vero amor, porgendo
Valida e pronta ed aspettando aita
Negli alterni perigli e nelle angosce
Della guerra comune. Ed alle offese
Dell'uomo armar la destra, e laccio porre
Al vicino ed inciampo,
Stolto crede così qual fora in campo
Cinto d'oste contraria, in sul più vivo
Incalzar degli assalti,
Gl'inimici obbliando, acerbe gare
Imprender con gli amici,
E sparger fuga e fulminar col brando
Infra i propri guerrieri.
Così fatti pensieri
Quando fien, come fur, palesi al volgo,
E quell'orror che primo
Contra l'empia natura
Strinse i mortali in social catena,
Fia ricondotto in parte
Da verace saper, l'onesto e il retto
Conversar cittadino,
E giustizia e pietade, altra radice
Avranno allor che non superbe fole,
Ove fondata probità del volgo
Così star suole in piede
Quale star può quel ch'ha in error la sede.
Sovente in queste rive,
Che, desolate, a bruno
Veste il flutto indurato, e par che ondeggi,
Seggo la notte; e su la mesta landa
In purissimo azzurro
Veggo dall'alto fiammeggiar le stelle,
Cui di lontan fa specchio
Il mare, e tutto di scintille in giro
Per lo vòto seren brillare il mondo.
E poi che gli occhi a quelle luci appunto,
Ch'a lor sembrano un punto,
E sono immense, in guisa
Che un punto a petto a lor son terra e mare
Veracemente; a cui
L'uomo non pur, ma questo
Globo ove l'uomo è nulla,
Sconosciuto è del tutto; e quando miro
Quegli ancor più senz'alcun fin remoti
Nodi quasi di stelle,
Ch'a noi paion qual nebbia, a cui non l'uomo
E non la terra sol, ma tutte in uno,
Del numero infinite e della mole,
Con l'aureo sole insiem, le nostre stelle
O sono ignote, o così paion come
Essi alla terra, un punto
Di luce nebulosa; al pensier mio
Che sembri allora, o prole
Dell'uomo? E rimembrando
Il tuo stato quaggiù, di cui fa segno
Il suol ch'io premo; e poi dall'altra parte,
Che te signora e fine
Credi tu data al Tutto, e quante volte
Favoleggiar ti piacque, in questo oscuro
Granel di sabbia, il qual di terra ha nome,
Per tua cagion, dell'universe cose
Scender gli autori, e conversar sovente
Cò tuoi piacevolmente, e che i derisi
Sogni rinnovellando, ai saggi insulta
Fin la presente età, che in conoscenza
Ed in civil costume
Sembra tutte avanzar; qual moto allora,
Mortal prole infelice, o qual pensiero
Verso te finalmente il cor m'assale?
Non so se il riso o la pietà prevale.
Come d'arbor cadendo un picciol pomo,
Cui là nel tardo autunno
Maturità senz'altra forza atterra,
D'un popol di formiche i dolci alberghi,
Cavati in molle gleba
Con gran lavoro, e l'opre
E le ricchezze che adunate a prova
Con lungo affaticar l'assidua gente
Avea provvidamente al tempo estivo,
Schiaccia, diserta e copre
In un punto; così d'alto piombando,
Dall'utero tonante
Scagliata al ciel profondo,
Di ceneri e di pomici e di sassi
Notte e ruina, infusa
Di bollenti ruscelli
O pel montano fianco
Furiosa tra l'erba
Di liquefatti massi
E di metalli e d'infocata arena
Scendendo immensa piena,
Le cittadi che il mar là su l'estremo
Lido aspergea, confuse
E infranse e ricoperse
In pochi istanti: onde su quelle or pasce
La capra, e città nove
Sorgon dall'altra banda, a cui sgabello
Son le sepolte, e le prostrate mura
L'arduo monte al suo piè quasi calpesta.
Non ha natura al seme
Dell'uom più stima o cura
Che alla formica: e se più rara in quello
Che nell'altra è la strage,
Non avvien ciò d'altronde
Fuor che l'uom sue prosapie ha men feconde.
Ben mille ed ottocento
Anni varcàr poi che spariro, oppressi
Dall'ignea forza, i popolati seggi,
E il villanello intento
Ai vigneti, che a stento in questi campi
Nutre la morta zolla e incenerita,
Ancor leva lo sguardo
Sospettoso alla vetta
Fatal, che nulla mai fatta più mite
Ancor siede tremenda, ancor minaccia
A lui strage ed ai figli ed agli averi
Lor poverelli. E spesso
Il meschino in sul tetto
Dell'ostel villereccio, alla vagante
Aura giacendo tutta notte insonne,
E balzando più volte, esplora il corso
Del temuto bollor, che si riversa
Dall'inesausto grembo
Su l'arenoso dorso, a cui riluce
Di Capri la marina
E di Napoli il porto e Mergellina.
E se appressar lo vede, o se nel cupo
Del domestico pozzo ode mai l'acqua
Fervendo gorgogliar, desta i figliuoli,
Desta la moglie in fretta, e via, con quanto
Di lor cose rapir posson, fuggendo,
Vede lontan l'usato
Suo nido, e il picciol campo,
Che gli fu dalla fame unico schermo,
Preda al flutto rovente,
Che crepitando giunge, e inesorato
Durabilmente sovra quei si spiega.
Torna al celeste raggio
Dopo l'antica obblivion l'estinta
Pompei, come sepolto
Scheletro, cui di terra
Avarizia o pietà rende all'aperto;
E dal deserto foro
Diritto infra le file
Dei mozzi colonnati il peregrino
Lunge contempla il bipartito giogo
E la cresta fumante,
Che alla sparsa ruina ancor minaccia.
E nell'orror della secreta notte
Per li vacui teatri,
Per li templi deformi e per le rotte
Case, ove i parti il pipistrello asconde,
Come sinistra face
Che per vòti palagi atra s'aggiri,
Corre il baglior della funerea lava,
Che di lontan per l'ombre
Rosseggia e i lochi intorno intorno tinge.
Così, dell'uomo ignara e dell'etadi
Ch'ei chiama antiche, e del seguir che fanno
Dopo gli avi i nepoti,
Sta natura ognor verde, anzi procede
Per sì lungo cammino
Che sembra star. Caggiono i regni intanto,
Passan genti e linguaggi: ella nol vede:
E l'uom d'eternità s'arroga il vanto.
E tu, lenta ginestra,
Che di selve odorate
Queste campagne dispogliate adorni,
Anche tu presto alla crudel possanza
Soccomberai del sotterraneo foco,
Che ritornando al loco
Già noto, stenderà l'avaro lembo
Su tue molli foreste. E piegherai
Sotto il fascio mortal non renitente
Il tuo capo innocente:
Ma non piegato insino allora indarno
Codardamente supplicando innanzi
Al futuro oppressor; ma non eretto
Con forsennato orgoglio inver le stelle,
Né sul deserto, dove
E la sede e i natali
Non per voler ma per fortuna avesti;
Ma più saggia, ma tanto
Meno inferma dell'uom, quanto le frali
Tue stirpi non credesti
O dal fato o da te fatte immortali.
tangshunzi Jun 2014
Non ci sono dubbi .questo matrimonio rocce.E non solo perché si è tenuto nel piccolo locale impressionante conosciuta come Sedona.No .succede anche per caratterizzare un duo seriamente adorabile ( innamorati liceo .non meno ) .lussureggianti.fiori colorati da Jazz Bouquet e un ambiente sorprendente ( Creekside Inn ) che sarà una sorta di toglierà il fiato .Vedi tutto catturato splendidamente da Cameron \u0026Kelly Studio proprio qui .

ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsAl FrescoInnStylesCasual EleganceRustic Elegance

Dal Cameron \u0026Kelly Studio .Samantha ha sempre voluto un matrimonio cortile e Creekside Inn è salito per l'occasione con i suoi prati ombreggiati .impetuoso torrente e opportunità per la famiglia di stare in una casa .Fratello Brenan ' più giovane abiti da sposa on line .Kyren ( QB corrente alla Northern Arizona University ) .citato durante il suo brindisi alla abiti da sposa corti coppia che sua Madre è sempreè eetting a luièperè ail suo o quello.èUn abiti da sposa corti giorno fece notare a lei cheèeRenan non è mai stato in difficoltà come questo quando aveva la mia età .èsua madre ha scherzato di nuovoè uUST gemmeèe in base a Samantha e quel soprannome è bloccato .Sam ha sorpreso anche il suo sposo con un segno per le ragazze di fiori per portare Detto quest

Sam aveva torte Bundt invece di torta nuziale regolare e Corn " Poe " per il dopo cena tratta .La cerimonia è stata accanto al torrente impetuoso e cocktail hour appena sopra il prato superiore.Gli ospiti assorbito un cocktail chiamato " Sedona Greyhound ".Mi è piaciuto molto il menu lavagna grande come ospiti camminavano attraverso un arco per entrare nella parte cena tenda della serata .Per i giudizi favori Sam aveva personalizzato coozies a ciascuna regolazione del posto .Tutti i



nomi delle tabelle sono da ristoranti dove la coppia aveva fatto la storia !
Da Sposa .Brenan e io siamo innamorati delle scuole superiori .Abbiamo cominciato ad uscire il nostro ultimo anno e siamo cresciuti insieme nel corso degli ultimi otto anni .Sono andato al UA e andò a ASU .in modo da poter dire che abbiamo una casa divisa e ancora discutiamo le nostre scuole .ma amiamo quando le nostre squadre giocano a vicenda .Abbastanza strano.ma noi chiamiamo a vicenda amici e nostri amici e parenti sanno questo soprannome .Quando mia madre mi chiedeva se eravamo fidanzati durante l'ultimo anno direi "No .siamo solo Budds . "Abbiamo fatto riferimento anche l'altro come Budd e si è bloccato con noi .Ci piace cavalcare le nostre biciclette insieme attorno a Tempe e andare in uno dei nostri posti preferiti Four Peaks per afferrare una birra .

Fotografo: Cameron \u0026 Kelly Studio | Dress : Monique Lhuillier | Catering : Dan Bistro | Coordinamento : Van Damme Matrimoni | Fiori : Jazz Bouquet | Tenda : Partito Classic Vacanze | Luogo : Creekside InnMonique Lhuillier è un membro del nostro Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui
Sedona Wedding da Cameron \u0026 Kelly Studio_vestiti da sposa
Vuelve otra vez tu día,
oh patria amada, el día de tu gloria.

Vuelve de nuevo a resonar triunfales
los himnos que eternizan tu memoria,
y el espléndido cielo de tu historia,
vuelve el sol de tus días inmortales.

Y otra vez a tu ara sacrosanta
llevan tus hijos fieles
flores que fecundaron tus vergeles;
y músicas marciales
al aire asordan, y doquier se oye,
en valles, montañas y llanuras,
en la extensión del suelo colombiano,
el canto jubiloso de los libres
que sube a las alturas,
de la gloria al alcázar soberano.

Y de nuevo flamea,
no como en días trágicos de horrores,
entre el ronco fragor de la pelea,
sino bajo arcos de laurel y flores,
el pendón de la patria,
la santa enseñanza de los tres colores...
la bandera inmortal que oyó las dianas
de los heroicos triunfos legendarios.

La que fue a despertar  los cóndores
a la cumbre más alta de los Andes
y fue más tarde a despertar la gloria;
la bandera inmortal, la santa egida,
que el camino marcó de la Victoria.

Besada por ondas de tus mares,
bajo el palio infinito de tu cielo,
tachonado de ardientes luminares;
lleno de flores tu fecundo suelo.
Y adormida el rumor de tus palmares,
lloras en silencio, Patria mía,
cansada de esperar luz en tu noche,
en la callada noche de tus penas;
cansada de esperar en tu agonía
el hierro que limara tus cadenas.

No, ya los hijos tuyos,
de las selvas antiguos moradores,
vagan libres, bajo el sol fulgente
que vio la gloria de tus días grandes,
ya desde la cima de los Andes
alumbraba ruinas solamente;
ni llevaban vencidos y humillados
por la invasora gente,
el cintillo de oro en la garganta
y el penacho de plumas en la frente,
ni ya el aire cortaba
las voladoras flechas,
ni en las noches de luna sollozaban
de la indígena raza los endechas.

Donde el templo del sol brilla espléndido
y sus láminas de oro refulgían,
ya los dolientes ojos no veían
sino campo infecundo y desolado.
Y el áureo trono de los reyes indios
en el polvo yacía destrozado.
Todo lo derribó cual hacha impía
del duro vencedor el brazo fuerte,
y al fin, de esa grandeza en los escombros
parecía vivir sólo la muerte...
eres, patria, la esclava envilecida;
eres, patria, el girón abandonado;
eres cual hado de baldón tu hado,
y cual vida de baldón tu vida
mas del mal el reinado no es eterno...
no su imperio perdura;
ni es eterna la noche pavorosa,
ni es eterna la humana desventura.

Que en las grandes catástrofes sombrías,
en las horas de angustia y desconsuelo,
cuando a las almas el dolor avanza,
siempre se ve la escala milagrosa
por donde sube la plegaría al cielo,
baja de los cielos la esperanza...
y llega por fin el día.

En que estallan, rugiendo los dolores
en los esclavos pechos comprimidos,
cuando alzan la cerviz los oprimidos
y bajo la cerviz los opresores,
y que tiemblen entonces los verdugos,
porque de sus dolores y sus lágrimas
pedirán los esclavos cuenta un día;
porque el llanto de un pueblo entre cadenas,
de su agonía en el mortal desmayo,
¡se alzan a los cielos, se condensa en nube,
y baja al suelo convertido en rayo!...

Y de lauro inmortal la sien ornada,
no retando a los duros opresores,
no al escape de caballos voladores,
sino en doliente precisión callada,
finge la mente que a la tierra vuelven
de las altas mansiones siderales,
al oír las alabanzas de los libres,
los que valientes en lid cayeron
y hogar y patria libertad nos dieron.

Y al fin llegó a la libertad la hora;
rompió en brillante aurora
la noche de tus penas,
y trocaste por cánticos de triunfo
los rumores de tus ayes y cadenas,
bajó a ti la victoria,
y sonaron las músicas marciales,
y empezaste el camino de la gloria,
el que lleva a las cumbres inmortales.

Y el combate se traba,
pero combate desigual, los unos
son los heroicos en sangrientas lides,
los que en el brazo llevan
empuje de Pelayos y de Cides;
Los que el paso cerraron
al corso altivo, forjadores de cetros,
y altas hazañas de una nueva aliada,
en Lepanto y Pavía renovaron...
Y los otros... Los parias infelices,
los que aun llevan en la espalda impresas
del tormento cruel las cicatrices
y del esclavo la ominosa marca,
más tenían la fe que salva montes,
la sacra fe que lo imposible abarca;
y busca de los amplios horizontes,
donde el sol de los libres centellea,
a la lid se lanzaron.

De esperanza inmortal henchido el pecho,
porque sabían que jamás sucumbe
quien lucha por una patria y su derecho.
Rota por la metralla
su bandera se vio, tintos en sangre
corrieron a la mar los patrios ríos,
y en la atónita tierra no se oía,
cual ronca marejada,
más que en el estruendo de la lid bravía,
fueron los días de la amarga prueba;
fueron los días de orfandad y  llanto
y de muerte y de horrores,
pero nada importaba los reversos
ni de la adversa suerte los rigores.

Y de inmortal la sien ornada,
no retando a los duros opresores,
no al escape de caballos voladores,
sino en doliente procesión callada,
finge la mente que a la tierra vuelven
de las altas misiones siderales,
al oír las alabanzas de los libres,
los que valientes en la lid cayeron
y  hogar y patria y libertad nos dieron.

Sonríen al ver que siempre grande
Por glorioso camino
la patria sigue a su inmortal destino;
y sonríen al ver que limpio brilla
el pendón colombiano
bajo el brillante cielo americano;
Que con amor guardamos su memoria,
Que somos dignos de sus altos hechos
Y dignos herederos de su gloria.
Y también surgen como blancos lirios,
como estrellas en diáfanas neblinas,
alta la sien, con nimbo esplendoroso,
de la patria las bellas heroínas.

También al resonar de las cadenas
indignas sus almas palpitaron;
también las cumbres del dolor hallaron...

También ellas, heroicas y serenas,
de la patria en las aras se inmolaron.
También los hechos brillan
como los hechos de los grandes hombres;
y también tienen la fama
corona de laureles para sus sienes.
Himnos de admiración tienen sus nombres;
que el corazón de la mujer, santuarios
de los puros y nobles idealismos,
también sube a la cima de la Gloria
y es capaz de los grandes heroísmos
para el amor y la virtud nacida
Ella es cordial de toda desventura;
doquiera su piedad enjuga lágrimas
y en toda sombra de dolor fulgura.
Por eso nunca desoyó el lamento
ni vio imposible el horrido quebranto
de la patria llorosa y desvalida.
¡Cuando llanto pidió, le dio su llanto;
cuando vidas pidió, le dio su vida!
¡Vuelve, oh patria, de nuevo
el día de tu gloria inmarcesible!
y otra vez a tu ara sacrosanto,
sube el himno de un pueblo redimido
de la grandeza de tus héroes canta.

Palpite eternamente en nuestros labios
y en nuestras almas su inmortal recuerdo,
porque ensalzando tus radiantes glorias,
oh patria, oh sol que sin ocaso brillas,
estaremos en pie para la tierra,
más para el cielo estamos de rodillas.
Che fai tu, luna, in ciel? Dimmi, che fai,
Silenziosa luna?
Sorgi la sera, e vai,
Contemplando i deserti; indi ti posi.
Ancor non sei tu paga
Di riandare i sempiterni calli?
Ancor non prendi a schivo, ancor sei vaga
Di mirar queste valli?
Somiglia alla tua vita
La vita del pastore.
Sorge in sul primo albore;
Move la greggia oltre pel campo, e vede
Greggi, fontane ed erbe;
Poi stanco si riposa in su la sera:
Altro mai non ispera.
Dimmi, o luna: a che vale
Al pastor la sua vita,
La vostra vita a voi? Dimmi: ove tende
Questo vagar mio breve,
Il tuo corso immortale?
Vecchierel bianco, infermo,
Mezzo vestito e scalzo,
Con gravissimo fascio in su le spalle,
Per montagna e per valle,
Per sassi acuti, ed alta rena, e fratte,
Al vento, alla tempesta, e quando avvampa
L'ora, e quando poi gela,
Corre via, corre, anela,
Varca torrenti e stagni,
Cade, risorge, e più e più s'affretta,
Senza posa o ristoro,
Lacero, sanguinoso; infin ch'arriva
Colà dove la via
E dove il tanto affaticar fu volto:
Abisso orrido, immenso,
Ov'ei precipitando, il tutto obblia.
Vergine luna, tale
È la vita mortale.
Nasce l'uomo a fatica,
Ed è rischio di morte il nascimento.
Prova pena e tormento
Per prima cosa; e in sul principio stesso
La madre e il genitore
Il prende a consolar dell'esser nato.
Poi che crescendo viene,
L'uno e l'altro il sostiene, e via pur sempre
Con atti e con parole
Studiasi fargli core,
E consolarlo dell'umano stato:
Altro ufficio più grato
Non si fa da parenti alla lor prole.
Ma perché dare al sole,
Perché reggere in vita
Chi poi di quella consolar convenga?
Se la vita è sventura
Perché da noi si dura?
Intatta luna, tale
È lo stato mortale.
Ma tu mortal non sei,
E forse del mio dir poco ti cale.
Pur tu, solinga, eterna peregrina,
Che sì pensosa sei, tu forse intendi,
Questo viver terreno,
Il patir nostro, il sospirar, che sia;
Che sia questo morir, questo supremo
Scolorar del sembiante,
E perir dalla terra, e venir meno
Ad ogni usata, amante compagnia.
E tu certo comprendi
Il perché delle cose, e vedi il frutto
Del mattin, della sera,
Del tacito, infinito andar del tempo.
Tu sai, tu certo, a qual suo dolce amore
Rida la primavera,
A chi giovi l'ardore, e che procacci
Il verno cò suoi ghiacci.
Mille cose sai tu, mille discopri,
Che son celate al semplice pastore.
Spesso quand'io ti miro
Star così muta in sul deserto piano,
Che, in suo giro lontano, al ciel confina;
Ovver con la mia greggia
Seguirmi viaggiando a mano a mano;
E quando miro in cielo arder le stelle;
Dico fra me pensando:
A che tante facelle?
Che fa l'aria infinita, e quel profondo
Infinito seren? Che vuol dir questa
Solitudine immensa? Ed io che sono?
Così meco ragiono: e della stanza
Smisurata e superba,
E dell'innumerabile famiglia;
Poi di tanto adoprar, di tanti moti
D'ogni celeste, ogni terrena cosa,
Girando senza posa,
Per tornar sempre là donde son mosse;
Uso alcuno, alcun frutto
Indovinar non so. Ma tu per certo,
Giovinetta immortal, conosci il tutto.
Questo io conosco e sento,
Che degli eterni giri,
Che dell'esser mio frale,
Qualche bene o contento
Avrà fors'altri; a me la vita è male.
O greggia mia che posi, oh te beata,
Che la miseria tua, credo, non sai!
Quanta invidia ti porto!
Non sol perché d'affanno
Quasi libera vai;
Ch'ogni stento, ogni danno,
Ogni estremo timor subito scordi;
Ma più perché giammai tedio non provi.
Quando tu siedi all'ombra, sovra l'erbe,
Tu sè queta e contenta;
E gran parte dell'anno
Senza noia consumi in quello stato.
Ed io pur seggo sovra l'erbe, all'ombra,
E un fastidio m'ingombra
La mente, ed uno spron quasi mi punge
Sì che, sedendo, più che mai son lunge
Da trovar pace o loco.
E pur nulla non bramo,
E non ** fino a qui cagion di pianto.
Quel che tu goda o quanto,
Non so già dir; ma fortunata sei.
Ed io godo ancor poco,
O greggia mia, né di ciò sol mi lagno.
Se tu parlar sapessi, io chiederei:
Dimmi: perché giacendo
A bell'agio, ozioso,
S'appaga ogni animale;
Me, s'io giaccio in riposo, il tedio assale?
Forse s'avess'io l'ale
Da volar su le nubi,
E noverar le stelle ad una ad una,
O come il tuono errar di giogo in giogo,
Più felice sarei, dolce mia greggia,
Più felice sarei, candida luna.
O forse erra dal vero,
Mirando all'altrui sorte, il mio pensiero:
Forse in qual forma, in quale
Stato che sia, dentro covile o cuna,
È funesto a chi nasce il dì natale.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
let's just say i didn't like the voyeuristic aspect,
of being bang in the middle
of people's living rooms -
people's lives however glamorous or
atypical - best comparison is that
internet traffic is like a street -
passersby everywhere - but being an estate
agent bothered me - new mantle places emerged,
like in the days when one lucky person
on the street owned a television, and people
came round to watch the football match,
or when some pivotal speech was made...
but it just got to me... i started to think:
shouldn't privacy be more and more understood,
in a new (Kant was accused, imagine,
he was accused of being a spy) way we approach
intelligence? other people's lives are just
passable... including my own - plus the website in
mention got too much bad press,
in most cases the night of long knives was
done at random, at other times? proximity,
one person on the list i can walk to a pub with,
he walks his miles from one side, i walk the miles
from my side... we head bang in the middle
to the Eva Hart in Chadwell Heath...
he says Desboys, i says De-boi - parle(z)-vou(s)...
parle(z)-vou(s) Anglai(s)?
                                                linguistics uses the
complex symbols... i use the plain and simple ear
and optometry trick: enclosed in bracket
letters  ( ) aren't optional, they're dropped...
also called the Merovingian ß-shearing:
but nonetheless written for aesthetic reasons...
and for aesthetic reasons dropped from pronunciation.
so i said... let's choose 24 randoms and keep
them poetry junkies... at least they're not
showing me their living rooms and their mantle
pieces of family life in extremes that i know of...
plus they're the only ones that might appreciate
Gregory Corso's poem Marriage... or i just don't
know anything at all... but what the hell
is going on in that poem? constellations?
he's going to show a girl constellations?
there are only about 3 in the night sky i see...
the scorpion constellation, the big wheelbarrow
and the small wheelbarrow, and something resembling
a rhombus - so that's a maximum of four:
the theory is the universe is expanding...
i don't even want a Hubble telescope to agree with
that... better than colonising mars, i'd expand
by building a permanent telescope on the moon
like the idea behind the international space station...
the moment when science fiction overtook
actual science... people just keep imagining things...
i actually think the French are worse than
the English, even though the diacritical marks
are applied, at least the letters aren't dropped...
well, we have the town of Re(a)ding,
we have reeds and reading, re(a)d and red -
past participles applaud.
David Ehrgott Jun 2016
I saw a bunch of poets
on a line
at the Avalon
in San Francisco

They looked so tired
So, I approached them
then stated
"you guys look beat"

but, at a closer glance
they were just ******

Allen was there
with Corso and Ferlinghetti
Bukowski was around the corner
trading his wife for cigarettes

again
La banda de música le chasquea el lomo
para que siga dando vueltas
cloroformado bajo los antifaces
con su olor a pomo y a sudor
y su voz falsa
y sus adioses de naufragio
y su cabellera desgreñada de largas tiras de papel
que los árboles le peinan al pasar
junto al cordón de la vereda
donde las gentes
le tiran pequeños salvavidas de todos los colores
mientras las chicas
se sacan los senos de las batas
para arrojárselos a las comparsas
que espiritualizan
en un suspiro de papel de seda
su cansancio de querer ser feliz
que apenas tiene fuerzas para llegar
a la altura de las bombitas de luz eléctrica.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i can understand the notion that no serious attempt
at literature would include curse words,
i know i boast that my mouth can be a sewer of filth,
but it's hardly black magic incantations,
i'm familiar with aleister crowley's the lesser key
of king solomon
, but i only once, once practised
the invocations, although no altar, no candles,
no spooky scenes, a lazy afternoon spent in silence,
the whole idea of incantation on the cognitive plateau:
because i never took it seriously - what i do take
seriously though: woke up at 7 a.m. (drank less than
i usually do and the concoction of sleeping pills
and whiskey didn't work the twelve hour shift in
the factory of sleep) - drank coffee (yes, i know,
this is turning another vanity project) and then
sat in despair until i took a sip at quarter to two
in the afternoon... despair? oh it came in the form of
monochromatic television cinema, Hollywood that
great albino of culture, literal despair, theatre of
the absurd in all its glittery fantastic explosions,
dinosaurs, meteors, captain *******, thor and a
green giant... through to mr deeds and what not...
white afternoon nightmare... it drove me to despair:
the way it only matters that James Bond Wallace & Gromit
are the sole cultural exports of the theatre -
i don't know, it just isn't representative overall, art house
Scandinavian Ingmar Bergman: the seventh seal,
wild strawberries... personally i liked the magician...
too much of that in the mainstream and you'll get rouble,
i mean trouble... of what the preserved man is capable
of in his physical labours - working on the construction
site - such men do shun the ideas that might give them
wings, for a natural basis - look at me, i started sniffing
the cultural realm and didn't follow tradition:
grandfather in the steel industry - it wasn't a real rebellion,
it was just an option that came slyly - and an acceptance
of "poverty" (more like modesty) - worked for a library
and what a monument it now is, from the floor to the ceiling:
books, books, book. i might add, Gregory Corso had
the best voice of all the Beats, in his early days,
recording his poems at 9 Rue Gît-le-Cœur -
art and poverty, it was always about that, i took two
patrons gun-in-hand trapped in a Stockholm syndrome
(when parents become patrons, patrons as in / i.e.
a plate of food; the cigarettes and ***** are mine).
in the meantime i'm confused by the dates,
there's a democratic tornado working its way from
Northumbria to Essex and west through to Cornwall,
but in 1997 Labour one... it's 2016, i'm getting mixed up,
American politics is more fascinating, i was just
sitting there prior to the white afternoon nightmare of
Hollywood action and comedy films bewildered
with words: is it that time already?
Wales counted, Scotland counted, currently the latter
is wearing a blue conservative collar on its
geography / demography... i already think that Labour
will win this time, the pacifism might appeal to the people,
it's a hunch but it's not definite, i just like surprises...
i'm still bewildered though: so these are the elections
were we get a new prime minister?
the health & pensions secretary resigned weeks prior,
cutting disability benefits, or an overhaul of all the scams...
but it was the conservatives that provided transparency,
as my neighbour (a carer) said:
it's more transparent under conservative powers,
under labour powers you get bribes and loop holes
that end up as black holes in the budget.

p.s. my hunch about Labour winning this election
comes as no surprise as a mayoral candidate for
London is a son of a bus driver, or postman or
whichever, and i guess to stab at a pattern,
a Labour mayoral candidate will give a Labour
government... but i could be wrong... they're still
counting Xs.
Quale in notte solinga
sovra campagne inargentate ed acque,
là 've zefiro aleggia,
e mille vaghi aspetti
e ingannevoli obbietti
fingon l'ombre lontane
infra l'onde tranquille
e rami e siepi e collinette e ville;
giunta al confin del cielo,
dietro Appennino od Alpe, o del Tirreno
nell'infinito seno
scende la luna; e si scolora il mondo;
spariscon l'ombre, ed una
oscurità la valle e il monte imbruna;
orba la notte resta,
e cantando con mesta melodia,
l'estremo albor della fuggente luce,
che dinanzi gli fu duce,
saluta il carrettier dalla sua via;
tal si dilegua, e tale
lascia l'età mortale
la giovinezza. In fuga
van l'ombre e le sembianze
dei dilettosi inganni; e vengon meno
le lontane speranze,
ove s'appoggia la mortal natura.
Abbandonata, oscura
resta la vita. In lei porgendo il guardo,
cerca il confuso viatore invano
del cammin lungo che avanzar si sente
meta o ragione; e vede
ch'a sé l'umana sede,
esso a lei veramente è fatto estrano.
Troppo felice e lieta
nostra misera sorte
parve lassù, se il giovanile stato,
dove ogni ben di mille pene è frutto,
durasse tutto della vita il corso.
Troppo mite decreto
quel che sentenzia ogni animale a morte,
s'anco mezza la via
lor non si desse in pria
della terribil morte assai più dura.
D'intelletti immortali
degno trovato, estremo
di tutti i mali, ritrovar gli eterni
la vacchiezza, ove fosse
incolume il desio, la speme estinta,
secche le fonti del piacer, le pene
maggiori sempre, e non più dato il bene.
Voi, collinette e piagge,
caduto lo splendor che all'occidente
inargentava della notte il velo,
orfane ancor gran tempo
non resterete: che dall'altra parte
tosto vedrete il cielo
imbiancar novamente, e sorger l'alba:
alla qual poscia seguitando il sole,
e folgorando intorno
con le sue fiamme possenti,
di lucidi torrenti
inonderà con voi gli eterei campi.
Ma la vita mortal, poi che la bella
giovinezza sparì, non si colora
d'altra luce giammai, né d'altra aurora.
Vedova è insino al fine; ed alla notte
che l'altre etadi oscura,
segno poser gli Dei la sepoltura.
I turbini sollevano la polvere
sui tetti, a mulinelli, e sugli spiazzi
deserti, ove i cavalli incappucciati
annusano la terra, fermi innanzi
ai vetri luccicanti degli alberghi.
Sul corso, in faccia al mare, tu discendi
in questo giorno
or piovorno ora acceso, in cui par scatti
a sconvolgerne l'ore
uguali, strette in trama, un ritornello
di castagnette.
È il segno d'un'altra orbita: tu seguilo.
Discendi all'orizzonte che sovrasta
una tromba di piombo, alta sui gorghi,
più d'essi vagabonda: salso nembo
vorticante, soffiato dal ribelle
elemento alle nubi; fa che il passo
su la ghiaia ti scricchioli e t'inciampi
il viluppo dell'alghe: quell'istante
è forse, molto atteso, che ti scampi
dal finire il tuo viaggio, anello d'una
catena, immoto andare, oh troppo noto
delirio, Arsenio, d'immobilità...
Ascolta tra i palmizi il getto tremulo
dei violini, spento quando rotola
il tuono con un fremer di lamiera
percossa; la tempesta è dolce quando
sgorga bianca la stella di Canicola
nel cielo azzurro e lunge par la sera
ch'è prossima: se il fulmine la incide
dirama come un albero prezioso
entro la luce che s'arrosa: e il timpano
degli tzigani è il rombo silenzioso
Discendi in mezzo al buio che precipita
e muta il mezzogiorno in una notte
di globi accesi, dondolanti a riva, -
e fuori, dove un'ombra sola tiene
mare e cielo, dai gozzi sparsi palpita
l'acetilene -
finché goccia trepido
il cielo, fuma il suolo che t'abbevera,
tutto d'accanto ti sciaborda, sbattono
le tende molli, un fruscio immenso rade
la terra, giù s'afflosciano stridendo
le lanterne di carta sulle strade.
Così sperso tra i vimini e le stuoie
grondanti, giunco tu che le radici
con sé trascina, viscide, non mai
svelte, tremi di vita e ti protendi
a un vuoto risonante di lamenti
soffocati, la tesa ti ringhiotte
dell'onda antica che ti volge; e ancora
tutto che ti riprende, strada portico
mura specchi ti figge in una sola
ghiacciata moltitudine di morti,
e se un gesto ti sfiora, una parola
ti cade accanto, quello è forse, Arsenio,
nell'ora che si scioglie, il cenno d'una
vita strozzata per te sorta, e il vento
la porta con la cenere degli astri.
Dalla tua adolescenza
fatta di lunghi brividi ai capelli
e d'usignoli infitti alle tue palme,
sgorgava la vertigine di un giglio
esalante profumo di domanda.

Ah, l'immane fatica
d'innestare il tuo fiore prodigioso
oltre i tiepidi climi delle folle
a vertici di gelo!

Avorio concretato fra le mani
d'estremi crocifissi,
ronzio di spine ad ogni polpastrello
delle morbide dita,
e dopo rose, rose di stupore,
placide nevicate d'innocenza,
variare d'onde al largo dei tuoi occhi,
fissità di pupilla,
vedovi cigni solitari al corso
dei tuoi fiumi d'amore.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
i can walk in the street with canned beer
and appear to be ******,
because alcohol gives me buddha eyes.

alcohol is always looking for a righteous expression,
it's abused all the time,
it burdens the n.h.s. all the time,
it has too many idiots succumbing to it,
it requires someone to drink
and be an intellectual, simply to pardon
alcohol in the conglomerate
of ****-ups, hangovers, puking in toilets,
et cetera et cetera.
when used with sleeping pills and a paracetamol
tab it's the perfected sedative,
i sedate myself, i don't drink to party woo hoo!
encountering a bunch of marijuana idiots
giggling over a pickled cucumber pimples
ha ha... pickled cucumber acne... ha ha...
enough about my drinking...
loving it anyway: it's holiday within a jolly
good day... passed a young blonde and an old ****,
they were having a therapy session in
the park... second time i pass them i end up
whistling as they pass, the old **** is telling
the young **** to look the part and assert
some for of happiness, marriage and security
and the dead man's dole to keep her interests
in perfumes and clothing afloat...
i tell the ancient oak it's required to be brown,
while the colts miscarry brown with penicillin green,
marshmallow and fungi, both squidgy,
the octopuses of the forest,
mush watered-fevered-of-shape for an umbrella
invented, latest the 18th century, with an aeroplane.
other than that?
i accuse the beatniks of desecrating sacred grounds / tool,
they invoked the use of words, they recorded their
experience of ancient indian / aztec shamanism...
carlos castaneda* quoted the shaman don juan
as saying: the experience is for you alone...
the beatnik poets started to write about the experience,
werther's original (butter sweets) turned sour,
they invoked recording their hallucinations,
**** them, **** them **** them **** them!
the mystical experience has been eradicated,
any more talk of neil armstrong and walking on the moon
parallels the desecration of these hallucinogenics
with words, these american poets desecrated the one
single dimension that could not be written about:
they walked on the moon and wrote about it...
i know nostalgia and all that, but give us a break!
the only people taking peyote these days
are rich white girls who end up injecting the concentrated
version of the natural, the essence, into their arms...
god said analysis... man said: synthesis (and analysis)...
although i dare to add the fact that there are two
strands of poetry: one that looks like a morning hangover
haircut... and one that looks like the taj mahal
of rolling marbles...
for example: ezra pounds' and ginsberg's poetry
looks great, and i mean great, they write like
they telling you to use a microscope...
but they don't have the voice to orate...
whereas gregory corso's poetry doesn't look that great,
actually it looks like ****, too simple,
but when he orates it... HE ORATES IT!
maybe his life gave him the power,
i wish i could orate like him, in fact, i never had,
the most i orated was impromptu
and it was never noted down...
but the point is: those who orate perfectly
write a simple aversion to the other strand of
poetics that is relegated / more interested in optics:
rather than a stage, a crowd, a voice "in the wilderness;"
all in all, my affiliation with hades.
frost rime, moss, and shatter'd
limb
tall spruce a wanton guard

our thoughts like steam from
broken mouth
trail back to summer's yard

while wait and lie and wait
again
the ridgeline constant scann'd

and bow and blade and axe near
by
and fires held low, not fann'd

with voices soft and breath kept
close
and furs and leather clutch'd

we swore and begg'd to gods we
knew
and others we knew not

'til dawn a misty lifeless haze
broke forth her frozen glow

and through the mouth of Hell
itself
the first of them did blow

like leaves before a horrid
storm
the Roman legions came

yet worse, alas, before the crest
a beast we could not name

bore down upon us cruel and
fierce
and widely gaped its maw

the cane corso Romans bred
to rend us tooth from jaw

my axe a useless feeble limb
no strength to give it seed

no time or space to swing or
slash

but time afresh to bleed
Ken Pepiton Jul 2019
I Am 25
With a love a madness for Shelley
Chatterton   Rimbaud
and the needy-yap of my youth
    has gone from ear to ear:
      I HATE OLD POETMEN!
Especially old poetmen who retract
who consult other old poetmen
who speak their youth in whispers,
saying:—I did those then
     but that was then
     that was then—
O I would quiet old men
say to them:—I am your friend
          what you once were, thru me
          you'll be again—
Then at night in the confidence of their homes
rip out their apology-tongues
        and steal their poems.
The wonder of this library I wander through at will, sipping living water somewat murky in the past. I skipped from 22 to 71, in one giant step,
EssEss Oct 2021
It is not without reason that Italy is a tourist haven,
If you missed a tourist spot, you could be forgiven,
Numerous scenic eye-catching locales are so much fun,
Its as if the country exists for more hearts to be won

The toe of Italy's boot-shaped peninsula in extreme south is the region of Calabria,
Herein, perched above the Tyrrhenian Sea, is the pretty town of Tropea,
Located on a reef, Tropea has all the trappings of a rocky balcony,
That it is a most sought-after holiday destination, is not just baloney

Tropea is a mythical seaside resort, with stunning fantastic beaches aplenty,
It's coastline, known as 'Coast of the Gods', appears to stretch to eternity,
Between dramatic cliffs and golden sandy beaches & edged by translucent sea,
The glittering water with gentle waves is picture-perfect as it can possibly be

With endless cobbled streets, Tropea is a puzzle of cafes, bars & piazzas; spectacular sunsets aside,
Piazza Ercole is the central square most lively and vibrant with impressive buildings on all sides,
Corso Vittorio Emmanuale is a long street teeming with tourists enjoying beer, coffee or gelato,
People lazily wander up and down the road throughout the day, though with lack of gusto

The classic postcard shot of Tropea is the iconic Santa Maria dell'Isola monastery,
Perched atop a cliff, the church with it's pristine façade is a classic example of imagery,
Surrounded by beautiful gardens, the panoramic view of rugged coastline and beaches is breathtaking,
Endless clicking of selfies and group photos with the sanctuary backdrop, is for memoirs in the making

The Historic Center of pedestrian-only narrow winding streets and lanes is a medieval maze,
Old patrician houses and palazzi painted in pastel colors present a pleasant sight to gaze,
Restaurants, pizzerias, cafes, gelaterie, artisan shops flanking the streets add to the local mileu,
One senses adventurous excitement in the air when delving into history without much ado

Tropea is the only place in the world that produces red onions that are sweet,
Attributed to the soil and climate, the delicate mild flavor makes it a delectable treat,
Seeing them hanging at vegetable stands and stacked by the roadside makes it memorable,
From salads to jarred marmalades, local restaurants prepare them in every way imaginable

Eating tartufo in Tropea is a must-have unique experience for the traveling hedonistic epicurean,
Dual ice cream flavors molded around frozen fruit and coated with cocoa powder, make up the tasty union,
Served in frozen solid form, rich melted chocolate spills from the center when you dive in with a spoon,
A no-bake dessert recipe with numerous combinations of fruit and ice cream flavors, that makes one swoon

Vacations in Italy are never complete without the sweet tooth experience of the famed gelato,
Gelatarias abound in Tropea dishing out a variety of flavors waiting to be savored on-the-go,
Gelatos are frozen desserts of Italian origin that are sans eggs, having more milk and less cream,
From chocolatey to fruity to nutty and everything in-between, every flavor is a scream

Tropea's dramatic cliffs provide a perfect backdrop for the gorgeous sunsets in the evening,
Crowds make a beeline for the chic cafes on the town's edge to enjoy vantage viewing,
The occasional purple hue of the sea on some days makes for a great visual treat,
The sun setting over the Tyrrhenian vibrant red-orange fiery sky makes it impossible to retreat

Tropea's azure blue sea and white sand beaches are an ideal setting to relax the mind,
Cliffs, coves, grottos and dramatic rock formations dot the long coastline,
Visitors rent umbrellas, enjoy the sun and take a dip in the sparkling Caribbean-like water,
Blissfully relaxing while soaking in nature's wonder, oblivious of trivialities that don't matter

Emotions engulf you when it comes to the end of the stay,
You fervently wish that you could just stay for another day,
But the thought of other travel adventures waiting to be explored,
Makes you realize that there is seldom a moment to be bored
Qui su l'arida schiena
Del formidabil monte
Sterminator Vesevo,
La qual null'altro allegra arbor né fiore,
Tuoi cespi solitari intorno spargi,
Odorata ginestra,
Contenta dei deserti. Anco ti vidi
Dè tuoi steli abbellir l'erme contrade
Che cingon la cittade
La qual fu donna dè mortali un tempo,
E del perduto impero
Par che col grave e taciturno aspetto
Faccian fede e ricordo al passeggero.
Or ti riveggo in questo suol, di tristi
Lochi e dal mondo abbandonati amante,
E d'afflitte fortune ognor compagna.
Questi campi cosparsi
Di ceneri infeconde, e ricoperti
Dell'impietrata lava,
Che sotto i passi al peregrin risona;
Dove s'annida e si contorce al sole
La serpe, e dove al noto
Cavernoso covil torna il coniglio;
Fur liete ville e colti,
E biondeggiàr di spiche, e risonaro
Di muggito d'armenti;
Fur giardini e palagi,
Agli ozi dè potenti
Gradito ospizio; e fur città famose
Che coi torrenti suoi l'altero monte
Dall'ignea bocca fulminando oppresse
Con gli abitanti insieme. Or tutto intorno
Una ruina involve,
Dove tu siedi, o fior gentile, e quasi
I danni altrui commiserando, al cielo
Di dolcissimo odor mandi un profumo,
Che il deserto consola. A queste piagge
Venga colui che d'esaltar con lode
Il nostro stato ha in uso, e vegga quanto
È il gener nostro in cura
All'amante natura. E la possanza
Qui con giusta misura
Anco estimar potrà dell'uman seme,
Cui la dura nutrice, ov'ei men teme,
Con lieve moto in un momento annulla
In parte, e può con moti
Poco men lievi ancor subitamente
Annichilare in tutto.
Dipinte in queste rive
Son dell'umana gente
Le magnifiche sorti e progressive .
Qui mira e qui ti specchia,
Secol superbo e sciocco,
Che il calle insino allora
Dal risorto pensier segnato innanti
Abbandonasti, e volti addietro i passi,
Del ritornar ti vanti,
E procedere il chiami.
Al tuo pargoleggiar gl'ingegni tutti,
Di cui lor sorte rea padre ti fece,
Vanno adulando, ancora
Ch'a ludibrio talora
T'abbian fra sé. Non io
Con tal vergogna scenderò sotterra;
Ma il disprezzo piuttosto che si serra
Di te nel petto mio,
Mostrato avrò quanto si possa aperto:
Ben ch'io sappia che obblio
Preme chi troppo all'età propria increbbe.
Di questo mal, che teco
Mi fia comune, assai finor mi rido.
Libertà vai sognando, e servo a un tempo
Vuoi di novo il pensiero,
Sol per cui risorgemmo
Della barbarie in parte, e per cui solo
Si cresce in civiltà, che sola in meglio
Guida i pubblici fati.
Così ti spiacque il vero
Dell'aspra sorte e del depresso loco
Che natura ci diè. Per questo il tergo
Vigliaccamente rivolgesti al lume
Che il fè palese: e, fuggitivo, appelli
Vil chi lui segue, e solo
Magnanimo colui
Che sé schernendo o gli altri, astuto o folle,
Fin sopra gli astri il mortal grado estolle.
Uom di povero stato e membra inferme
Che sia dell'alma generoso ed alto,
Non chiama sé né stima
Ricco d'or né gagliardo,
E di splendida vita o di valente
Persona infra la gente
Non fa risibil mostra;
Ma sé di forza e di tesor mendico
Lascia parer senza vergogna, e noma
Parlando, apertamente, e di sue cose
Fa stima al vero uguale.
Magnanimo animale
Non credo io già, ma stolto,
Quel che nato a perir, nutrito in pene,
Dice, a goder son fatto,
E di fetido orgoglio
Empie le carte, eccelsi fati e nove
Felicità, quali il ciel tutto ignora,
Non pur quest'orbe, promettendo in terra
A popoli che un'onda
Di mar commosso, un fiato
D'aura maligna, un sotterraneo crollo
Distrugge sì, che avanza
A gran pena di lor la rimembranza.
Nobil natura è quella
Che a sollevar s'ardisce
Gli occhi mortali incontra
Al comun fato, e che con franca lingua,
Nulla al ver detraendo,
Confessa il mal che ci fu dato in sorte,
E il basso stato e frale;
Quella che grande e forte
Mostra sé nel soffrir, né gli odii e l'ire
Fraterne, ancor più gravi
D'ogni altro danno, accresce
Alle miserie sue, l'uomo incolpando
Del suo dolor, ma dà la colpa a quella
Che veramente è rea, che dè mortali
Madre è di parto e di voler matrigna.
Costei chiama inimica; e incontro a questa
Congiunta esser pensando,
Siccome è il vero, ed ordinata in pria
L'umana compagnia,
Tutti fra sé confederati estima
Gli uomini, e tutti abbraccia
Con vero amor, porgendo
Valida e pronta ed aspettando aita
Negli alterni perigli e nelle angosce
Della guerra comune. Ed alle offese
Dell'uomo armar la destra, e laccio porre
Al vicino ed inciampo,
Stolto crede così qual fora in campo
Cinto d'oste contraria, in sul più vivo
Incalzar degli assalti,
Gl'inimici obbliando, acerbe gare
Imprender con gli amici,
E sparger fuga e fulminar col brando
Infra i propri guerrieri.
Così fatti pensieri
Quando fien, come fur, palesi al volgo,
E quell'orror che primo
Contra l'empia natura
Strinse i mortali in social catena,
Fia ricondotto in parte
Da verace saper, l'onesto e il retto
Conversar cittadino,
E giustizia e pietade, altra radice
Avranno allor che non superbe fole,
Ove fondata probità del volgo
Così star suole in piede
Quale star può quel ch'ha in error la sede.
Sovente in queste rive,
Che, desolate, a bruno
Veste il flutto indurato, e par che ondeggi,
Seggo la notte; e su la mesta landa
In purissimo azzurro
Veggo dall'alto fiammeggiar le stelle,
Cui di lontan fa specchio
Il mare, e tutto di scintille in giro
Per lo vòto seren brillare il mondo.
E poi che gli occhi a quelle luci appunto,
Ch'a lor sembrano un punto,
E sono immense, in guisa
Che un punto a petto a lor son terra e mare
Veracemente; a cui
L'uomo non pur, ma questo
Globo ove l'uomo è nulla,
Sconosciuto è del tutto; e quando miro
Quegli ancor più senz'alcun fin remoti
Nodi quasi di stelle,
Ch'a noi paion qual nebbia, a cui non l'uomo
E non la terra sol, ma tutte in uno,
Del numero infinite e della mole,
Con l'aureo sole insiem, le nostre stelle
O sono ignote, o così paion come
Essi alla terra, un punto
Di luce nebulosa; al pensier mio
Che sembri allora, o prole
Dell'uomo? E rimembrando
Il tuo stato quaggiù, di cui fa segno
Il suol ch'io premo; e poi dall'altra parte,
Che te signora e fine
Credi tu data al Tutto, e quante volte
Favoleggiar ti piacque, in questo oscuro
Granel di sabbia, il qual di terra ha nome,
Per tua cagion, dell'universe cose
Scender gli autori, e conversar sovente
Cò tuoi piacevolmente, e che i derisi
Sogni rinnovellando, ai saggi insulta
Fin la presente età, che in conoscenza
Ed in civil costume
Sembra tutte avanzar; qual moto allora,
Mortal prole infelice, o qual pensiero
Verso te finalmente il cor m'assale?
Non so se il riso o la pietà prevale.
Come d'arbor cadendo un picciol pomo,
Cui là nel tardo autunno
Maturità senz'altra forza atterra,
D'un popol di formiche i dolci alberghi,
Cavati in molle gleba
Con gran lavoro, e l'opre
E le ricchezze che adunate a prova
Con lungo affaticar l'assidua gente
Avea provvidamente al tempo estivo,
Schiaccia, diserta e copre
In un punto; così d'alto piombando,
Dall'utero tonante
Scagliata al ciel profondo,
Di ceneri e di pomici e di sassi
Notte e ruina, infusa
Di bollenti ruscelli
O pel montano fianco
Furiosa tra l'erba
Di liquefatti massi
E di metalli e d'infocata arena
Scendendo immensa piena,
Le cittadi che il mar là su l'estremo
Lido aspergea, confuse
E infranse e ricoperse
In pochi istanti: onde su quelle or pasce
La capra, e città nove
Sorgon dall'altra banda, a cui sgabello
Son le sepolte, e le prostrate mura
L'arduo monte al suo piè quasi calpesta.
Non ha natura al seme
Dell'uom più stima o cura
Che alla formica: e se più rara in quello
Che nell'altra è la strage,
Non avvien ciò d'altronde
Fuor che l'uom sue prosapie ha men feconde.
Ben mille ed ottocento
Anni varcàr poi che spariro, oppressi
Dall'ignea forza, i popolati seggi,
E il villanello intento
Ai vigneti, che a stento in questi campi
Nutre la morta zolla e incenerita,
Ancor leva lo sguardo
Sospettoso alla vetta
Fatal, che nulla mai fatta più mite
Ancor siede tremenda, ancor minaccia
A lui strage ed ai figli ed agli averi
Lor poverelli. E spesso
Il meschino in sul tetto
Dell'ostel villereccio, alla vagante
Aura giacendo tutta notte insonne,
E balzando più volte, esplora il corso
Del temuto bollor, che si riversa
Dall'inesausto grembo
Su l'arenoso dorso, a cui riluce
Di Capri la marina
E di Napoli il porto e Mergellina.
E se appressar lo vede, o se nel cupo
Del domestico pozzo ode mai l'acqua
Fervendo gorgogliar, desta i figliuoli,
Desta la moglie in fretta, e via, con quanto
Di lor cose rapir posson, fuggendo,
Vede lontan l'usato
Suo nido, e il picciol campo,
Che gli fu dalla fame unico schermo,
Preda al flutto rovente,
Che crepitando giunge, e inesorato
Durabilmente sovra quei si spiega.
Torna al celeste raggio
Dopo l'antica obblivion l'estinta
Pompei, come sepolto
Scheletro, cui di terra
Avarizia o pietà rende all'aperto;
E dal deserto foro
Diritto infra le file
Dei mozzi colonnati il peregrino
Lunge contempla il bipartito giogo
E la cresta fumante,
Che alla sparsa ruina ancor minaccia.
E nell'orror della secreta notte
Per li vacui teatri,
Per li templi deformi e per le rotte
Case, ove i parti il pipistrello asconde,
Come sinistra face
Che per vòti palagi atra s'aggiri,
Corre il baglior della funerea lava,
Che di lontan per l'ombre
Rosseggia e i lochi intorno intorno tinge.
Così, dell'uomo ignara e dell'etadi
Ch'ei chiama antiche, e del seguir che fanno
Dopo gli avi i nepoti,
Sta natura ognor verde, anzi procede
Per sì lungo cammino
Che sembra star. Caggiono i regni intanto,
Passan genti e linguaggi: ella nol vede:
E l'uom d'eternità s'arroga il vanto.
E tu, lenta ginestra,
Che di selve odorate
Queste campagne dispogliate adorni,
Anche tu presto alla crudel possanza
Soccomberai del sotterraneo foco,
Che ritornando al loco
Già noto, stenderà l'avaro lembo
Su tue molli foreste. E piegherai
Sotto il fascio mortal non renitente
Il tuo capo innocente:
Ma non piegato insino allora indarno
Codardamente supplicando innanzi
Al futuro oppressor; ma non eretto
Con forsennato orgoglio inver le stelle,
Né sul deserto, dove
E la sede e i natali
Non per voler ma per fortuna avesti;
Ma più saggia, ma tanto
Meno inferma dell'uom, quanto le frali
Tue stirpi non credesti
O dal fato o da te fatte immortali.
O graziosa luna, io mi rammento
che, or volge l'anno, sovra questo colle
io venia pien d'angoscia a rimirarti:
e tu pendevi allor su questa selva
siccome or fai, che tutta la rischiari.
Ma nebuloso e tremulo dal pianto
che mi sorgea sul ciglio, alle mie luci
il tuo volto apparia, ché travagliosa
era mia vita: ed è, né cangia stile,
o mia diletta luna. E pur mi giova
la ricordanza, e il noverar l'etate
del mio dolore. Oh come grato occorre
nel tempo giovanil, quando ancor lungo
la speme e breve ha la memoria il corso,
il rimembrar delle passate cose,
ancor che triste, e che l'affanno duri!
Dan Jun 2017
And on that day I decided
I wasn't going to go home
Or at least not yet
And so I got in my car and drove the opposite direction and surrounded myself with books and not with the silence and solitude my house offers when no one is home
Where I sit and force myself to believe that there is nothing to do
But on that day I didn't go home
And the days after that I went on walks around neighborhoods with music drowning out all else like I was in Nirvana walking down streets nodding to old men on porches and watching trees sway in gentle breezes
And a few nights later I sat on an old swing in my back yard
And it was in that moment that I thought of you Allen
Allen Ginsberg big beat poet with Buddhist beard and round belly always smiling always there to help a friend whether it's money for Corso or a walk with Kerouac by all the locomotive sunflower days in California
Or Tangiers sipping on mint tea
Or ghats in India
Lost notebooks in Russia or was it Cuba
Oh Allen I think of you now on this summer night
Allen you would have turned 91 today isn't that crazy
The world has only gotten crazier since you left it and there are times I wish you were here because, though I never knew you, you seemed to have a lot of the answers
Like "you'll die when you die there's no use worrying about it"
And Allen wherever you are now I hope you are with Naomi and Peter and Neal and all the other angels you loved so deeply
Allen I wish I could love with half the strength you could
I wish I could see the world through your eyes or at the very least through your eyeglasses
But tonight I will have to make do with the jazz that's coming through my headphones
And the gentle summer breeze through my bedroom window
Lou Mar 2018
I over heard a man say,
In all tone tailored misogyny.

"Women only write to gain sympathy;
trauma is the only word that they know to write in their tear stained diary's.
And the only "gentle-man"
kind enough to wash their emotions down,
chasing fire with gasoline.
Secretly wished he drank his filtered water silently..."

In all the heights of talks at the bar.
Shots being set off
like battles to march.
Blitzkreig novelty in subtle exchanged gazes.
Awkward waives of air strikes,
cued me to infiltrate with a statement.

If we could rewind back a bit:
Manson.
Corso.
Frost.
Shelley.

We as men,

we got paper in that social economy.

We've cornered the market with deep pockets,
and I'm personally buying up property.
if you have any trauma on this street
all the way to the corner of Fuckitall and defeat,
your words pay indulgences
to my agony.

We as men sank the dollar down with women walking away thinking we are just crazy.

We convinced ourselves we are rich and strong...
we are rich and strong...
...rich with strong anxiety.

Too bad an ego doesn't have a mirror to flex in proudly.

When things start looking good,
We question everything-
until we ruin the quality.
We wish we could start
handing out apologies
that could clean ourselves off
of guilt and second guessing
while we simultaneously
call out to every hot body we see.

That isn't boys being boys, that's mania.
We beg for a monetary insanity.
We pay for Electro lobotomies
And we take it like a man!

Like a homeless man...
shaking his can empty,
the only reflection
that's relevant of me.

I am the Can filled empty,
emotionally starving for change.

You can invest into our **** measuring moments ,
and track how many times quarterly we lose inches to self-pity,
we trade reason and go all in for compensation!

If we had a board of executives,
they would think for...
Ehh maybe a second; (meh)
Who needs to be invested?
when hair gel and resentment are certified and cost effective?

Blame, shame,
**** displayed disco games.

These are the tools we need as men,

Oppression, projection, beard cream, soggy dreams

We stuff our pants big
With a little tragedy.

All to have this conversation.
When the dollars weak
print out sexist paper statements
to inflate insecurities.

We men, we no speak.
Cause our fathers didn't put money into a *****.
We buck up or pay up.
the only men we can hear talking
Washington, Franklin,
and Lincoln penny's.
We ***** ourselves
And waited 30 days for warranty.
And took one for the team!
One more for someone else's American dopamine !

Kronos out of this time.
the statue we built of Atlas, crumbling.
Can man no longer lift the globe and say he needs nothing?
Has Gaia come home demanding her sons to reap what is printed on a receipt?!

Men who don't talk about trauma are traumatic.
If diaries are more soaked in women tears than ink,
why do we rub their faces into their single word dictionaries?

Is it so they cannot breathe the possibilities
that their tears and ink have formed other words
WORDS that could create sentences
SENTENCES on those stained pages
and all over those PAGES
She would explain it all;

In TEARS
and INK
and STAINS

"WE ALL FEEL PAIN."

Trauma bets against us all and leaves no *** or races.

Write trauma.
Right trauma,
By writing trauma away.

Women/Men.
sexism in poetry
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
is it still considered... watching ****...
if she also *******...
or... you're watching that...
take on japanese sexuality in anime...
with a gloryhole and a rubber ****
and she's addressing it:
shogun... and... there's custard...
of the ******* scene?
or she's teasing you pregnant...
and you're like:
         no more eggs!
***** like watermelon juggernauts!

i was never a fan of soap opera...
whether coronation st.
or something turkish / mexican my
grandmother would better enjoy...

drama: internet: clebrity drama...
idubbbz etc.
          i am click-baited by the change
in the algorithms...
"once upon a time" the website
worked as... a thesaurus jukebox...
none of these videos would come up
as suggested...
so i scroll through them:
3 minutes in and my attention span
has become ridiculed by:
the spezial juice...

     there's not other alternative...
not being a *******...
       something sobering...
       not even nostalgia and a life prior:
mix-tapes recorded for an
highschool sweetheart...
reef: give me your love...

         i should have become a monk...
templar chant: antiphona:
                  crucem sanctam subiit...
something out of necessity...
in terms of *******?
it's hardly me playing for the cuckoldry
pass...
    she's alone... i'm alone...
she has more toys...
i have a grip of the hand...
that can hold a basketball with
one hand...
which dwarfs my: "esteem"...
      and it's like a sensation akin to...
the mouth of a squid suckling out
an extra trim of the *******...
very forensic ugly *******...

no floral patterns of a pregnant girl
needing to be comforted by
less a "stance" and more a tongue:
wriggling to tease...
or whatever it might be called...

is it ****? she's with a toy shooting
custard cream...
and... i have a hand that acts like a squid mouth...
boniest **** i have yet to see...
****'s a dwarf to boot...
but at least... no concern for WD40
and **** fetishes...
to compete with homosexual zeniths of
pleasure: gained...
thus pleasure: given...

is it ****... when she's at it...
and i'm "at it"...
   and there's no... theatre?
  what is it... then?
                 crucem sanctam subiit
qui infernum confregit
         accinctus est potentia
   surrexit die tertia...
                    alleluia...
dear good: moral superiority?
     dial me up...
these choral works are...
   the medicine when even Handel doesn't
quiet cut the matter: solid...

sooner the dogs and insects come unto
my body: the sooner i will be able
to wash their base instincts myself with...
and afterward...
the clerical matter of:
the... "spiritual refrain"...
a completely blank slate of mind...

       first comes the fire...
and if you're lucky: suppose there's water
to come to quench your thirst: after...
because the looks of it...
teeth do not fare well...
when chewing sand...

             point being... it's hardly a...
video-friendly affair on my part...
but a woman *******...
**** me... spring already?!
the flowers are budding?
the asexuality in her is... jumping to extremes?
as a joke... or hardly...
hands... too bad all those asian girls
already started to look like
****-robots...
      kyoto-eyes...

                       fake... fake...
   good of me to have ****** a beached
whale... "******"...
snuggled and eyelids teased with lips...
and of course... the mechanists' trance
for piston envy... blah blah...
           but a carrying point of
comparison... when the bleach starts
melting the plastic...
and she is... and i am...
being ****** off and each other
by telephatic forces equivalent to...
ghosts...
   and is it *******... just then?

i had to explore these crude...
one-armed bandits... since... typing...
on a keyboard... i sometimes
see myself in the mirror...
but... on a piece of paper:
i have to remind myself that:
i am... and will forever be...
right-handed...
        
                       the teenage trick was...
to sit on the hand you don't use to write...
and then... ******* with it once
enough numbing was imbued...
ghost did it... was the motto...
i don't know...
      ever become fooled to eat something...
before an operation where
a general anaesthetic was used?
and you wake up...
regurgitating window-licker esque
blah gurgle blah blah further?

from the athenian strip-club
to a brothel in the east end...
and sieving through...
eh...          minor evidence...
settling down on gloryhole ******* flicks
for a while...
any adventure of her ******* herself
and "easing" me to...
that squid-mouth of a hand...
of my own...
        but everything on the throne of thrones...
then a quick baptism in a shower:
promises are promises...
no armchair... not scented candles...
doing the no. 1, 2 & 3...
on the throne of thrones... does...
the trick...

- and once the bourbon is opened:
the perfume of... every... single... brothel...
i meet a man on a rampage...

and he says: beside reading gregory corso...
ah... forget reading him...
just hear him speak... that's the sexiest
**** voice suckling at the ****
of the escape from "alcatraz" / prose paragraph...
you will... ever... hear...

scouts honour... although i was no more
a scout than the slingshot
my philatelist grandpa made me...
shooting iron *****-heads... giggling...
in the confines and comfort
of a... kitchen window...

   my grandfather: the philateist...
i'll have to admit...
i make a much better drunk than he ever was...
my father is a cockerel boxer
and my uncle a gloomy zombie...
when i drink, though?
i am still that... hard-on-sunrise
diving into a ***** of some old
stripped in Athens... from... hell...
Macedonia?
and those "other" eyes looking at me...
the message always reads:
take your ******* toys...
and *******... from this sandbox of we
milking the lechers...
colt...

so i'd be at it... with a reply akin to...
i was never in athens...
the card debit dried up...
escorted by a bouncer...
****** myself at the atm machine...
walked back to the hostel
like some GI Joe...
      
   oh sure... ***... the great adventure...
is it ****...
watching her play with her barbie
and me play with my ken?
pristine, though...
          is it **** when i'm not giving
a narrative piece...
no classical italian 1970s...
         scenes...
        is it ****?
       or is it... butchers' spree!

i just don't have the toy...
the guillotines *****... soz... let's extend that
into: "oops"?!
i guess if i was gay... conservative...
an... Tangier was the hotbed of
frilocking...
under the Islamic regime of the... ******* sons...
and the lesbian duaghters...
and the unloved... under polygamy...
and: isn't muhammad...
the one who tried... to claim both...
the psalms of David...
and the solominic prowess at a hard-on?
i guess he must have failed in one
of these two adventures...

so much for Muhammad's surrogates
of Zion... the mothers of the believers...
or those struck by the reality of waking up...
in some suburb of Birmingham...

is it ****?
he does who what with when she
does it with a guillotined ken-play-dough?
here's the porsche...
and here's... the limping deaf
and blind horse...
i'd sooner have the horse...
after a while it become apparent...
i... can't... chew...
or... digest... metal...

but a horse i can... ***** into a furthering
of life... as i "leisure" myself into
a chicken... even the marrow in the bones
will not matter...

is it ****?
she's shooting blanks i'm shooting out
a genocide...
there's this tissue... there's this tear...
there's a hard-on and there's the spring
of genitals on her part...

and it's the modern version of...
what **** was like in the 1970s and the 1980s...
before... she had to go up-stream
and against the salmons of solomon...
migrating with her hybrid...
puppeteering strings...
i clenched my hand that didn't become a fist...
but the mouth of a stripteasing zebra...
and the motto: k.o.
of an uvula that would somehow
become the pricess and frog of... cough-medicine
slurp... and later a kiss...
and things, "things"... just had to become
so ugly...
so wholly unrecognisable...
when standing upon waverly bridge...
looking out across... the firth of forth...
and that... tapeworm eerie white...
one of those nights... scaling the old college scaffold...
with a belarusian ***...

this tinge... this ribbon of an accent
and a signature...
this forever-new...
        
upkept thus far...
    a horror movie soundtrack...
to a lullaby replica...
by god i snore harded than...
an asthmatic cerberus...
   what's ****?
        i care to mind the details...
hands being the most ****** aspect of...
my synonym...
all procelain and easily broken...
hands i could have do...
with making bone arithmetic a "thing"...

i ****-size a comparison...
by the looks of it...
the Cindarella: heel... cut off...
is a bit like me missing...
a knuckle...
             just at the pinky...
where my signet ring should abide
by for the eternal purpose
of the engluish bachelor...
and queen... and prince charming...
and a wales...
that invokes the boundary of...
not only cornwall...
but also devon... somerset...
dorchester...
     agor ysbeiliai:
                    o hanesyddol maliaf
o pethau...
       none of it... actually...
some other prince charming...
drag queen hour reading...
orwell having a ******* with...
  a: wilde...

             high-brow expectations....
to riddle out 1 + 1 = 2...
                        that somehow nothing
has to remain... plough-towing...
pig-trough-tied... hoof and bite...
and goodmorning vietnam... d.j. accurate...
or the pleasures from cartilege...
and all the scooping up
pedantry: in details...
over such minor facts of a former:
base relief to imitate: imitating life...

i am quiet adamant...
away from the realities of a London
or a Warsaw...
one can most certainly...
conjure up a quest of time...
as that sort of quest whereby...
time's-amiss...
in that the clocks have apparently
clogged up and... therefore...
"somehow" stooped to... quiet simply...
having... stopped!
Connor Sep 2016
I (August)

By way of magic theaters
& Volumes of intellectual glitter
& Tragedy in the form of escalator dramas
Replaced with alcoholism and the tile floor in need of cleaning

Bulbs green and vibrant
In accompaniment of nearby mechanical ships/
I'm too spoken and the traffic has been melting against itself for the last three weeks

Doorhandles left empty of the
Torch of lost odors
& Bouquet smiles
& Petrichor thru the window facing the street
A shouting sort
And 25 cents in my back pocket

The dream I had yesterday of Bank Robbery
Solipsism

Also sexuality revealed as
The Camel's endurance
For kind people

Everyone around me in the bookshop starts vocalizing my internal scatterings
& The whole thing becomes surreal
Corso waves as I walk by
I'm afraid if what might happen on acknowledging it

Lamppost summoned and
Violent
Carpet is stained with the footsteps of people you don't want around anymore

Your gigantic ego had a hard time fitting thru the doorframe on exit


II (September)

A woman is reading a japanese book on
Windmills
Cradled by a sweater the tone of
Sunsets

The hour has devolved into silhouttes

An internal voice peaceully sings its way higher into the skull to be remembered/
The melody of September

On the verge of permanence at all times
& feeling it now!

You will never be this shy around
Orchards again,
Once the Hotels quiet down &
Autumn laurel replaces the crow of
Current conciousness

Ur journal is a series of wet shapes
Lucidly mixed with Candlewax air

Have fun transcribing Burmese papers
Or attempting Monkhood in Vermont!

III

It has been easy attending
All these social Funerals
And watching the Hospitals keep busy
As water is drained from countless fountains

Meanwhile a dog with a crooked lung is manufacturing a vivid sense of
Totality with the garden
Tongue out
Unaware of the Sun
Connor May 2016
and after a
death nightmare like that
I can't help but think of Corso's gravestone
and how much the clouds really do
mean to me

O how important
tattoos of ailed hands become.

appreciating
the flowers of May
as trees become aware
of the cold every year,

me, teary eyed on waking
and realizing
what people close to him must be going through now.

— The End —