Tag Archives: literature

*Birdle Burble

magpies-1905.jpg!halfhd

 

I went out of my mind and then came to my senses

By meeting a magpie who mixed up his tenses,

Who muddled distinctions of nouns and of verbs,

And insisted that logic is bad for the birds.

With a poo-wee cluck and a chit, chit-chit;

The grammar and meaning don’t matter a bit.

 

The stars in their courses have no destination;

The train of events will arrive at no station;

The inmost and ultimate Self of us all

Is dancing on nothing and having a ball.

So with chat for chit and with tat for tit,

This will be that, and that will be It!

 

 

*The poem above is taken from Alan Watt’s “Nonsense”.

**Painting “Magpies” by Archibald Thorburn, 1905.

 

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* I prefer dongulation

laughing-hotei

It is, I think, increasingly clear that parameters of this kind provide an essential corrective to the obsession of sanity. More and more, one feels that free and dominant methods are loud, tough, and frequent. Obviously, closed corners must be very carefully under-rated; otherwise, popular notions of frame and texture will show that the entire system is purely academic, and that the particular point of convergent energies is that they are finally globular.
Cows are, naturally, free of dust. But stops are most difficult to try. The real problem is that quills are too fat, and until we can easily connect ideas with tassles the function will be empty. Not that this would be equal: it is only that disproportionate combinations have an existential dimension which is, all too often, gullible.
On the whole, I prefer dongulation. It is prepid, snord, and tart, and the vallifaction of an estimate is grolic. Churdles and mards will always require fronicks, and lapsy daddles are usually bequeathed to the snorder kind of lumpens. Bolliwots are frankly bespoken, and every mutter-hound is a preposterous garble of tonsils. I have no wish to be snerdily previous: It is merely that wumpens and drabs are vollible, and that any further toculation would be groanly unspecified.

 

*Quotation above are taken from Alan Watt’s “Nonsense”

**Painting “Laughing Hotei” by Kogan Genge

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* I have a rendezvous with Death – Alan Seeger

Alan_Seeger

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows ‘twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear…
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

*Poem by Alan Seeger

 

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Not even for nothing*

leclezio4460

Triumph of pain – treachery of the eyes, the ears, the skin. One has to trudge through this desert all one’s life. To see and to hear. To hear and see. To eat. To laugh. To talk, smoke, drink. To feel. To procreate. To write. To breathe. To be in pain. To bleed, to tremble. To be angry. To suffer. To cry out, to sleep, to wait. Fatigue is everywhere. There is no way, really no way of avoiding it. One has to toil, to feel hot, to feel cold. To caress. To enjoy. To understand, to understand without pause. Every day. Like that, every day, without exception. To urinate. To taste. To let oneself be carried away by useless words. To adopt paces and habits. To seek for phrases, to stretch one’s ears and eyes, to stretch one’s skin. To pretend to love, to love really, perhaps. All that, not even for nothing; for it’s not even possible to resort to nothingness so as to determine one’s life; man is not alone; vulgar, garish things inhabit him, shape him. There’s no way of judging. There is no absurdity, for there is not even any separation between what is and what ought to be. God, if he exists, must be left in full control: never, no, never, shall we really know what a little worm man is.

*The text above is taken from the story “A day of old age” written by J.M.G. Le Clezio.

 

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And then arrived reality

wind-fallen-trees-1887

And then arrived reality.
From deep slumber she disturbed me.
Now I see, there is no god.
Reality is much more odd.

And then arrived reality
in all her beauty and brutality.
I greet her with a hug and kiss.
She smiles and says: what is amiss?

And then arrived reality
reminding me of life’s finality.
She put her hands on my eyes
and said: each life one day dies.

And then arrived reality
coupled with illness and agony.
I cried and prayed: Please go away.
But she replied: I came to stay.

And then arrived reality
without gods and morality.
She doesn’t mind to be ignored.
She walks slow, on her own accord.

And then arrived reality
restoring things to normality.
All fears and hopes she swept away.
I trust in her. Let come what may.

*Painting – “Wind Fallen Trees” by Ivan Shishkin, 1886.

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Pretend I’m lost, then come and find me

Hieronymus_Bosch_051 conjurer

Pretend I’m lost, then come and find me.
Pretend I’m hungry, then come and feed me.
Pretend I’m ill, then come and heal me.
Pretend I’m honest, then come and deceive me.
Pretend I’m wise, then come and fool me.
Pretend I’m strong, then come and defeat me.
Pretend I’m wealthy, then come and rob me.
Pretend I’m amusing, then come and ignore me.
Pretend I’m guilty, then come and forgive me.
Pretend I’m filthy, then come and cleanse me.
Pretend I’m pretty, then come and love me.
Pretend I’m holy, then come and adore me.
Pretend I’m charming, then come and please me.
Pretend I’m noble, then come and serve me.
Pretend I’m tranquil, then come and disturb me.
Pretend I’m austere, then come and tease me.
Pretend I’m lonely, then come and approach me.
Pretend I’m alluring, then come and seduce me.
Pretend I’m angry, then come and appease me.
Pretend I’m worried, then come and console me.
Pretend I’m dead and say something nice.

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Go fuck yourself I say to the cold weather

rough-seas-1885

Go fuck yourself I say to the cold weather.
Go fuck yourself I say to the stubborn river.
Go fuck yourself I say to the erupting volcano.
Go fuck yourself I say to the rain and thunder.
Go fuck yourself I say to the raging fire.
Go fuck yourself I say to the standing tree and sleeping flower.
Go fuck yourself I say to the forest and nature.
Go fuck yourself I say to the park and the jungle.
Go fuck yourself I say to the village and the city.
Go fuck yourself I say to the cloud and current.
Go fuck yourself I say to the storm and torrent.
Go fuck yourself I say to the desert and winter.
Go fuck yourself I say to the wind and shadow.
Go fuck yourself I say to the sun and the moon.
Go fuck yourself I say to the cave and valley.
Go fuck yourself I say to the street and alley.
Go fuck yourself I say to the mountain and the flood.
Go fuck yourself I say to the pyramid and tower.
Go fuck yourself I say to the bridge and tunnel.
Go fuck yourself I say to the wave and stone.
Go fuck yourself I say to the seed and grain.
Go fuck yourself I say to the sand and fog.
Go fuck yourself I say to the tomb and monument.
Go fuck yourself I say to the coal and ashes.
And to those not mentioned, I say:
Get out and hang yourself.

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