In love with your lips and in love with your belly's white warmth, 0 human - 0 animal "heavenly screwed little girl - in love with your crying's pure succulent salt of the heart - hot heart of the murderess " heart of the victim, whispering 'love' and whispering "please' - and the minor-thief's heart in my own hunting skin corresponds to your sexual lips of immaculate white - I would run my cool tongue in your mouth, eat your tears, taste your difficult washmachine beauty! My city envisions your breast beneath which is the heart that addresses itself, and the answers? definite crazy - and love! (fragment from RAY BREMSER's POEM OF MADNESS, 1965 - [POEMS OF MADNESS was originally published in 1965 by PAPER BOOK GALLERY and reprinted by WATER ROW PRESS, PO Box 438, Sudbury, MA 01776. These excerpts from POEMS OF MADNESS appears here with the permission of Jeffrey Weinberg, publisher of WATER ROW PRESS and literary executor of the poet's estate.]
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"Going to pay homage to a whore Put Bukowski’s face on Mount Rushmore" GOING TO MAKE POETRY AN INSTITUTION
Going to run for political office On a pledge to make poetry an institution Going to rattle the white mans power cage Show them the meaning of real rage The preacher man doubts evolution The con man doesn’t believe in revolution The priest has run out of absolution No more autographs no more forced laughs No more hanging around the zoo swapping Stories with gurus Going to smoke me some dope With my good friend the Pope Going to make love nice and slow Read me some Edgar Allen Poe Lose myself in the Jimmy Fallon show Going to make a cameo appearance On the late night show Play me some John Lee Hooker blues Going to penetrate a prerogative Bugger the cosmos Evolve evolution into a revolution Put anarchy on the stock market Nuke technology, outlaw e-mail Declare Da Da the official English language Going to hang religion from a tree Make John Brown the new National Anthem Turn outlaws into in-laws Landlords into donors Going to pay homage to a whore Put Bukowski’s face on Mount Rushmore Going to name a bus after Rosa Park Put a little nookie in every fortune cookie Expose Saint Nick as a chick with A twelve-inch dick Going to invite Trump’s old lady To ride through the streets of Chinatown In a see-through nightgown Going to sing a ballad with Lorca And a band of gypsies Stop off at the manager Have a long talk with the Lone Ranger Going to put an end to hemorrhoids Outlaw humanoids Going to offer a truce Bring back Lenny Bruce Make politicians ride the caboose Going to go back to school Erase the golden rule Going to feed a vulture Starve off mass culture Going to turn evolution into a revolution Make poetry an institution A.D. WINANS About the author: Allan Davis Winans (born January 12, 1936 in San Francisco, California), known as A. D. Winans, is an American poet, essayist, short story writer and publisher. Born in San Francisco, California, he returned home from Panama in 1958, after serving three years in the military. In 1962, he graduated from San Francisco State College. He made his home away from home in North Beach where he became friends with Beat poets like Bob Kaufman and Jack Micheline. He was the founder of Second Coming Press, a small press based in San Francisco that published books, poetry broadsides, a magazine, and anthologies. He edited Second Coming Magazine for seventeen years from 1972 to 1989. Winans became friends with Charles Bukowski, whose work he published. He also published Bukowski's then-girlfriend, Linda King. Other writers he published included Jack Micheline, Bob Kaufman, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Allen Ginsberg, Philip Levine, Josephine Miles, David Meltzer, Charles Plymell. etc. In 2002, he published his memoir, Holy Grail: Charles Bukowski & The Second Coming Revolution. A.D. Winans has had poetry, book reviews, and short stories published in over 2,000 magazines and anthologies. He has written 63 books of poetry, and two books of prose. A song poem of his was performed at Alice Tully Hall, New York City. In 2006, he was awarded a PEN National Josephine Miles Award for excellence in literature. In 2009 PEN Oakland presented him with a Lifetime Achievement Award. In 2015 he was a recipient of a Kathy Acker Award in poetry and publishing. His latest book, "San Francisco Poems" published by Little Red Tree Publishing, CT, includes an extended biography with many photographs, plus 99 poems, old and new. In 2016 he appeared in a documentary movie on the life of poet Bob Kaufman. The movie was premiered in April 2016 at the San Francisco International Movie Festival. On a distant shore, miles from land Stands the ebony totem in ebony sand A dream in a mist of grey... On a far distant shore... my book is closed, I read no more watching the fire dance, on the floor I've left my book, I've left my room please, please, baby lemonade...
I really love you and I mean you ...et d'invoquer mes dieux, le dieu Jazz par exemple... CLAUDE NOUGARO (1929-2004), C'est dit, Editions Gallimard, 2006 "With your moccasins of dark cloud, come to us... "My only world is sound... Oscillations, oscillations... Electronic evocations of sound's reality "You can see love waiting inside the velvet cave - excerpts from SILVER APPLES's lyrics "Come on take me for a ride Take me to the other side Come on take me for a ride Come on baby take my hand And we'll walk across the sand We'll go to places we ain't been See all the things that we ain't seen" - lyrics from "take me to the other side", Spacemen 3 THIRD BODY PARTS - cut-up I can see him leaving in a minute – luckily the past I remember – tense up in the dream – for sometime he touched his forehead – come under forever raised – they could walk with their heads high – Originally my land was red – the only thing left standing – who is stretched out sky I AM HERE Anyone no one to resemble I am without secrets – I sacrifice marvelous yet tragic not signs of life wealth a man memory Chile – what I saw is false sense of history – goes on in my head – the round mirror I never thought of going – of a son or daughter – I am understood by him – I could have heard my voice and a paternal language – of a common noun into my legend I did kick loud – Granny – come in Granny – human the caption –she smiles – I drank it in smack German don`t find out – and not mystery mysterious – It said put wings that’s what sadness there and delay time – his body remains his forehead his eyes my father – nay horizon and stockings for little legs – original structure – frequency they fall on me my phrase is gone rivers of distance of my body – sitting in the sun – a fine film of amber – a distant pleasure our very eyes – open sesame – that land – way sesame – soil down – there are birds that dive down – there are birds that go up and opposite of chance are reflected – I understood it – get down so great is our joy at de ask me if I like – we shall use today – I climbed mountains – we are sitting on beginning push back of our - mothers source – to the point I resemble angels eyes – recognize this music our transport motor nerves which will strike no ground – suddenly the earth is immense – continues to move if need be eternally and lawlessness About the author: Fork Burke is a poet currently living and writing in Switzerland - She received her BA in Creative Writing from The New School, New York, NY. Her poems have appeared in Hoezo Lepels?, PRAXILLA, Lyre Lyre, Unshod Quills, Caucasus ArtMag and Three Rooms Press publication Maintenant, as well as Le désir Live Radio Show for Art Basel 2012 – Basel Kunstmuseum Radio 2012 – 2012 Lyrics for BLOOD by Nick Porsche. Contributing poet at The First Brussels International Underground Poetry Festival – Her book Licking Glass is a book of poems, poetic essays and other images. Licking Glass is also included in the permanent collection of Poets House Library, NY, NY. Recordings include Fork Remixed – Which was among the winners of the Australian International Song Competition. Her latest Spoken Word recording is Durch die Blumen. Photo: Neal Cassady & Charles Plymell, 1963 SONG FOR NEAL CASSADY, BY CHARLES PLYMELL –For John Cassady Oh really really Neal his first love was the automobile Drove a ‘34 Ford with suicide doors and stick shift on the floor Draggin’ down main to Colfax Avenue Jumpin’ in the back seat boulevard kicked back watching asses in the rearview cruising past the high school Clock on the dash reading 10:18 past the neon diner last stop for Benzedrine and onward to another scene Chicks would rob a joint just to buy him food One hand on the wheel the other in her mood The blue-eyed kid and the wild-eyed bobby soxer California surfers Tarot card sharks and word shooters Found Ann-Marie in Frisco like a hurricane cock didn’t need the Sexual Freedom League Driving with white pills and pot but was really addicted to the wheel Came back to Old San Francisco Flower children all over the streets Carried star struck Ann-Marie in his arms the Denver Kid he never returns Traded her Chevrolet coupé for an old Pontiac Up the hills, down the curves gear it down, pump the brakes Old mother Ginsberg’s back seat drivin’ turning toward the Avalon Driving down Van Ness jumping parking meters One hand on the gearshift the other copping a feel One hand up her dress the other on the wheel Stole a car in Denver just to hear it peel just like drivin’ in the races Stole a car in Denver just to hear it squeal He moved so fast he had one foot in Cincinnati the other in Kalamazoo Women knew just what to do and all wanted him to be true Parked in front of Gough Street in a 50’s red and white Plymouth Fury Just back from seeing Kerouac, in a hurry patrol car in the mirror the old white and blacks Drove past someone with some little white pills heading into town He jumped in the driver’s seat and spun that Fury around. The roads were paved with powder all the way to Mexico and train tracks shined in the moon Did hard time for two reefers and came out smokin’ some boo First Road Warrior never knew what he did wrong CHARLES PLYMELL - from SOME MOTHER'S SON LIVING IN FEAR I’M ON THE EIFFEL TOWER DOING A BONG HIT REALITY CREEPS IN I’M SCARED SHIT IS THIS AN ANTENA FOR ANOTHER RACE GONNA COME TO EARTH TO TAKE OUR PLACE IT AINT GONNA HAPPIN HAPPIN AROUND HERE IT AINT GONNA HAPPIN I’M JUST LIVING IN MY FEAR THERE’S MEN IN BLACK SUITS DRIVING UNMARKED CARS SOLDIERS WITH BOOTS TATOOS AND SCARS CHECKING PASSPORTS AND YOUR PAPERS TOO THEY THINK SOME ONES HIDING OUT INSIDE OF ME AND YOU IT AINT GONNA HAPPIN HAPPIN AROUND HERE IT AINT GONNA HAPPIN I’M JUST LIVING IN MY FEAR I‘M SO VILE, IM OUT OF STYLE, IM SINGLE FILE, I’M IN DENIAL ,I’M ON TRIAL , I’M SUICIDAL BUT IT AINT GONNA HAPPEN HAPPIN AROUND HERE IT AINT GONNA HAPPIN I’M JUST LIVING IN MY FEAR VOICES ON THE LEFT AND VOICES ON THE RIGHT SO MANY VOICES I DON’T SLEEP AT NIGHT I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO OR WHERE TO GO WITH ALL THIS MAD INFO BUT IT AINT GONNA HAPPEN HAPPIN AROUND HERE IT AINT GONNA HAPPIN I’M JUST LIVING IN MY FEAR, * PICK UP THE PHONE ; FOR LOU REED INTO THE NIGHT WITH MY RADIO WITH A FLASH LIGHT HERE I GO FIND ME A SIGNAL TO TRANSCEND FIX ME UP A BROKEN FRIEND WRITE A POEM ABOUT LOVE AND FEAR IS ANYBODY OUT THERE? I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE SO PICK UP THE PHONE JUST A MOON BEAM AND A SATELITE THE RED ROOSTER LOOKING TO FIGHT PLAYING HOUSE AND COOKING YOUR MEALS FLYING AWAY TO SEE HOW IT FEELS I DON’T WANNA BE ALONE SO PICK UP THE PHONE GOTTA TALK TO SOMEONE ON THE WILD SIDE MY LOVE IS TRUE, TRUE AND TRIED ITS UP IN THE CLOUDS OUT OF MY MIND I’M CALLING YOU WITH MY LAST DIME I CAN SEE YOU LAUGHING I CAN SEE YOU SMILE INTEGRITY IS UP ON TRIAL THEY FOUND ANOTHER LIFE AND ITS UP ON MARS THEY HAVE CHAMPIAGN AND TITTY BARS WE CAN GET YOU ANYTHING YOU NEED YOU CAN EVEN BE LOU REED I DON’T WANNA BE ALONE PICK UP THE PHONE TROY HENRIKSEN About the author (via GALERIE W): Troy Henriksen is an American artist of Norwegian descent. His optimistic style, close to Free Figuration (Figuration Libre), plunges in the dream. Both his canvas and Plexiglas works reflect an imagination nourished by memories and aspirations. Cities; cars; personalities like Marylin, Rimbaud, Sitting Bull the Indian, Gandhi, James Dean, etc. Allegories : hearts, or the same personalities who are, in their own ways, symbols. Their common points : bright colours which make the life much more joyful. Troy is a true artist, who thinks about and interprets life, working mainly from his heart. He responds to current events with art. All the demons that had haunted Henriksen might have turned his painting dark and gloomy. But his canvases are quite the opposite – full of light. "In my opinion, being an artist means you have the ability to change problems into beauty, to encourage hope, to convince people it's possible to reach out to others and join hands," Henriksen continued. His taste for painting probably comes from his childhood as fisherman, from visions of the see. After 15 years as a commercial fisherman, Troy Henriksen has embarked on a new journey, a brilliant career in art His interest grows for painting history: Abstract Expressionism, Surrealism, Dadaism, Impressionism, and the Beat Generation, German expressionists and the Bauhaus. Troy discovers France through the book “le Petit Prince and Rimbaud. One day, he decided to come to Paris on a one-way ticket. That was in 1998. In Paris, Troy Henriksen painted in the street, on the banks of the Seine. Soon, he made a fateful encounter, with Eric Landau, head of Galerie W in Montmartre. His works have been snapped up by famous French entertainers [plastic artists, writers, musician, actors… like Arthur H and Gad Elmaleh]. Nearly one thousand of art collectors in France, Europe (Luxembourg, Belgium, United Kingdom, Italy…) and all over the world (China, United States of America, Canada) made enter Troy into their life. LEADBELLY BLUES LEADBELLY BLUES GET IN MY BONES I'm sick of old folks' tears and baby's groans. I'm choke full of this lion-eating Rome. I'm going where the eagle is going. Zero, America, I'm going home. I'll be where I hold my lover at night. My head's a hammer and my toes are stones. She's got a bed the color of a rose. Rain on the roof in the morning light. Leadbelly blues get in my bones. Rain on the roof in the morning light. MARISOL, 1930-2016. You chain-smoked your way into the deepest dark or perhaps you didn't. Perhaps it crashed down to forgetting from one day to the next; not what the obit cited, but between the lines: The pneumonia of forgetting. Not all of life that much of what remained for you. What was remaining that would remember you? All those days remaining, forgetting little or as much. The loneliness and longing converging on you in a quietude, lost in your forgetting, your wanderlust, your wanderings, your daydreams anticipating night. Those dreams, sleepless and forgetting, wading your way into a driftwood tide a morning's summer light, towards everyone and everything that you remember. Those many rooms and many voices. GERARD MALANGA About the Author Gerard Malanga was born in the Bronx in 1943. His previous books of poetry are No Respect: New & Selected Poems 1964-2000 (Black Sparrow Press, 2001), and Archives Malanga (Waverly Press, 2011), a 4-volume set of fanzines comprising new poems and non-fiction. An accomplished photographer as well, his first monograph, Resistance to Memory , appeared in 1998 with an introductory essay by Ben Maddow, and a poem by Thurston Moore, followed by Screen Tests Portraits Nudes 1964-1996 (2000), Someone’s Life (2009), Souls (2010), Ghostly Berms (2012) and Photobooths (2013). Long Day's Journey into the Past, Gunnar B. Kvaran Speaks with Gerard Malanga, was published by the Astrup Fearnley Museum of Modern Art & Skira in Oslo (2008), and Gerard Malanga, a biography by Lars Movin was published in Copenhagen (2011). He is presently at work on his memoirs, In Remembrance of Things Past. Gerard Malanga lives with his cats, Sasha, Zazie, Xena and Mishkin in upstate New York. His website is gerardmalanga.net more: GERARD MALANGA & PATRICK MODIANO IN PARIS BUFFETED BY DARKENED RAINS & WHIRLING SHADOWS Well the clock says it's time to close now I know I have to go now ... Well, your fingers weave quick minarets Speak in secret alphabets... - excerpts from The Doors, "Soul Kitchen" “a good bad poet is more of an artist than a bad 'good' poet.” PAUL POTTS, Soho-Fitzrovia street poet (1911-1990) "Hey, baby, baby, baby he's screamin' the truth America, America's killin' its youth..." (lyrics from "Ghost Rider", by Suicide) “After dinner or lunch or whatever it was -- with my crazy 12-hour night I was no longer sure what was what -- I said, "Look, baby, I'm sorry, but don't you realize that this job is driving me crazy? Look, let's give it up. Let's just lay around and make love and take walks and talk a little. Let's go to the zoo. Let's look at animals. Let's drive down and look at the ocean. It's only 45 minutes. Let's play games in the arcades. Let's go to the races, the Art Museum, the boxing matches. Let's have friends. Let's laugh. This kind of life like everybody else's kind of life: it's killing us.” Charles Bukowski, Post Office singing in your sleep and they fall from the sky and wash up on the shore "Woyzeck What's wrong, Doctor? Doctor I saw it, Woyzeck, you pissed on the street, pissed on the wall like a dog. And you get two cents a day. Woyzeck, that's bad. The world is getting bad, very bad. Woyzeck But the call of nature, Doctor..." - Georg Büchner, Woyzeck “Ask the Outsider what he ultimately wants, and he will admit he doesn't know. Why? Because he wants it instinctively, and it is not always possible to tell what your instincts are driving towards.” - Colin Wilson, The Outsider “Once upon a time there was a poor child with no father and no mother everything was dead and no one was left in the whole world. Everything was dead and it went and searched day and night And since nobody was left on the earth it wanted to go up to the heavens and the moon was looking at it so friendly and when it finally got to the moon the moon was a piece of rotten wood and then it went to the sun and when it got there the sun was a wilted sunflower and when it got to the stars they were little golden flies stuck up there like the shrike sticks 'em on the blackthorn and when it wanted to go back down to earth the earth was an overturned piss pot! and was all alone.” - Georg Büchner, Woyzeck "It's not really my problem if they think I'm weird." - Sid Vicious "Blakean Bum/Time is Honey", "Blackswan" & "Kamikaze" by © Henrik Aeshna
BLAKEAN BUM / TIME IS HONEY "don't spend time beating on a wall hoping to transform it into a door", coco chanel said - i kick off the week sipping life's sweet & sour (dew & debris) as if tasting a bottle of champagne for breakfast calmly enjoying my honeymoon w/ madness BLACKSWAN i’ve got two stripes of vertigo in place of the eyebrows smile carved by knife & nytroglycerin tongue i’ve got you in my sky necklace as a Morning-Starlike pendant KAMIKAZE first time we made love i heard a nova in the sky with honeysuckle stars swandiving into my fishbowl * EN FRANCAIS: CLOCHARD DE BLAKE / TIME IS HONEY « ne gaspilles pas ton temps à frapper un mur en espérant le transformer en une porte », disait coco chanel - je débute la semaine en goûtant le doux & l'amer de la vie (rosée & débris) comme si c'était une bouteille de champagne au p’tit déj' en profitant calmement de ma lune de miel avec la folie CYGNE NOIR j’ai deux rayures de vertige à la place des sourcils le sourire taillé au couteau & une langue de nitroglycérine tu es dans mon collier de ciel comme un pendentif de l’étoile du matin KAMIKAZE la première fois que nous avons fait l’amour j’ai entendu une nova dans le ciel & des étoiles de chèvrefeuille se précipiter dans mon aquarium "I am watching them churn the last milk they'll ever get from me. They are waiting for me to die; They want to make buttons out of my bones." - Gregory Corso, excerpt from "The Mad Yak" |
Author"PARIS est un vertige Archives
May 2018
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