“But I am the gangster poet of this age. And I have enough fucking ammunition to wipe out as much opposition as will ever come up against me. And every fucking bullet will hit the mark, because I am a good shot. – Eddie Woods (in the telephone prose-poem “Bloody Mary”) PUSSY Soft blue in the morning. Winter still, but we’re sleeping late these days. “Lick me a little,” she says. I go for it hungrily. I love sucking pussy. Especially her pussy: dark-ringed flower, vibrant pulsating reaching out, the petals swamped with dew. Of course it’s you. It was always you. I’ll be there nevermore, my love. CHINATOWN GOLDEN SHOWERS Making that move was quietly difficult. The distance between bed & bathroom, when you have just fucked on opium & cocaine, is miles across. But piss doesn’t stretch very far, and wet mattresses are a drag to dream on. Perhaps it was a morning like this one, after a light rain, restless birds twittering over Chinatown, that two lazy lovers discovered for the first time: golden showers can really turn you on. * EDDIE WOODS was born to Italian-American parents in New York City on May 8th 1940. At age 20, facing the draft and not wanting to get his fingernails dirty, he joined the US Air Force for a 4-year stint, spent mostly in Germany. He subsequently lived and traveled in divers parts of Europe, North Africa and both the near & farther East, additionally crisscrossing much of the United States twice. After residing for two decades in Amsterdam (where he edited an international features magazine, ran a small English-language literary press, and was a contributing editor for the London-based underground newspaper International Times), he moved to England, passing six years in a remote corner of the Devonshire countryside until returning to Holland in the autumn of 2004. A poet & prose writer since his mid-teens, Eddie has variously worked as a short-order cook, computer programmer, encyclopedia salesman, restaurant manager, journalist (Bangkok Post, ABC Radio News, New York Times, Tehran Journal, etc.), and radio DJ. His work has appeared in numerous online and print periodicals. Having previously published three volumes of verse (30 Poems, Sale or Return, and an erotic fairy tale in 63 rhymed quatrains entitled The Faerie Princess), in October 2004 Eddie released his first spoken-word poetry CD, Dangerous Precipice. His book Tsunami of Love: A Poems Cycle (September 2005) is the inspired offspring of a deep romantic turmoil that could only be transcended on the wings of passionate song. The CD version, Eddie reciting the entire Tsunami of Love collection (with a special introduction added), came out in August 2007. While in January 2012, Barncott Press in London published a Kindle edition of Tsunami of Love. In December 2011, Sloow Tapes (Stekene, Belgium) released Eddie’s The Faerie Princess & Other Poems on audio cassette. Tennessee Williams in Bangkok, Eddie’s memoir of his adventures in Thailand and Singapore in the early 1970s, was published by Inkblot Publications (Providence, Rhode Island) in September 2013. Tennessee Williams in Bangkok is also available in a Kindle edition Then in February 2014, Barncott Press published another Eddie Woods book, his collection of short fiction entitled Smugglers Train & Other Stories. Later the same month a cinematic adaptation of Eddie’s poem “Mary” was released online, the Yarre Stooker film Mary. Several more books (poetry, prose, photography) are in the offing. In 2003, Eddie’s substantial archive was acquired by Stanford University in Palo Alto, California. An archive that will be added to in due course. Eddie Woods is also no stranger to the performance circuit, in the Netherlands and elsewhere (e.g. New York, San Francisco, London, Munich, Düsseldorf, Bangkok, etc.). In the past he appeared at several One World Poetry festivals and other Soyo Productions events, in 1992 at the North Sea Jazz Festival (poetry & jazz), followed by the Crossing Border festival, along with dozens of smaller readings all over Amsterdam. And from 1995 through till 1998, he organized much-heralded monthly poetry evenings at Café Co Meyer in Amsterdam’s Jordaan quarter. Since 2005 he has again been performing at selected venues, such as the legendary artists colony of Ruigoord for their annual poetry festival. For further information on Eddie Woods, see his Wikipedia page And read, too, Eddie’s 2009 interview with Sacha de Boer As well as his 2012 interview with Michael Limnios Two subsequent interviews are with bart plantenga (2013) and John Wisniewski (2014).
0 Comments
What’s me? Me is that which want to be amazed without natural cessation, in an eternity of ecstasy. Rules? Laws? To me, what? I am free to want what I want. I want uninterrupted rapture. I believe this has been made manifest to me in dreams, and in music, and in the pages of Dostoevsky, in the lines of Shakespeare, in sexual joy, in drunkenness, in being high on tea. Why should I compromise with anything else or with the “Bourgeois” calm of the backyard lawn, The Edgar Guest concession wild, wild happiness. On tea I have seen the light. In my youth I saw the light. In my childhood I bathed in the hints of light; I hankered, eager. I want a blaze of light to flame in me forever in a timeless, dear love of everything. And why should I pretend to want anything else?After all, I’m no cabbage, no carrot, no stem! a burning eye! a mind of fire! a broken goldenrod! a man! a woman! a SOUL! Fuck the rest, I say, and PROCEED! (This is what I want to write, not stylistic crap!) JACK KEROUAC, in Windblown World, the Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954 * previously posted on https://tsunamibooks.jimdo.com/2013/08/20/the-ecstasy-of-jack-kerouac/ "Dean’s intelligence was every bit as formal and shining and complete, without the tedious intellectualness. And his «criminality» was not something that sulked and sneered; it was a wild yeasaying overburst of American joy; it was Western, the west wind, an ode from the Plains, something new, long prophesied, long a-coming (he only stole cars for joy rides). Besides, all my New York friends were in the negative, nightmare position of putting down society and giving their tired bookish or political or psychoanalytical reasons, but Dean just raced in society, eager for bread and love; he didn’t care one way or the other, «so long’s I can get that lil ole gal with that lil sumpin down there tween her legs, boy,» and «so long’s we can eat, son, y’ear me? I’m hungry, I’m starving, let’s eat right now!» - and off we’d rush to eat, whereof, as saith Ecclesiastes, «It is your portion under the sun.» A western kinsman of the sun, Dean." JACK KEROUAC, On the Road Full of Shunyata There’s no place to go You are there Natural abiding Unlimited freedom Absolute joyful Samodie Relative and Absolute Mind Are One Do not search for Nirvana You are sitting in it BOB BRANAMAN "If I write: it is important to keep writing, it is to keep me writing. It is as though I find myself on a new planet, without a map, and having everything to learn. I have unlearned. I have become a stranger." "My friends will know what I mean when I say that I deplore our contemporary industrial writers. Let them dedicate a year to pinball and think again." ALEXANDER TROCCHI, Cain's Book Music from her breast, vibrating Soundseared into burnished velvet. Silent hips deceiving fools. Rivulets of trickling ecstacy From the alabaster pools of Jazz Where music cools hot souls. Eyes more articulately silent Than Medusa's thousand tongues. A bridge of eyes, consenting smiles reveal her presence singing Of cool remembrance, happy balls Wrapped in swinging Jazz Her music... Jazz. Poem: "jazz chick" by BOB KAUFMAN Rue Gît-le-Coeur, Paris. Visite-happening-shooting (photo-vidéo) de la légendaire librairie indépendante parisienne Un Regard Moderne ( https://www.facebook.com/UnRegardModerne/ ) pour célébrer les 60 ans du mythique BEAT HOTEL, épicentre de la Beat Generation à Paris... Votre présence est un évènement ! Les lectures auront lieu à l'intérieur de la librairie (n° 10), et aussi devant le Beat Hotel (n° 9). lecture de poèmes (bilingue) avec: - STEVE DALACHINSKY (NYC): jazz poem + évocation de william burroughs -HENRIK AESHNA (Paris): "Mydriase", poème-bombe-conversation en hommage à CLAUDE PELIEU - HAIKUT-UPS (modalité poétique expérimentale inventée par Aeshna, en mélangeant haiku & cut-up), KOKAIN, en copulant Burroughs, Patti Smith, Anita Berber, Sebastian Droste, et Sainte Thérèse de Lisieux lecture de textes Beat (bilingue): - EMMANUEL BARROUYER (Paris): mashup/cut-up créé par Henrik Aeshna avec des extraits en français de Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, William Burroughs, Brion Gysin, Harold Norse, Sinclair Beiles, avec une épigraphe-évocation sur le peyote de Henri Michaux, et une intervention d'Arthur Rimbaud (Illuminations) + - JAMIKA AJALON (US) - MALIK CRUMPLER (US) Venez nombreux le 3 NOVEMBRE - entre 15h et 16h - Librairie UN REGARD MODERNE 10 Rue GÎT-LE-COEUR, PARIS 75006 Métro: SAINT-MICHEL Souffle, beugle comme un fou
En pensant à Alain Jégou (1948-2013) Souffle, Vieil Ange, souffle, beugle comme un fou Souffle Je veux tout ça maintenant Ta chemise rouge, une vieille Chevrolet 36 Et une grande bouteille de vin de Tokay Souffle Je veux tout ça moi aussi Tes gestes existentiels, ton émoi, tes braillements Ta vraie vision secrète de l’éternité d’or Et bien d’autres choses encore Souffle, Vieil Ange, souffle, beugle comme un fou Souffle Je veux tout ça maintenant Flânocher, rouler sous les ponts Me payer du bon temps Souffle Je veux tout ça moi aussi Passer des journées à rêvasser Faire le con et ne me soucier de rien Ni de la dinguerie de la vie ni de ma misérable solitude Souffle Les lèvres collées sur le bec de ton saxophone Fais retentir tes notes, swingue avec nonchalance Une trille, un gargouillis Souffle Je veux tout ça moi aussi Tes quatre mesures, une mélodie cuivrée Un bêlement furieux Chante-moi ton chorus déchaîné Souffle, Vieil Ange, souffle, beugle comme un fou Souffle Je suis un dément amoureux de la vie Englouti par la nuit, je ne me soucie de rien Et je transcris les sons de mon esprit Souffle Le cœur joyeux, envoyé en l’air Mes yeux brillent, ah-ha ! Comme si c’était pour la première fois dans la pâle éternité Souffle, Vieil Ange, souffle, beugle comme un fou Souffle Sois-moi clément Il y a dans l’air l’exaltation du jazz Il y a de l’allégresse Un grand frisson dans le vent Souffle Je veux tout ça moi aussi Des signes prophétiques chuchotés Des visions, des vociférations Et un nouveau break sauvage Souffle Souffle tes notes dingues Souffle une mélodie mélancolique Souffle et rêve que la vie est un rêve Souffle et laisse le bon temps rouler O ange de la solitude Perché sur le bord de la route Vide et éveillé Torturé et incompris Dans ta transe, debout Insouciant et buvant de la bière Souffle Comme si rien n’était jamais arrivé Souffle, ange silencieux du printemps Souffle avec ardeur Souffle à l’instant même Souffle en marchant du côté ensoleillé de la rue Souffle en saluant les péniches et les autobus de mon vieux Paris Souffle dans le murmure incessant de la ville Souffle au fond d’un café où tu te caches pour pleurer Souffle parce qu’ils t’ont percé les mains et les pieds Souffle parce que le monde est une horreur sans fond Souffle devant le tombeau vide Souffle tes quatre mesures pour aller en paix dans le vent du printemps Souffle, Vieil Ange, souffle, beugle comme un fou Souffle Je veux tout ça maintenant Tes ailes ruisselantes Ton cœur joyeux et épuisé Souffle Je veux tout ça moi aussi Faire encore une grande virée M’agiter dans tous les sens Bondir et courir Et me réveiller une dernière fois les cheveux au vent au bord de la route. In memoriam Alain Jégou Sorti à tâtons dans la nuit tombante Ciel âpre et froid Triste Perdu dans le fracas le flot ininterrompu du monde Livré à ma solitude Assis dans la nuit décharnée Je reste Implorant la paix invisible L’instant le hasard notre bonne étoile La clé de notre jeunesse perdue L’oiseau qui donnait la sensation du bonheur Mirages miraculés sous la morsure des vents Bourlingueur de l’océan Il était comme le vent qui fait glisser l’écume Comme la pluie dans le cœur des nuages Comme la foudre Il a pris le cap Il est entré en silence dans le monde du rêve Il est entré au pays dont nul ne revient Projeté nu dans la lumière écrue Et maintenant qui hissera les voiles contre vents et marées ? Qui rugira le dernier poème acide sexe et rock and roll ? Qui franchira la passe Ouest pour se bâfrer de visions ? Qui rendra tous les poissons à l’océan ? Le cri de la mer dans les oreilles Et maintenant qui m’appellera frère ? Qui versera du vin pour me consoler ? Qui braillera avec moi à tue-tête sans se soucier du lendemain ? Qui m’accompagnera dans ma longue nuit ? Tous sanglots ravalés Je détourne la tête pour cacher mes larmes Je sais seulement qu’il est parti Je ne sais où (Les vers en italique sont extraits de « Une meurtrière dans l’éternité ») Bruno SOURDIN 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.] "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. 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 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. "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" Photograph of Ted Joans, Joyce Mansour and Nanos Valaoritis with Alain Jouffroy reflected in the mirror at “A la cloche des halles" in Paris by Marion Kalter. |
Author"PARIS est un vertige Archives
May 2018
Tags/Catégories
All
|