Bored to Death Jack Kerouac On The Road S02E04 - YouTube

Bored to Death Jack Kerouac On The Road S02E04 - YouTube

Stop! In the name. from 'PTSD notebooks'

The word's not worth the word, my love. Aye

The rub: the word, my love, if it's sealed it isn't

Empty. Simple. The word's perhaps. Period.




Perhaps not even perhaps. Sure, the word's not worth

Trouble, not yours for sure, but the trouble doesn't exist.




Let's pretend the purest illusion is this self-belying word –

But illusion doesn't exist and the word is not love –

And we wander nightly in the heat of snapping palms.




Even as you go on betraying the word I love, cursing it

With damaging say-so, eye it, my love; the rub suggests

Something sealed, simple; when it comes down to it

Nothing other than acceptance; nothing pushed; no void

Exposed. Come now and let's pretend the word's worth love

Please leave it to others, my love, for all want's consuming.

Untitled, from the 'PTSD notebooks'

The cold penny brings the word disc closer

Then moon's penance, all bunk and no blank

The hill's oily nose-ring patrols; scarlet

Bloodsuckers stash the lighters as Braxton

Bent the tree lime.  As night comes, it is clear

You want contact but only when contact without

Contact.  And my headache is a craving-in

Get me a Battle Smurf or at least once and for all

Tell Her damnit where the yellow jackets hang

Bellow as beyond.  Bed and bath throttled in rage

Later, sucking yawns, waiting for the Barbies

To return the fairy scent of slave-owning love

The piss of yanked night in striated rooms

Suggests will cannot wait up but waits for you

Untitled, from 'PTSD notebooks'

Am I wrong to hear the wren or wait, sliding each

Effort at harm into the past of all cerebration

You might have dropped me in? If I could only be

In-law, like, small enough. If I could respond or else

Learn to become those thoughts held back: I froze

Down blind to you sweeping me incertain

The deep night's never blue. The sigh-in

About conditional life trips over the weft of each

Wasted contemplation. Were I out of doors

Where wolves fear no swift autumn infamy

And not nested dark halted by the bent control

Of closet-rooms that silence no coming bomb

Self's certain there's courage without changing that

Other night of the wren to be saddled grey in harm

Untitled, from the 'PTSD notebooks'

Silence charges, exchanges. Many hands lead away

From sealed-off windows of a poignant dawn

In words other than substance; else you had

To have having-it-all to stand it better than this




Fast toes tonguing in the detergent aisle

Moon, she's strung-out so long it roots detectables

Rakes the fearful cold into marriage with embers

Stale therapy in ear shot rush to make it (better than this)




Thy shifters were all untrue. Winch-like trees scream

Some witchy needle-pinch out to get you, up too late

In the wasted a.m., or else hands wither in the manic rinse

Small birds, scaled back, low scream of unwashable ice

Nothing to do with weathering the apparent burst

But strapped short of the whelm held back better than this

Chromatic Leavings, from the 'PTSD notebooks'

Chromatic Leavings

This place's no palace.  A law of snakesong spun

Wild shade bringing scent to assuming/ nothing

As ancient as an arm pushed to the bathroom wall

The locks turned loose in rapid sky.  Gladly, I

Mete in stays, hang in, and raise your salts until

Its early flowers.  Where your hair lights horns

The exact shade of sand leaves.  On a limb and

When the moon is a matching sepia stern.  You

Press and press heavy prints in the morning panic

Room, wait up all music.  Such hours colour hurt

As you are as sandstone as whet.  There has

To be calm during, calm after, the whole misspen

-Ding so semblances segregate true cost from

All richness the moon has tuned to our room

Untitled, from 'PTSD notebooks'

Sin upon placeholders is anthropic.  Think

I won't change my shirt to my devices



The soup's up, sweetheart.  Waiting for collapse

Love is a madness shrunk to spit the locks



The bean hand is lasted.  In flashier skin

Hostess swirls divert my blurt. I fling up

Dreams to dawn in marriage partition



You crave the say-so of a One-Woman

One-Count Bloc but are covered in skin

Waiting for the lapse as a whale wants fin



A bent style of almost/yet pulls in at the knees

Or I can hear my gift to you for miles

There is kind of a safe distance but it's a safe

Distance within this stronghold you butt to shreds

Panic Webbing, from the 'PTSD notebooks'

Panic Webbing

In a forest of decimals thinly

All alcoves and animals play

I'm browsing but you're plotting

There lives a dot to another's pay




Try me. The home entertainment sutured

To hewn lunacy. You never wonder

Where the smudges on my glasses might go

They thrive and dine in the milk made handle




Thinking's day as separate as it is cold

Today, peevish peaches rumoured away

Dry as in some weedy bedding sundowned

Flagon that and try a discount window

Well-written like welding to a point nerve

The hawk's lost in plastic and dinner's served

Long before Joseph Beuys declared that we all must be artists, Lautréamont wrote: “La poésie doit être faite par tous. Non par un. Pauvre Hugo! Pauvre Racine! Pauvre Coppée! Pauvre Corneille! Pauvre Boileau! Pauvre Scarron! Tics, tics, et tics.”

Bob disses the “bourgey” ruling class and their tawdry ideas of crown and coronation, prior to his ideological reversal and royalist accommodations at the end of the film.  1:03.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nRiJF0CvlYc

Love. Labor. Lost. - The New York Times

Love. Labor. Lost. - The New York Times

The Rank and File’s Paper of Record | Jacobin

The Rank and File’s Paper of Record | Jacobin

Mahler: Adagio from Symphony no. 10 (Cleveland Orchestra, Boulez) - YouTube

Mahler: Adagio from Symphony no. 10 (Cleveland Orchestra, Boulez) - YouTube

The visit to Freud was one way of working through the crisis partly sparked by his wife's infidelities; the other was the Tenth Symphony. Mahler covered the pages of its manuscript with tortured outcries - "Madness, seize me, the accursed! Negate me, so I forget that I exist, that I may cease to be!", or "To live for you! To die for you!", and even the dedication of the love song at the heart of the Symphony's finale to his wife, using an affectionate form of her name, "Almschi!" Alma stayed with Mahler during his final illness, accompanying him from New York to Paris to Vienna, where he died of a blood infection on May 18, 1911.

Marilyn Horne " Liebst du um Schönheit" Mahler - YouTube

Marilyn Horne " Liebst du um Schönheit" Mahler - YouTube

Few songs just 'sound like' a composer in the process of falling in love.
Liebst du um Schönheit,
O nicht mich liebe!
Liebe die Sonne,
Sie trägt ein gold'nes Haar!

Liebst du um Jugend,
O nicht mich liebe!
Liebe den Frühling,
Der jung ist jedes Jahr!

Liebst du um Schätze,
O nicht mich liebe.
Liebe die Meerfrau,
[Die]1 hat viel Perlen klar.

Liebst du um Liebe,
O ja, mich liebe!
Liebe mich immer,
Dich lieb' ich immerdar.

If you love for beauty,
Oh do not love me!
Love the sun,
It has gold hair!

If you love for youth,
Oh do not love me!
Love the spring-time
That is young each year!

If you love for wealth,
Oh do not love me!
Love the mermaid,
[Who]1 has many limpid pearls!

If you love for love,
Oh yes, love me!
Love me forever;
I will love you forevermore!

Counting On i.m. r.c.

Counting On

i.m. r.c.

The beach feels hot under our feet

turning us inside and out.

To be with you is to be without you:
you stay the same, always different.

Filling with sand, wipe-outs,
prolific shoots, location shots,

I had thought to sleep meant to dream,
to wake to take everything for the worse.

Outside the mechanics, outside the grind,
the venture in wanting long life.

For now you touch, are touched —
prove everything exists by measures

taken in or out the sea —
and the long sweep wavering

suddenly seems half the stretch
we are keeping to ourselves.

Come further inshore.  Ensure —
gesture and delay.