Oriphiel

Oh, I almost forgot:

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Trollheart

"Reality is for people who can't handle drugs" --- Tom Waits

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

Trollheart

From Black Books:

Fran: "Do you know what they do in Tibet when they want something? They give something away".

Bernard: "Do they? That must be why they're such a dominant global power."

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

Chiomara

There is this cave
In the air behind my body
That nobody is going to touch:
A cloister, a silence
Closing around a blossom of fire.
When I stand upright in the wind,
My bones turn to dark emeralds.
— James Wright, from “The Jewel Poem”


What can you know about a person? They shift in the light. You can’t light up all sides at once.
— Richard Siken, Portrait of Fryderyk in shifting light


Indeed, each several liquor corresponded, so he held, in taste with the sound of a particular instrument. Dry curacao, for instance, was like the clarinet with its shrill, velvety note; kummel like the oboe, whose timbre is sonorous and nasal; crême de menthe and anisette like the flute, at one and the same time sweet and poignant, whining and soft. Then, to complete the orchestra, comes kirsch, blowing a wild trumpet blast; gin and whisky, deafening the palate with their harsh outbursts of comets and trombones; liqueur brandy, blaring with the overwhelming crash of the tubas, while the thunder peals of the cymbals and the big drum, beaten might and main, are reproduced in the mouth by the rakis of Chios and the mastics.
— Joris-Karl Huysmans, Against Nature


“… Now that it is raining, that night voices irrupt,
the belly of night, blue inspiration. That everything
collapses into itself; heroes flee, silence bellows, the
closed is open, part is whole, the ambiguous ambiguous.
Now that I lose myself in cities I have not yet been,
perplexed by the accident of things, by existence
heedless of meaning and vast and multiple and empty
as a poem addressed to God. That these lines at the
edge of my body finally consume the nonexistent and
its joy, this elusive interregnum that is myself, that
shady corner of the illegible garden where the deceitful
lady does her writing. And everything happens so
slowly, terror and tension, that future lost like an
affliction, desire that has been a vice for years, everything
happens as if brought along by a visitor, a part of
myself larger than I, which has an unfulfilled dream
whose idea escapes her like a promise. And nothing is
wrong with that, everything must learn to lose, to
return to the realm of the unknown, even the most
enduring love, the one that does not recognize itself.
Now that songs do not matter, or matter to the degree
to which they fail (because beauty is revealed-solely-
in what falters), that I am alone, alone in the blind
house, I, the sensual bride of dusk, and someone
whispers in my ear the art of gardening… .”

- María Negroni, from “Letter to Sèvres,” Night Journey

Blue Hawk

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Eliminate the right, eliminate the wrong, eliminate the weak, eliminate the strong.

OccultHawk

I think I have this in my closet somewhere. It’s a want to read book.

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2016 2017 2018 2019 2020

Member of the Year & Journal of the Year Champion

Behold the Writing of THE LEGEND:

https://www.musicbanter.com/members-...p-lighter.html

Frownland

^Nice, I've been saying that for years.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Plankton

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MicShazam

"True heroism is minutes, hours, weeks, year upon year of the quiet, precise, judicious exercise of probity and care - with no one there to see or cheer. This is the world."
- David Foster Wallace

"Good fiction's job is to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable."
- David Foster Wallace

"People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use."
- Søren Kierkegaard

Chiomara

''Horror can steal into the mind via all the senses. There’s the sound of the little meaningful chuckle in the locked dark room, the sight of half a caterpillar in your forkful of salad, the curious smell from the lodger’s bedroom, the taste of slug in the cauliflower cheese. Touch doesn’t normally get a look-in.''
— Terry Pratchett


“The Italian philosopher Vico had this theory that time moves more in a spiral than it does in a line. He believes that’s why we repeat ourselves, including our tragedies, and that if we are more faithful to this movement, we can move away from the epicenter through distance and time, but we have to confront it every time. I’ve been thinking about trauma—how it’s repetitive, and how we recreate it, and how memory is fashioned by creation. Every time we remember, we create new neurons, which is why memory is so unreliable. I thought, “Well if the Greek root for ‘poet’ is ‘creator,’ then to remember is to create, and, therefore, to remember is to be a poet.” I thought it was so neat. Everyone’s a poet, as long as they remember.”
— Ocean Vuong



For when I found the throneroom
festooned with pelvis bones,

the twin-fingered god on whose nether lip I hung
a kiss, a crape-gartered barb,

was you — you the pursued, yours
the bull’s head draped with fragrant lash-black hair.

— Peter Kline, from Minotaur


…but blushes well became him; like the bloom
of rosy apples hanging in the sun,
or painted ivory, or when the moon
glows red beneath her pallor and the gongs
resound in vain to rescue her eclipse.
— Ovid, from Metamorphoses (Salmacis and Hermaphroditus)


I fell toward the pulse in your thighs,
toward the cool flamingo of your slip
fluttering past your knees–

Out of God’s mouth I fell
like a piece of ripe fruit
toward your deepening shadow.

— Mary Szybist, from Incarnadine


They asked: How would you like your death?
Blue, like stars pouring from a window. Would you like more wine?

-Mahmoud Darwish

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