Jump to content

 

Photo

Sipping Absinthe ^_^ Reading Text of Some Kind or Another


  • Please log in to reply
165 replies to this topic

#91 Absomphe

Absomphe

    Krinkles the Clown™

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 19,576 posts

Posted 21 May 2013 - 03:43 PM

Whatever happened to that Oxy guy, anyway? :euro:


Yes, I'm Krinkles the Clown on an absinthe a beer bender.

You got a problem with that?


#92 Songcatcher

Songcatcher

    can't get right

  • Bronze Member
  • 2,170 posts

Posted 11 July 2013 - 07:26 PM

The Silmarillion. It's been a while. A great while.
The room it smelled heavy of drinkin',  
and the sad silent song made the hour twice as long,
as I waited for that sun to go sinkin'.

#93 greytail

greytail

    Viridis umbra

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 2,235 posts

Posted 12 July 2013 - 05:01 AM

Nice. Love how they used a few things so far from that work for THE HOBBIT movie.
Nos adepto quis nos mereo. Nos mereo quis nos adepto.

#94 Songcatcher

Songcatcher

    can't get right

  • Bronze Member
  • 2,170 posts

Posted 12 July 2013 - 05:01 PM

Yes.


The room it smelled heavy of drinkin',  
and the sad silent song made the hour twice as long,
as I waited for that sun to go sinkin'.

#95 Songcatcher

Songcatcher

    can't get right

  • Bronze Member
  • 2,170 posts

Posted 27 July 2013 - 02:00 PM

Barnaby Conrad's book.
The room it smelled heavy of drinkin',  
and the sad silent song made the hour twice as long,
as I waited for that sun to go sinkin'.

#96 Songcatcher

Songcatcher

    can't get right

  • Bronze Member
  • 2,170 posts

Posted 11 September 2013 - 02:23 PM

"Would you know the single craving of my blood - the craving that burns in me more fiercely than hunger in a starving beast of prey - the one desire, to gratify which, I would desparately dare and defy all men? Listen then! A nectar, bitter-sweet - like the last kiss on the lips of a discarded mistress - is the secret charm of my existence; green as the moon's light on a forest pool it glimmers in my glass; eagerly I quaff it, and, as I drink, I dream. Not of foolish things. No! Not of dull saints and smooth landscapes in heaven and wearisome prudish maids; but of glittering bacchantes, nude nymphs in a dance of hell, flashing torrents and dazzling mountain-peaks, of storm and terror, of lightning and rain, of horses galloping, of flags flying, of armies marching, of haste and uproar and confusion and death!"

 


The room it smelled heavy of drinkin',  
and the sad silent song made the hour twice as long,
as I waited for that sun to go sinkin'.

#97 peridot

peridot

    Floccinaucinihilipilificator Extraordinaire

  • Content Team
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 5,052 posts

Posted 12 September 2013 - 04:04 PM

The Complete Sherlock Holmes.


Throng of Shoggoths: Lovecraftian Sludge

Pudwich: 90's style hard rock

My stupid facebutt page.


#98 Songcatcher

Songcatcher

    can't get right

  • Bronze Member
  • 2,170 posts

Posted 31 January 2014 - 06:03 PM

ACD rocks. Good choice. As does the PBS(BBC) Sherlock.

Sipping a Blanchette reading The Diary of Adam and Eve.

 

“After all these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her.”
― Mark Twain, The Diary of Adam and Eve

The room it smelled heavy of drinkin',  
and the sad silent song made the hour twice as long,
as I waited for that sun to go sinkin'.

#99 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 24 May 2015 - 08:58 AM

Quotes by Remy de Gourmont:

 

“Man has made use of his intelligence, he invented stupidity.”

 

“Women still remember the first kiss after men have forgotten the last.”

 

“Man associates ideas not according to logic or verifiable exactitude, but according to his pleasure and interests. It is for this reason that most truths are nothing but prejudices.”

 

“The terrible thing about the quest for truth is that you find it.”

 

“Of all the sexual aberrations, perhaps the most peculiar is chastity.”

 

“Life is a series of sensations connected to different states of consciousness.”

 

“Industry has operated against the artisan in favor of the idler, and also in favor of capital and against labor. Any mechanical invention whatsoever has been more harmful to humanity than a century of war.”

 

“Two elements are needed to form a truth - a fact and an abstraction.”

 

“The whole effort of a sincere man is to erect his personal impressions into laws.”


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#100 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 24 May 2015 - 10:18 AM

Locus Solus by Raymond Roussel :euro:


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#101 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 24 May 2015 - 02:37 PM

 

Meadow of Love :heart:

Seventy-Three Poems by Paul Verlaine

 


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#102 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 24 June 2015 - 12:28 PM

The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley :heart:


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#103 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 01 August 2015 - 02:32 PM

Gargantua and Pantagruel by François Rabelais :heart:.  Best book ever!


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#104 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 06 August 2015 - 03:07 PM

 

 

Meadow of Love :heart:

Seventy-Three Poems by Paul Verlaine

 

 


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#105 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 07 August 2015 - 07:47 PM

The Inferno by August Strindberg


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#106 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 19 October 2015 - 01:03 PM

The Pisan Cantos by Ezra Pound. :heart:


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#107 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 19 October 2015 - 02:57 PM

12 Poems  by Ezra Pound:

 

. . .

 

Canto I

 

And then went down to the ship,

Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and

We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,

Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also

Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward

Bore us onward with bellying canvas,

Crice's this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.

Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,

Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day's end.

Sun to his slumber, shadows o'er all the ocean,

Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,

To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities

Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever

With glitter of sun-rays

Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven

Swartest night stretched over wreteched men there.

The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place

Aforesaid by Circe.

Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,

And drawing sword from my hip

I dug the ell-square pitkin;

Poured we libations unto each the dead,

First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour

Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's-heads;

As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best

For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods,

A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep.

Dark blood flowed in the fosse,

Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of brides

Of youths and of the old who had borne much;

Souls stained with recent tears, girls tender,

Men many, mauled with bronze lance heads,

Battle spoil, bearing yet dreory arms,

These many crowded about me; with shouting,

Pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts;

Slaughtered the herds, sheep slain of bronze;

Poured ointment, cried to the gods,

To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine;

Unsheathed the narrow sword,

I sat to keep off the impetuous impotent dead,

Till I should hear Tiresias.

But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor,

Unburied, cast on the wide earth,

Limbs that we left in the house of Circe,

Unwept, unwrapped in the sepulchre, since toils urged other.

Pitiful spirit. And I cried in hurried speech:

"Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast?

"Cam'st thou afoot, outstripping seamen?"

And he in heavy speech:

"Ill fate and abundant wine. I slept in Crice's ingle.

"Going down the long ladder unguarded,

"I fell against the buttress,

"Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus.

"But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied,

"Heap up mine arms, be tomb by sea-bord, and inscribed:

"A man of no fortune, and with a name to come.

"And set my oar up, that I swung mid fellows."

And Anticlea came, whom I beat off, and then Tiresias Theban,

Holding his golden wand, knew me, and spoke first:

"A second time? why? man of ill star,

"Facing the sunless dead and this joyless region?

"Stand from the fosse, leave me my bloody bever

"For soothsay."

And I stepped back,

And he strong with the blood, said then: "Odysseus

"Shalt return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas,

"Lose all companions." Then Anticlea came.

Lie quiet Divus. I mean, that is Andreas Divus,

In officina Wecheli, 1538, out of Homer.

And he sailed, by Sirens and thence outwards and away

And unto Crice.

Venerandam,

In the Cretan's phrase, with the golden crown, Aphrodite,

Cypri munimenta sortita est, mirthful, oricalchi, with golden

Girdle and breat bands, thou with dark eyelids

Bearing the golden bough of Argicidia. So that:

 

. . .

 

 

Canto XLV

With Usura

 

With usura hath no man a house of good stone

each block cut smooth and well fitting

that design might cover their face,

with usura

hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall

harpes et luz

or where virgin receiveth message

and halo projects from incision,

with usura

seeth no man Gonzaga his heirs and his concubines

no picture is made to endure nor to live with

but it is made to sell and sell quickly

with usura, sin against nature,

is thy bread ever more of stale rags

is thy bread dry as paper,

with no mountain wheat, no strong flour

with usura the line grows thick

with usura is no clear demarcation

and no man can find site for his dwelling.

Stonecutter is kept from his tone

weaver is kept from his loom

WITH USURA

wool comes not to market

sheep bringeth no gain with usura

Usura is a murrain, usura

blunteth the needle in the maid’s hand

and stoppeth the spinner’s cunning. Pietro Lombardo

came not by usura

Duccio came not by usura

nor Pier della Francesca; Zuan Bellin’ not by usura

nor was ‘La Calunnia’ painted.

Came not by usura Angelico; came not Ambrogio Praedis,

Came no church of cut stone signed: Adamo me fecit.

Not by usura St. Trophime

Not by usura Saint Hilaire,

Usura rusteth the chisel

It rusteth the craft and the craftsman

It gnaweth the thread in the loom

None learneth to weave gold in her pattern;

Azure hath a canker by usura; cramoisi is unbroidered

Emerald findeth no Memling

Usura slayeth the child in the womb

It stayeth the young man’s courting

It hath brought palsey to bed, lyeth

between the young bride and her bridegroom

                               CONTRA NATURAM

They have brought whores for Eleusis

Corpses are set to banquet

at behest of usura.

 

 

N.B. Usury: A charge for the use of purchasing power, levied without regard to production; often without regard to the possibilities of production. (Hence the failure of the Medici bank.)

 

. . .

 

An Immorality

 

Sing we for love and idleness,

Naught else is worth the having.

Though I have been in many a land,

There is naught else in living.

And I would rather have my sweet,

Though rose-leaves die of grieving,

Than do high deeds in Hungary

To pass all men's believing.

 

. . .

 

Ancient Music

 

Winter is icummen in,

Lhude sing Goddamm.

Raineth drop and staineth slop,

And how the wind doth ramm!

Sing: Goddamm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,

An ague hath my ham.

Freezeth river, turneth liver,

Damn you, sing: Goddamm.

Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,

So 'gainst the winter's balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.

Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

 

. . .

 

Ancient Wisdom, Rather Cosmic

 

So-shu dreamed,

And having dreamed that he was a bird, a bee, and a butterfly,

He was uncertain why he should try to feel like anything else,

Hence his contentment.

 

. . .

 

Alf’s Fifth Bit

 

The pomps of butchery, financial power,

Told 'em to die in war, and then to save,

Then cut their saving to the half or lower;

When will this system lie down in its grave?

The pomps of Fleet St., festering year on year,

Hid truth and lied, and lied and hid the facts.

The pimps of Whitehall ever more in fear,

Hid health statistics, dodged the Labour Acts.

All drew their pay, and as the pay grew less,

The money rotten and more rotten yet,

Hid more statistics, more feared to confess

C.3, C.4, 'twere better to forget

How many weak of mind, how much tuberculosis

Filled the back alleys and the back to back houses.

'The medical report this week discloses . . .'

'Time for that question!' Front Bench interposes.

Time for that question? and the time is NOW.

Who ate the profits, and who locked 'em in

The unsafe safe, wherein all rots, and no man can say how

What was the nation's, now by Norman's kin

Is one day blown up large, the next, ducked in?

 

. . .

 

Epitaphs

 

Fu I

Fu I loved the high cloud and the hill,

Alas, he died of alcohol.

Li Po

And Li Po also died drunk.

He tried to embrace a moon

In the Yellow River.

 

. . .

 

Mr. Housman's Message

 

O woe, woe,

People are born and die,

We also shall be dead pretty soon

Therefore let us act as if we were

dead already.

The bird sits on the hawthorn tree

But he dies also, presently.

Some lads get hung, and some get shot.

Woeful is this human lot.

Woe! woe, etcetera. . . .

London is a woeful place,

Shropshire is much pleasanter.

Then let us smile a little space

Upon fond nature's morbid grace.

Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera. . . .

 

. . .

 

Pan Is Dead

 

‘Pan is dead. Great Pan is dead.

Ah! bow your heads, ye maidens all,

And weave ye him his coronal.’

'There is no summer in the leaves,

And withered are the sedges;

How shall we weave a coronal,

Or gather floral pledges?'

'That I may not say, Ladies.

Death was ever a churl.

That I may not say, Ladies.

How should he show a reason,

That he has taken our Lord away

Upon such hollow season?'

 

. . .

 

Paracelsus In Excelsis

 

‘Being no longer human, why should I

Pretend humanity or don the frail attire?

Men have I known and men, but never one

Was grown so free an essence, or become

So simply element as what I am.

The mist goes from the mirror and I see.

Behold! the world of forms is swept beneath-

Turmoil grown visible beneath our peace,

And we that are grown formless, rise above-

Fluids intangible that have been men,

We seem as statues round whose high-risen base

Some overflowing river is run mad,

In us alone the element of calm.'

 

. . .

 

Song Of The Six Hundred M.P.'S

 

‘We are 'ere met together

in this momentous hower,

Ter lick th' bankers' dirty boots

an' keep the Bank in power.’

We are 'ere met together

ter grind the same old axes

And keep the people in its place

a'payin' us the taxes.

We are six hundred beefy men

(but mostly gas and suet)

An’ every year we meet to let

some other feller do it.'

I see their 'igh 'ats on the seats

an' them sprawling on the benches

And thinks about a Rowton 'ouse

and a lot of small street stenches.

'O Britain, muvver of parliaments,

'ave you seen yer larst sweet litter?

Could yeh swap th' brains of orl this lot

fer 'arft a pint o' bitter?'

‘I couldn't,' she sez, ‘an' I aint tried,

They're me own,' she sez to me,

‘As footlin' a lot as was ever spawned

to defend democracy.'

 

. . .

 

Notes for Canto CXX

I have tried to write Paradise

 

Do not move

      Let the wind speak

        that is paradise.

 

Let the Gods forgive what I

        have made

Let those I love try to forgive

        what I have made.


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#108 Absomphe

Absomphe

    Krinkles the Clown™

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 19,576 posts

Posted 19 October 2015 - 03:01 PM

Fascist douchebag. :twitchsmile:


Yes, I'm Krinkles the Clown on an absinthe a beer bender.

You got a problem with that?


#109 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 19 October 2015 - 03:09 PM

Indeed.  He was an admirable poet, but an awful political spokesman.  Still, there's something about his cryptic writings that we find rather captivating. 

 

By the way, you were signifying Pound with that statement, right?  :biggrin: 


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#110 Absomphe

Absomphe

    Krinkles the Clown™

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 19,576 posts

Posted 19 October 2015 - 03:31 PM

Why, um...oh, yes, er, um, of course I was, um, er, naturally, um, surely you couldn't have imagined that I was aiming that defamatory comment in your direction, now could you? :devil:


Edited by Absomphe, 19 October 2015 - 03:31 PM.

Yes, I'm Krinkles the Clown on an absinthe a beer bender.

You got a problem with that?


#111 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 19 October 2015 - 04:18 PM

If we couldn’t, then how could we ever have called it into question?  Of course, we did call it into question, didn't we?  The question did, in fact, occur.  Therefore, since the question occurred, we can logically conclude, that the thought occurred somewhere in our own subconscious, meaning that it was imagined in our mind before your initial statement even came into question.  And since we questioned what you sought to question before it even came into question, the question could not have been your comment (as you duly claim).  The comment in question could not have been a vector quantity, either ("your direction" as you state), since it never moved out from our own mind.  In truth, it can be concluded that we have simply been speaking to ourselves.  Therefore, in reality, "your" question (and, similarly, "your" comment) never could have actually occurred.  It is/was simply an imagining of our own deluded mind.  Complimentary to Descartes cogito ergo sum, we can therefore assumingly state with relative certainty that: "We think; therefore, you are.”


Edited by Alfred Jarry, 19 October 2015 - 04:53 PM.

"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#112 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 20 October 2015 - 12:57 PM

Canto XIV
Ezra Pound, 1885 - 1972
Io venni in luogo d’ogni luce muto;
The stench of wet coal, politicians
. . . . . . . . . . e and. . . . . n, their wrists bound to
    their ankles,
Standing bare bum,
Faces smeared on their rumps,
    wide eye on flat buttock,
Bush hanging for beard,
    Addressing crowds through their arse-holes,
Addressing the multitudes in the ooze,
    newts, water-slugs, water-maggots,
And with them. . . . . . . r,
    a scrupulously clean table-napkin
Tucked under his penis,
    and. . . . . . . . . . . m
Who disliked colioquial language,
stiff-starched, but soiled, collars
    circumscribing his legs,
The pimply and hairy skin
    pushing over the collar’s edge,
Profiteers drinking blood sweetened with sh-t,
And behind them. . . . . . f and the financiers
    lashing them with steel wires.

And the betrayers of language
    . . . . . . n and the press gang
And those who had lied for hire;
the perverts, the perverters of language,
    the perverts, who have set money-lust
Before the pleasures of the senses;

howling, as of a hen-yard in a printing-house,
    the clatter of presses,
the blowing of dry dust and stray paper,
fretor, sweat, the stench of stale oranges,
dung, last cess-pool of the universe,
mysterium, acid of sulphur,
the pusillanimous, raging;
plunging jewels in mud,
    and howling to find them unstained;
sadic mothers driving their daughters to bed with decrepitude,
sows eating their litters,
and here the placard ΕΙΚΩΝ ΓΗΣ,
    and here: THE PERSONNEL CHANGES,

melting like dirty wax,
    decayed candles, the bums sinking lower,
faces submerged under hams,
And in the ooze under them,
reversed, foot-palm to foot-palm,
    hand-palm to hand-palm, the agents provocateurs
The murderers of Pearse and MacDonagh,
    Captain H. the chief torturer;
The petrified turd that was Verres,
    bigots, Calvin and St. Clement of Alexandria!
black-beetles, burrowing into the sh-t,
The soil a decrepitude, the ooze full of morsels,
lost contours, erosions.

    Above the hell-rot
the great arse-hole,
    broken with piles,
hanging stalactites,
    greasy as sky over Westminster,
the invisible, many English,
    the place lacking in interest,
last squalor, utter decrepitude,
the vice-crusaders, fahrting through silk,
    waving the Christian symbols,
. . . . . . . . frigging a tin penny whistle,
Flies carrying news, harpies dripping sh-t through the air.

The slough of unamiable liars,
    bog of stupidities,
malevolent stupidities, and stupidities,
the soil living pus, full of vermin,
dead maggots begetting live maggots,
    slum owners,
usurers squeezing crab-lice, pandars to authori
pets-de-loup, sitting on piles of stone books,
obscuring the texts with philology,
    hiding them under their persons,
the air without refuge of silence,
    the drift of lice, teething,
and above it the mouthing of orators,
    the arse-belching of preachers.
    And Invidia,
the corruptio, fretor, fungus,
liquid animals, melted ossifications,
slow rot, fretid combustion,
    chewed cigar-butts, without dignity, without tragedy
. . . . .m Episcopus, waving a condom full of black-beetles,
monopolists, obstructors of knowledge.
    obstructors of distribution.

"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#113 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 22 October 2015 - 12:15 PM

canto+75.png



"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#114 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 24 October 2015 - 12:06 PM

Ezra Pound

The Cantos

Notes for CXVII et seq.

 

For the blue flash and the moments

                                           Bendetta

the young for the old

                That is tragedy

And for one beautiful day there was peace.

                Brancusi’s bird

                                In the hollow of pine trunks

or when the snow was like sea foam

                Twilit sky leaded with elm boughs.

Under the Rupe Tarpeia

                weep out your jealousies —

To make a church

                or an altar to Zagreus [Zaygeus]

son of Semele

Without jealousy

                like the double arch of a window

Or some great colonnade.

 

M’amour, m’amour

                what do I love

                                where are you?

That I lost my centre

                fighting                 the world.

The dreams clash

                and are shattered —

and that I tried to make a paradiso

                                                  terrestre .

 

I have tried to write Paradise

 

Do not move

                Let the wind speak

                                that is paradise.

 

Let the Gods forgive what I

                                have made

Let those I love try to forgive

                                What I have made.

 

La faillite de François Bernouard, Paris

or a field of larks at Ellegre,

                “es laissa cader”

so high toward the sun and then falling,

                “de joi sas alas”

to set here the roads to France.

 

Two mice and a moth my guides —

To have heard the farfalla gasping

                as towards a bridge over worlds.

That the kings meet in their island,

                where no food is after flight from the pole.

Milkweed the sustenance

                as to enter Arcanum

 

To be men not destroyers.


Edited by Alfred Jarry, 24 October 2015 - 12:08 PM.

"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#115 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 03 November 2015 - 01:44 PM

La-Bas by J.K. Huysmans.  One of our favorite writers.  :thumbup:


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#116 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 07 November 2015 - 01:26 PM

Masks of the Illuminati by Robert Anton Wilson. :heart:  Remember, folks, it's: !...?...!...?...!...?...!...?...!... and not !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#117 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 09 November 2015 - 04:22 PM

Against The Grain by J.K. Huysmans. :heart:  Decadence at its finest. :euro:


"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#118 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 24 November 2015 - 12:44 PM

Santoka Taneda Poems:

 

These few ashes

Are all that remain

Of my diary?

 

If I sell my rags

And buy some sake

Will there still be loneliness

 

It’s likely to be able to pass away

In a calm frame of mind

In the fresh green grasses

 

The milky way

At midnight

A drunkard dances

 

Westerners like to conquer mountains;

Orientals like to contemplate them.

As for me, I like to taste the mountains

 

Slapping at the flies

Slapping at the mosquitoes

Slapping at myself

 

The beauty of the sunset

Shows no grief

For old age

 

There is nothing else I can do;

I walk on and on

 

Wet with morning dew

I go in the direction I want

 

*****

 

Matsuo Basho Poems:

 

The old woman

A cherry tree blooming in old age

Is something to remember

 

The oak tree:

Not interested

In cherry blossoms

 

People growing old

The youth of Ebisu

Makes them even older

 

Cold as it was

We felt secure sleeping together

In the same room

 

Crossing long fields,

Frozen in its saddle,

My shadow creeps by

 

Deep into autumn

And this caterpillar

Still not a butterfly

 

Don’t imitate me;

It’s as boring

As the two halves of a melon

 

First day of spring—

I keep thinking about

The end of autumn

 

In this world of ours,

We eat only to cast out,

Sleep only to wake,

And what comes after all that

Is simply to die at last

 

On New Year’s Day

Each thought a loneliness

As winter dusk descends

 

Shaking the grave

My weeping voice

Autumn wind

 

The summer grasses

All that remain

Of brave soldiers dreams

 

With every gust of wind,

The butterfly changes its place

On the willow

 

A weathered skeleton

In windy fields of memory,

Piercing like a knife

 

A cold rain starting

And no hat—

So?

 

A cicada shell;

It sang itself

Utterly away


Edited by Alfred Jarry, 24 November 2015 - 01:41 PM.

"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#119 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 24 November 2015 - 04:15 PM

Masaoka Shiki Poems:

 

A stray cat
excreting
in the winter garden.

 

After killing
a spider, how lonely I feel
in the cold of night!

 

Consider me
As one who loved poetry
And persimmons.

 

For love and for hate
I swat a fly and offer it
to an ant.

 

for me going
for you staying here
two autumns

 

green in the field
was pounded into
rice cake

 

in the coolness
gods and Buddhas
dwell as neighbors

 

rice reaping—
no smoke rising from
the cremation ground today

 

how much longer
is my life?
a brief night…

 

I thought I felt
a dewdrop on me
as I lay in bed

 

I want to sleep
Swat the flies
Softly, please.

 

It is cold, but
we have sake
and the hot spring

 

May rain
falls as if falling
into a sleep

 

On how to sing
the frog school and the skylark school
are arguing.

 

One canary escaped:
the spring day
is at its end.

 

one spoonful
of ice cream brings me
back to life

 

relieved of a burden
in the everyday life
an afternoon nap

 

splitting wood
my sister alone -
wintering

 

The man
I used to meet in the mirror
is no more.
Now I see a wasted face.
It dribbles tears.

 

I do not know the day
my pain will end yet
in the little garden
I had them plant
seeds of autumn flowers

 

the nettle nuts are falling…
the little girls next door
don't visit me these days

 

The year begins
on New Year's day
our life is Now

 

Under the moonlight, cuckoo cried as if it coughed up blood.
The sad voice kept me waking up,
the cry reminded me of my old home town far away.

 

Weary of reading
I go out into a field
a hazy field

 

with advancing autumn
I am without gods
without Buddha

 

behind the stand
of winter trees
a red sunset

 

A spring day
A long line of footprints
On the sandy beach.

 

a snail
luring rain clouds
with feeler tips


Edited by Alfred Jarry, 24 November 2015 - 04:36 PM.

"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds


#120 Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

    Pataphysician

  • Member
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 874 posts

Posted 25 November 2015 - 08:56 AM

Ikkyu, excerpts from Skeletons

 

Students, sit earnestly in zazen, and you will realize that everything born in this world is ultimately empty, including oneself and the original face of existence. All things indeed emerge out of emptiness. The original formlessness is the "Buddha," and all other similar terms -- Buddha-nature, Buddhahood, Buddha-mind, Awakened One, Patriarch, God -- are merely different express- ions for the same emptiness. Misunderstand this and you will end up in hell.

. . .

Toward dawn I dozed off, and in my dream I found myself surrounded by a group of skeletons . . . . One skeleton came over to me and said:

Memories
Flee and
Are no more.
All are empty dreams
Devoid of meaning.

Violate the reality of things
And babble about
"God" and "the Buddha"
And you will never find
the true Way.

. . .

I liked this skeleton . . . . He saw things clearly, just as they are. I lay there with the wind in the pines whispering in my ears and the autumn moonlight dancing across my face.

What is not a dream? Who will not end up as a skeleton? We appear as skeletons covered with skin -- male and female -- and lust after each other. When the breath expires, though, the skin ruptures, sex disappears, and there is no more high or low. Underneath the skin of the person we fondle and caress right now is nothing more than a set of bare bones. Think about it -- high and low, young and old, male and female, all are the same. Awaken to this one great matter and you will immediately comprehend the meaning of "unborn and undying."


Edited by Alfred Jarry, 25 November 2015 - 08:58 AM.

"Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so solvent and corrosive that out of all substances, it has been chosen for washing and scourings, and a drop of water, added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddies it."

 

14 Surreal Absurdities I Four Different Faces I Three Poems I Snowy Clouds



0 user(s) are reading this topic

0 members, 0 guests, 0 anonymous users

Copyright © 2016 The Wormwood Society Absinthe Association