Street

Is it dirty

does it look dirty

that's what you think of in the city

-Frank O'Hara from Song

A little bit of street photography taken in the city on those days of aimless wanderings and infinite longings.

"While the bombardment was knocking the trench to pieces at Fossalta, he lay very flat and sweated and prayed 'oh jesus christ get me out of here. Dear jesus please get me out. Christ please please please christ. If you'll only keep me from getting killed I'll do anything you say. I believe in you and I'll tell everyone in the world that you are the only one that matters. Please please dear jesus.' The shelling moved further up the line. We went to work on the trench and in the morning the sun came up and the day was hot and muggy and cheerful and quiet. The next night back at Mestre he did not tell the girl he went upstairs with at the Villa Rossa about Jesus. And he never told anybody."

-Ernest Hemingway from In Our Time 

 

Bang Bang... that awful sound

Drink your wine, mix tears with vodka, and practice your pathetic pose... in prose. Inebriate your pain with more of that melodramatic substance they call youth.

... I carry your dreams as if they weren't broken.
I've bandaged them to my chest.
I've bandaged them to my heart.
I carry them like I carry love:
Heavy
Aching
...

...But you are much

 I'm just such
 An imitation
 A restoration

... But never you as much as I am
You never me as much as you are

[Excerpt]




"Juventud, divino tesoro,
ya te vas para no volver!
Cuando quiero llorar, no lloro
y a veces lloro sin querer."
-Ruben Darío

"I was one of the insatiables. The ones you'd always find sitting closest to the screen. Why do we sit so close? Maybe it was because we wanted to receive the images first. When they were still new, still fresh. Before they cleared the hurdles of the rows behind us. Before they'd been relayed back from row to row, spectator to spectator; until worn out, secondhand, the size of a postage stamp, it returned to the projectionist's cabin. Maybe, too, the screen was really a screen. It screened us... from the world."
-The Dreamers 

If you read you'll judge

"This is not to be taken seriously, this is not to be read as opinions. It is to be read as poetry. Its obvious that I am on the educated level of about 10th grade in High School. Its obvious that these words were not thought out or even re-read. This writing style is what I like to call thru the perspective of a 10th grader, her/his attempt at showing that no matter what level of intelligence one is on, we all question love and lack of love and fear of love"
- Kurt Cobain Journals

"Hi, im the moody, bohemian member of the group.             blonde frontman.      the sensitive artist type."

 

 

 

What do I try to get at every morning
With my black coal coffee
And my Sylvia Plath books
And all the other crooks
That made their way to other coffee tables?

O'Hara makes me want to visit the movies
Maybe watch some Casablanca
Or walk the streets like a "Flaneur"
Hoping to catch a glimpse of Lana Turner

How many mornings of black coal coffee will it take?
How many sips shall I consume
To assume that I am fit for paper?
That it is worth the wait...

And how many words can one brain take
Before irreparable damage is done
Before loving mornings is not more fun
Than loving you

It is a risk that I pursue
A wild child I call myself
For it is wild to dream in words
Morning after morning
Hoping one of these days I'll score
And make a damsel of these scribbles

But it is such a bore to emulate
Such a task to originate
After so many words written
And so many brains smitten
To lunacy before my time

I shall start with just a rhyme
And soon it'll make a fine read
For all those coffee drinkers
Desperate to feed off my attempts

I shall make amends with all these poets
If these words accrue to something bigger
I will make Gods out of you
And you
And you

... And you

Oh! But how askew this all must sound
I'm going round and round in circles
And falling deeper in your mirth
For I give birth to no good rambles
These words will soon fall into shambles
Kick the bucket! They'll expire!

And I will keep the dire need
To heed the warning:
It is just another morning
A cup of coffee and some books
From all those crooks that won the battle
By making damsels out of tattles
Making art out of the blue
Screw it all! I wish I knew
How to be a crook like you

"I don't fuck much with the past, but I fuck plenty with the future"

-PS

 

 

 

My thoughts are crabbed and sallow, 
My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star 

Tonight the caustic wind, love, 
Gossips late and soon, 
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of 
The sour lemon moon 

While like an early summer plum, 
Puny, green, and tart,
Droops upon its wizened stem 
My lean, unripened heart 

-Sylvia Plath