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jardindeacero: William Burroughs by Marcia Resnick
96 ♥
locomegalopolitano: junkie Turkey edition.
17 ♥
ellga: Paul Nougé, La publicité transfigurée.
77 ♥
15 ♥
forgottenness: Over the years my Frank O’Hara books have come and gone. They are currently gone; I just went looking for them without luck. I always think of him in the summer on these 95 degree nights (108 tomorrow!) and his line about subways and trees, below, which echoes something Socrates says in the Phaedrus. I miss subways, I miss sidewalk heat, I miss fire engines at 3 a.m., I miss scurrying around and hiding in the dank, subterranean theaters at Lincoln Plaza in July, seeing three or four films on one ticket to escape the heat. I miss talking to J; it has now been a year. Why did we always meet on holidays? Christmas, my birthday, July 4th. Now these days are marked. Destroy yourself, if you don’t know! Or so Frank advises. Meditations in an Emergency          Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French? Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with which to venture forth. Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else for a change? I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves. However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing? Uh huh. Read More
5 ♥
forgottenness: “The new world, the communo-bourgeois, sermonizing, Tartuffian, automobilistic, alcoholic, gluttonous and cancerous world has only two anxieties: ass and bank account.” “I have never voted in my life; I have always known and understood that the idiots are in a majority so it’s certain they will win.” ~ Louis-Ferdinand Céline
19 ♥
24 ♥
awritersruminations: On February 11, 1963 Sylvia Plath committed suicide. Fifty years after her death, her poetry continues to haunt and inspire millions of readers, including myself. Today, I hope many of you will pick up Ariel or The Bell Jar or any other Plath book and remember not just her tragically short life but her brilliant and electrifying work. That is certainly what I intend to do.
7041 ♥
zuzuzpetals: Emmy Hennings with her Dada puppet, Fruhjahr. 1917
19 ♥
edelinelee: French poet Paul Eluard
11 ♥
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