to strive
is to be crazy alone forever
why are some called, some not
and does He really gift the ones who are
honeysuckle's flaming blush
the creek that will not drown with black
it all is there,
and yet i cannot grasp it
why would He call and not gift-
or is it truly desire at all
going nowhere fast without a map
or even a compass to reign it in
listening to this will aide nothing
and he will not understand
[ but god ]
3.5.10
{ stay inside our rosy-minded fuzz }
the ordinary cafe of the world
by charles bukowski
new worlds shine in the dust
come up through the slums of the mind only
to choke on mosquito
ideas.
it’s most difficult
like eating a salad
in the ordinary cafe of the world;
it’s most difficult
to create art
here.
look about. the pieces to work with are
missing. they must be created or
found.
the critics should be generous but the critics are
seldom
generous.
they think it’s easy to
put out water with fire.
but there’s been no wasted effort
no matter what they’ve done
to us:
the critics
the lost (men)
the lost jobs,
damn them all anyhow
they’re hardly as interesting as
this ordinary cafe, this ordinary world,
we know there should be a better place,
an easier place,
but there’s not;
that’s our secret
and it’s not
much.
but it’s enough.
we have chosen the ordinary,
withering fire.
to create art means
to be crazy alone
forever.
by charles bukowski
new worlds shine in the dust
come up through the slums of the mind only
to choke on mosquito
ideas.
it’s most difficult
like eating a salad
in the ordinary cafe of the world;
it’s most difficult
to create art
here.
look about. the pieces to work with are
missing. they must be created or
found.
the critics should be generous but the critics are
seldom
generous.
they think it’s easy to
put out water with fire.
but there’s been no wasted effort
no matter what they’ve done
to us:
the critics
the lost (men)
the lost jobs,
damn them all anyhow
they’re hardly as interesting as
this ordinary cafe, this ordinary world,
we know there should be a better place,
an easier place,
but there’s not;
that’s our secret
and it’s not
much.
but it’s enough.
we have chosen the ordinary,
withering fire.
to create art means
to be crazy alone
forever.
1.5.10
paradise (is) lost, or, (take heart, little christy) -
"Only in destroying I find ease to my restless thoughts."
Paradise Lost, Book 9, lines 129-30
road flies under too fast
karen o screams from this lung
red ash caught in my eyelid
and i cannot make them black enough
i'm running fast without a map
not even a compass to reign me in
this is fear
and if perfect love drives that out
i have never known love before
SHALL I NEVER LEAVE THIS MUSE THAT TEMPTS
AND DIES TO FIND ME DAMNED
(it's all a ploy, and I will die before making one more play in this game)
"I have given my pain a name. I call it 'Assault.'
Assault, I say, will you please go out for a walk and
leave me alone?
Will you please go out for a walk and
get run over by a train?"
What happens when one gets broken open? Writing gets made, poets get published, and humanity gets better for one fifth of a second. "Well I was once a (man) content to be alone. Now that I have been broken open, everything has edges-"
isis isis isis black and red/fucked by the muse/if even the savior has suffered confusion is there any hope for me hope for me hope for me no,
oh but this cross,
i know it now,
i shall never leave this muse that tempts and dies to find me damned (and this muse is truly but sin)
until things make sense for the first time, because
i am so easily given (to all)
i am so easily taken (with the muse)
and by this i mean the same thing-
oh but this cross, i cannot shake it, it's there, brighter than all these tears,
more terrible and beautiful and quiet and thrashed and tranquil, oh but this cross-
it screams to me in the softest voice,
take heart, little Christy,
for I have overcome the world,
and i run run run away faster than anyone ever did,
but god -
Paradise Lost, Book 9, lines 129-30
road flies under too fast
karen o screams from this lung
red ash caught in my eyelid
and i cannot make them black enough
i'm running fast without a map
not even a compass to reign me in
this is fear
and if perfect love drives that out
i have never known love before
SHALL I NEVER LEAVE THIS MUSE THAT TEMPTS
AND DIES TO FIND ME DAMNED
(it's all a ploy, and I will die before making one more play in this game)
"I have given my pain a name. I call it 'Assault.'
Assault, I say, will you please go out for a walk and
leave me alone?
Will you please go out for a walk and
get run over by a train?"
What happens when one gets broken open? Writing gets made, poets get published, and humanity gets better for one fifth of a second. "Well I was once a (man) content to be alone. Now that I have been broken open, everything has edges-"
isis isis isis black and red/fucked by the muse/if even the savior has suffered confusion is there any hope for me hope for me hope for me no,
oh but this cross,
i know it now,
i shall never leave this muse that tempts and dies to find me damned (and this muse is truly but sin)
until things make sense for the first time, because
i am so easily given (to all)
i am so easily taken (with the muse)
and by this i mean the same thing-
oh but this cross, i cannot shake it, it's there, brighter than all these tears,
more terrible and beautiful and quiet and thrashed and tranquil, oh but this cross-
it screams to me in the softest voice,
take heart, little Christy,
for I have overcome the world,
and i run run run away faster than anyone ever did,
but god -
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