Jul 31, 2011
Jul 27, 2011
BOB DYLAN
It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)
Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child’s balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying
Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn
Plays wasted words, proves to warn
That he not busy being born is busy dying
Temptation’s page flies out the door
You follow, find yourself at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover that you’d just be one more
Person crying
So don’t fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing
As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don’t hate nothing at all
Except hatred
Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Make everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It’s easy to see without looking too far
That not much is really sacred
While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
Goodness hides behind its gates
But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have to stand naked
An’ though the rules of the road have been lodged
It’s only people’s games that you got to dodge
And it’s alright, Ma, I can make it
Advertising signs they con
You into thinking you’re the one
That can do what’s never been done
That can win what’s never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you
You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks they really found you
A question in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit
To satisfy, insure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not forget
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to
Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to
For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something they invest in
While some on principles baptized
To strict party platform ties
Social clubs in drag disguise
Outsiders they can freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God bless him
While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society’s pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he’s in
But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone that lives in a vault
But it’s alright, Ma, if I can’t please him
Old lady judges watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To push fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn’t talk, it swears
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phony
While them that defend what they cannot see
With a killer’s pride, security
It blows the minds most bitterly
For them that think death’s honesty
Won’t fall upon them naturally
Life sometimes must get lonely
My eyes collide head-on with stuffed
Graveyards, false gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough, what else can you show me?
And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only
Copyright © 1965 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1993 by Special Rider Music
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 24, 2011
Jul 16, 2011
"The first move the more experienced creative writer can make toward absorbing these models is to realize that "plot" is an illusion. It's an illusion the writer ought to disabuse her- or himself of pretty quickly if she or he ever wants to write anything of substance, ambition, or literary richness. (There is no plot.) That is to say, plot is an effect that other written elements produce in concert. Outside of those elements, plot has no autonomous existence."
- Samuel R Delany, About Writing.
- Samuel R Delany, About Writing.
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 5, 2011
H.W.E. Richtod
Hot wet dentists.
The World,
A hot wet blanket
Of mucous
Over me.
Dentist out back by the pond,
Plotting destruction.
Phones don't ever work here.
The hat-stand, chaos, I walk in circles.
Building a motorway out of my sweat,
Just standing.
Bridges collapse, dentists scream louder now.
You always have to rebuild it.
And again.
(1978)
Born on the boat from England to the US, fleeing Nazi Germany in 1940, H.W.E. Richtod always felt that floating meant life, and from the age of ten refused to ever stay on land for more than a few hours. Until his death in 1993 he did not sleep one single night on land. The last few years Richtod considered land living domesticated primates (humans) to be a separate race. The above poem "Hot wet dentists" is the introduction to volume 2 of "The Sirens" (1976-81) a 3 volume epic about mankind's eventual escape to the sea (Vol 1: Ice & Bones, Vol 2: Tungsten & Escape, Vol 3: Smiling & Above).
A.F. Bytt (red). Taxonomy of Forgotten Poets of the 20th Century (volume 3). Buffalo; University of West Seneca. 1999. p. 25.
Hot wet dentists.
The World,
A hot wet blanket
Of mucous
Over me.
Dentist out back by the pond,
Plotting destruction.
Phones don't ever work here.
The hat-stand, chaos, I walk in circles.
Building a motorway out of my sweat,
Just standing.
Bridges collapse, dentists scream louder now.
You always have to rebuild it.
And again.
(1978)
Born on the boat from England to the US, fleeing Nazi Germany in 1940, H.W.E. Richtod always felt that floating meant life, and from the age of ten refused to ever stay on land for more than a few hours. Until his death in 1993 he did not sleep one single night on land. The last few years Richtod considered land living domesticated primates (humans) to be a separate race. The above poem "Hot wet dentists" is the introduction to volume 2 of "The Sirens" (1976-81) a 3 volume epic about mankind's eventual escape to the sea (Vol 1: Ice & Bones, Vol 2: Tungsten & Escape, Vol 3: Smiling & Above).
A.F. Bytt (red). Taxonomy of Forgotten Poets of the 20th Century (volume 3). Buffalo; University of West Seneca. 1999. p. 25.
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