/lit/ - Literature

>>7547437
This was that "poem".
A bit turgid.

-

Fifteen Epiphanies of the Harbinger

Preface

There are no enemies, only me's I have given names and kicked around.

These songs are not entertainment, they are crusades against ennui. They are philosophical in so far as they need to be, scientific or romantic in so far as they need to be, iambic or homeric in so far as they need to be. They are names I have given to wafers of time. They are cries of despair, prayers, anxiety, insecurity and feelings of hopelessness. They are ageing pieces of paper and charcoal, ephemeral photons shot against a plastic screen and scribblings of an uninitiated child. They have known and know paralysis. They are epiphanies, overheated washing machines, potentially stale creampuffs, days, perfumes, klangs, reiterations of my spectre, asmodeic nymphs at a cafe check out and the product of trivial spasms.

They are a maze you need to search in order to find the origin of your misfortune.

I

"Move or be moved"
Ezra is the long-haired toad
in the schoolyard of reassembled Greek symbols.

To me all poets are lambs I wish to reduce.
A writer is a delayed geisha who
has learned to conceal her degeneracy
and blend with the upper classes.

II

Time is a stew perpetually
boiling. Its Geisha's tell (tall) tales. THOSE
GYPSIES! As collateral they provide
faculties of their physiognomy:
As mammary is to haut so
canto is to ink and scroll and when they
fall early, grow old and their organs
dissipate, disintegrate, like the
petal after spring, a new mistress is sought.

Fallen petals, forget your previous
notions, but keep an upright gait.
If you walk down this corridor, the
tributaries of paralysis
will be fought. What will you become when
the shell has fully filled with mucal
womb juice and the yolk of genetic
information? What genre of reserved
Blick will your Antlitz metamorphose
in a black and white photograph?

What form are you paralysed in to
inhabiting? How will your organs
interact with your surroundings and
find its place within the atomic
shroud? We are not unlike students reading
for the first time a most difficult text.

III

Ennui is a limbless sea urchin asexually
reproducing working class shrimp.

IV

Time is a catholic girl slowly
clothing herself in nakedness.
Time is a cumming whore in the shape of
a little girl. Time is a pair of
fish guts strewn across a white beach.

Time won't tell me, move its lips, to sound
the words I want to hear. Time floats in
stasis, a fat ox blocking a merchant's path,
its hairy mass fixed irretrievably
in the atomic shroud.

As a boy, time's idea was a river
bent positively yonder
on a fixed axis. The wafers
of time and her physiognomies
never saw my neural activity
in their cosmic police boxes.

V

There is an idea of a me who fervently
searches through the labyrinth
of my own solipsistic thoughtspace.
But that is a me that belongs to
the annals of the wafers of time.

[cont.]

>>7547409
It sounded sort of "highschooly", for lack of a better term. You probably don't know what Tesco is, anyway.

>Have you been working in short fictions, twinshia?
I scribble occasionally.

>I think you used to post poems in the critique threads
I seem to remember my last "poem" received no responses but one saying it was abysmal after I corrected the misspelling of strata, so I decided to no longer post them here.

>>7547353
Our means of articulation has been truncated knowingly and we have been left with a bed and a bucket. This shrivelled anemone does not realise its own reality- a drifting between Pandaemonium and Silence, the former leading to humiliation, embarassment and ash. We have known this before and will know it again[...] a continuity that rests between neither life nor death, where speech is spat but no meaning is derived. This relief that we have sought in Lucifer- this "coming home" that we suppose we have attained in removing ourselves of the literature we were never going to understand. Hasn't life already ended and these are simply the jettisoned apparitions that have drifted up to the seraphim? Aren't these mounds of flesh paralysed in to motion? [And unheard confessions] that result in charity to lost creatures- charity as opposed to humiliation and ash. And from said ash the imposition of a flicker through which we find salvation. In these reduced structures[...] movement has ceased and we have been spoken to from above. Salvation is[...] genuine forgiveness from your superiours and genuine veneration of your creations- and the forgiveness of your inferiours for the crime of your creations- [where the former does not occur and will not occur, the latter remains constant where the subject is not silent]. But it is already too late. The Crime has been committed. These facades from which we jump have disintegrated and allowed a sky. This scrambling upon the precipice which we imagine we have achieved in humiliating ourselves- are these not the thrones we desired? Wither or bloom- Fire or fire. This humiliation is all we ever knew and is all we ever will know.

>>7547300
Did you read my last thread?

>>7547209
argentineneonazibbz@reich.de

>>7547227
That would ruin the fun.
Hint above.

>>7547192
The text is not pornographic.
I was not concerning myself with Heidegger in particular, you just happened to notice I was influenced by some of his writing after only partially reading my thread. I am currently 1100 pages in to the first of 4 European History books. I don't just read philosophy.

Ciertamente son talismanes, pero de nada sirven contra la sombra que no puedo nombrar, contra la sombra que no debo nombrar. Yo no hablo de venganzas ni de perdones; el olvido es la única venganza y el único perdón. Qué importa nuestra cobardía si hay en la tierra un solo hombre valiente, qué importa la tristeza si hubo en el tiempo alguien que se dijo feliz, qué importa mi perdida generación, ese vago espejo, si tus libros la justifican. El mundo es unas cuantas tiernas imprecisiones.

The only thing I ask is for your patience in understanding.

The day has already ended in a sweat and still eyes somewhere between the fruit stall section of a Tesco shopping centre- its followers have melted in to the furniture. Our means of articulation has been truncated knowingly and we have been left with a bed and a bucket. This shrivelled anemone does not realise its own reality- a drifting between Pandaemonium and Silence, the former leading to humiliation, embarassment and ash. We have known this before and will know it again[...] a continuity that rests between neither life nor death, where speech is spat but no meaning is derived. This relief that we have sought in Lucifer- this "coming home" that we suppose we have attained in removing ourselves of the literature we were never going to understand. Hasn't life already ended and these are simply the jettisoned apparitions that have drifted up to the seraphim? Aren't these mounds of flesh paralysed in to motion? [And unheard confessions] that result in charity to lost creatures- charity as opposed to humiliation and ash. And from said ash the imposition of a flicker through which we find salvation. In these reduced structures[...] movement has ceased and we have been spoken to from above. Salvation is[...] genuine forgiveness from your superiours and genuine veneration of your creations- and the forgiveness of your inferiours for the crime of your creations- [where the former does not occur and will not occur, the latter remains constant where the subject is not silent]. But it is already too late. The Crime has been committed. These facades from which we jump have disintegrated and allowed a sky. This scrambling upon the precipice which we imagine we have achieved in humiliating ourselves- are these not the thrones we desired? Wither or bloom- Fire or fire. This humiliation is all we ever knew and is all we ever will know.

>>7412699
>>7412704
This is brilliant.

>>7415199

[PRINT##-_optional_broporwave_cassette_AAAA42] :

http://ailanthusrecordings.bandcamp.com/album/nuwrld

>>7412802
lain~~ <3 xX oO

-

O age gone lax! O stunted followers,
That mask at passions and desire desires,
Behold me shrivelled, and your mock of mocks;
And yet I mock you by the mighty fires
That burnt me to this ash.

— Certes, je sortirai, quant à moi, satisfait
D'un monde où l'action n'est pas la soeur du rêve;
Puissé-je user du glaive et périr par le glaive!
Saint Pierre a renié Jésus... il a bien fait!

Gloire et louange à toi, Satan, dans les hauteurs
Du Ciel, où tu régnas, et dans les profondeurs
De l'Enfer, où, vaincu, tu rêves en silence!
Fais que mon âme un jour, sous l'Arbre de Science,
Près de toi se repose, à l'heure où sur ton front
Comme un Temple nouveau ses rameaux s'épandront!

Et les moins sots, hardis amants de la Démence,
Fuyant le grand troupeau parqué par le Destin,
Et se réfugiant dans l'opium immense!
— Tel est du globe entier l'éternel bulletin.»

-

xX oO xOXo ~~ <3

Time, space,
neither life nor death is the answer.
And of man seeking good,
doing evil.
In meiner Heimat
where the dead walked
and the living were made of cardboard.

-

To confess wrong without losing rightness:
Charity I have had sometimes,
I cannot make it flow thru.
A little light, like a rushlight
to lead back to splendour.

-

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

>>7394955
>>7394702

>>7394697
It is not my translation, it is Robert Lowell's...

>>7394688

bad translation

but nice poem

Ô Mort, vieux capitaine, il est temps! levons l'ancre!
Ce pays nous ennuie, ô Mort! Appareillons!
Si le ciel et la mer sont noirs comme de l'encre,
Nos coeurs que tu connais sont remplis de rayons!
Verse-nous ton poison pour qu'il nous réconforte!
Nous voulons, tant ce feu nous brûle le cerveau,
Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu'importe?
Au fond de l'Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau!

Anglais...

It's time, Old Captain, lift anchor, sink!
The land rots; we shall sail into the night;
if now the sky and sea are black as ink
our hearts, as you must know, are filled with light.
Only when we drink poison are we well —
we want, this fire so burns our brain tissue,
to drown in the abyss — heaven or hell,
who cares? Through the unknown, we'll find the new.

NDP684

New Directions

Marthiel/ Jackson Mathews

Both the original French and various selected translations.

Read French first, then translation, then French. Then repeat periodically unto death.

Poetry > Philosophy... for now... [forever or until Lucifer takes me away]

Hate that he's hackneyed, but I do love the stuff [even has a fucking cartoon]

Image: not related but not some random painting I found on the internet, I have seen it in person... "Portrait of Maria Frederike van Reede-Athlone at Seven Years of Age"... Jean-Étienne Liotard (Swiss, 1702 - 1789)

Original > Translation... [both will be referred to, nonetheless]

Le Voyage is. Lives will have been lived after you have been concerned with it.

>>7344314
I do like lazytown... but why I am listed here?

>>7283505
The thread is about the Warosu archive,
not my "ideas".
I have not posted any ideas today,
I have simply responded.
I do not intend to post my ideas here considering they evidently upset people as proven by you.

>>7283450
>>7283462
I forgot to adopt my username and tripcode.

>>7283299
I rarely post here.

>>7283262
*once I give up on

>>7283248
Thinking of concerning myself PROPERLY with Marx next.
Never was much a leftist, but he is evidently an extremely important figure.
I only realised recently he wrote extremely prolifically.
I have about ten books to choose from,
as well as the various people who influenced and annoyed him...
Some I have already concerned myself with to some extent-
Hegel, Adam Smith, Rousseau, Proudhon, Feuerbach and Bauer.

Others...
Engels and Diderot Et cetera.

Also was reading Blake's poetry and apparently he was heavily influenced by a mystic by the name of Swedenborg,
which I may read once after I give up on Marx and co.

>>7283236
How do you mean?
I read and write daily, if you mean related to literature.

Reading Glasperlenspiel from Hesse currently,
some Nietzsche... Hackneyed philosopher but just thought I should re-read him... Poetry from Rimbaud [my french is abysmal].

Writing some batshit insane "poem" which I will not be sharing with anyone. I just NEED to write.