snakesnakewhale

Adrienne Rich, 1973

A man in terror of impotence
or infertility, not knowing the difference
a man trying to tell something
howling from the climacteric
music of the entirely
isolated soul
yelling at Joy from the tunnel of the ego
music without the ghost
of another person in it, music
trying to tell something the man
does not want out, would keep if he could
gagged and bound and flogged with chords of Joy
where everything is silence and the
beating of a bloody fist upon
a splintered table

Allen Ginsberg, 1980

Pigeons shake their wings on the copper church roof
out my window across the street, a bird perched on the cross
surveys the city's blue-grey clouds. Larry Rivers
'll come at 10 AM and take my picture. I'm taking
your picture, pigeons. I'm writing you down, Dawn.
I'm immortalizing your exhaust, Avenue A bus.
O Thought, now you'll have to think the same thing forever!

against the wall, the firing squad ready.
then he got a reprieve.
suppose they had shot Dostoevsky?
before he wrote all that?
I suppose it wouldn't have
mattered
not directly.
there are billions of people who have
never read him and never
will.
but as a young man I know that he
got me through the factories,
past the whores,
lifted me high through the night
and put me down
in a better
place.
even while in the bar
drinking with the other
derelicts,
I was glad they gave Dostoevsky a
reprieve,
it gave me one,
allowed me to look directly at those
rancid faces
in my world,
death pointing its finger,
I held fast,
an immaculate drunk
sharing the stinking dark with
my
brothers.

William Blake, 1793

Why should I care for the men of Thames
Or the cheating waves of charter'd streams
Or shrink at the little blasts of fear
That the hireling blows into my ear

Tho born on the cheating banks of Thames
Tho his waters bathed my infant limbs
The Ohio shall wash his stains from me
I was born a slave but I go to be free.

Patti Smith, from Early Works 1970--1979

picture this. I’ll play the killer. 16 millimeter.
ebony and ivory. the purest contrast. iris closed.
open sesame. a screen of creamy white satin.
on that wedding lap a white persian cat. a pale
hand pets. milk purr. pan up slow. it’s me see.
in a black silk suit. dark glasses. kid gloves.
as sinister as the law allows. I’ve returned
from the opera. prowl cat tom cat.
if I’m male it doesn’t matter.

I’m on the ledge. that’s a several story drop.
how did I execute my brilliant cat walk? that’s
up to you, franju. but there I am. perched on her
window sill like a dirty bluebird. the back of my
neck is wet. I sit there what seems for hours.
a human chess game. she makes the first move.

it’s quite simple. she gets up to adjust her
sloppy stocking. her easter spikes could use
some vaseline. her matt gesture is reflected
in black patent leather. shoot to the ruffled
vanity. mirror image. look at the kisser
gazing from that mica. lipstick so thick
you could carve your initials in it.

no alias not me. my initials are PLS and I’d be
pleased to leave my monogram. close-up shot
of my steady fist. I’m cool as menthol, the kind
of confidence one achieves thru an open nose.

cocaine. I can do it. watch me raise my leather
fingers. bluebeard itching for a fleshy white neck.
I strike. she’s no match for me. the cold adhesive
touch of the octopus. I remove my glove.
struggle struggle. glub glub. she’s gone.

as the opening credits roll up. the killer,
swift as an athlete, is escaping.
springing from roof top to roof top.
racing against pyramid shapes
into the black seine.

search party music. the killer.
16 mm. black and white.
g. franju. with patti smith.

george franju. media me.
shoot me on the kodak.
I’ll do it for free.

Hart Crane, 1926

Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge
The dice of drowned men’s bones he saw bequeath
An embassy. Their numbers as he watched,
Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured.

And wrecks passed without sound of bells,
The calyx of death’s bounty giving back
A scattered chapter, livid hieroglyph,
The portent wound in corridors of shells.

Then in the circuit calm of one vast coil,
Its lashings charmed and malice reconciled,
Frosted eyes there were that lifted altars;
And silent answers crept across the stars.

Compass, quadrant and sextant contrive
No farther tides ... High in the azure steeps
Monody shall not wake the mariner.
This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.

Catullus, trans. Carl Sesar 1974

Quaenam te mala mens, miselle Rauide,
agit praecipitem in meos iambos?
quis deus tibi non bene aduocatus
uecordem parat excitare rixam?
an ut peruenias in ora uulgi?
quid uis? qualubet esse notus optas?
eris, quandoquidem meos amores
cum longa uoluisti amare poena.

Lost your mind Ravidus, you poor ass,
landing smack into one of my poems like this?
Is some god getting you into trouble
because you didn't say your prayers right?
Or are you just out to get talked about?
What do you want? To be famous, never mind how?
Okay you will, and being that it's my girl you're after,
you're going to suffer for a long, long time.

I'm not a big podcast listener myself, but this caught my eye