“Come and love me. Read my nothings. Blogging with the floods.”
Seriously, I accept.
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" poet speaks only to the poet. Spirit answereth spirit. The rest is hogwash."
Henry Miller, The Rosy Crucifixion: Sexus, Plexus, Nexus
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This made me feel good like relief, very much unlike hogwash.
Haha, you have an open mind =D>
Look alive.
Mission Statement:
Hope that you find it
Hope that it’s good
Hope that you read it
Think that you should
----Ode to the mets by The Strokes
Aliens told me to bump this thread due to its anti-tech theme leanings and to like, you know, save our planet.
" poet speaks only to the poet. Spirit answereth spirit. The rest is hogwash."
Henry Miller, The Rosy Crucifixion: Sexus, Plexus, Nexus
[/quote]
This made me feel good like relief, very much unlike hogwash.
[/quote]
Saw pornographerHenry miller on TV on public tv, and he said if he knew how hard writing was to become for him, he would have rather drove a truck.
His Big Sur, came way after air coinditioned nightmare and the sexus trilogy.
This made me feel good like relief, very much unlike hogwash.
[/quote]
Saw pornographerHenry miller on TV on public tv, and he said if he knew how hard writing was to become for him, he would have rather drove a truck.
His Big Sur, came way after air coinditioned nightmare and the sexus trilogy.
[/quote]
Haha, yes, writing is so hard I wish i never started. Maybe not the writing so much as the self-promotion. I’m a brand!
A brand, a brand of what exactly or branded to write like the Scarlet letter. .
Write. If You must, magnet You are compelled to, and
as and, a belief floating out there that Your stuff will make an immortal icln out of Gou, some day, somehow, if not in this but another. constillatoom of universes, some one, some one predisposed and branded like Yourself, will trade You and walla exclaim the he of she seems to have read You in another universe or even know You.
You never really know the breath or meaning of Your brandishing this tossed about idea.
You .must write if inspiration wacks You on the rear end to go on.
That was beautiful, man. Thanks.
!!! 
I AM DYNAMITE !!!
BOOM KAKALAKA SHAKA BOOM BOOM
This thread contains the greatest novel you’ll never read. But future generations will and get rich off it’s prophesy.
Oh, well, when Fitzgerald died he thought he was a failure. The Great Gatsby gain a resurgence in popularity twenty years after his death. Now they censoring it and it’s fallen out of favor.
He’s in a Heaven so I doubt he cares.
babies be loving my shit right now
I love the part when the security guard notices the criminal inside and gets verbally involved with him, never coming to a defense tactic like play possum. After all this is a wanted criminal, and this security guard is not described as armed. What fortitude, what nihilistic fervor that could drive the security guard to engage with said criminal, that his simple child like simplicity may disarm such a notorious escapee.
Such assumptions are difficult to accept on face value, and given the vast spaces occupied by these two paltry souls. the only explanation is the kind of no exit sort of atmosphere must have been generated in a night that seemed never come to terms with dawn.
Time and space not only transcended each other, but they contorted into some primal hope for a utopia which never could arrive.
All that has been realized in such persona dramatis like long journey into night, reading Céline and listening to am radio .
It was Dr Schlessinger, and she felt the vampiristically reach into her exsquisite, as if genetic could kiss the hand of eldridge cleaver.
Dr Schlessinger was in fact very tuned into her Jung, S she permeated through the deserted field next day, but east la recessed toward the tall great pines that brought forward Mann’s magic mountain.
She studied with him or under him I don’t know which, and then withdrew this presence as quickly as she first extended it
Course yes. Great Gatsby stole hurt is wife’s talent, maybe fed on it, unbashadly, for art only imitates that life, which life knows she can’t produce a negative copy . once done, it’s irriversible through new domains of cause and effect.
We are all little Jung boys and girls enchanted by all and sadly loose it dramatically and tragically , projecting a humangous constructed simulated gulliver maxiture, as if the many kids growing up somehow unify them selves into one , The Romantic Idiom nothing but the cumulative loss
of all these tokes into an invisible spirit.
I will be reading Celine because of you. Can’t wait, actually.
Pulp’s plot line merits recording: a shadowy figure called Lady Death hires Nick Belane (“Mr. Slow Death” to his bookie) to find a guy named Celine–yes, that Celine. Ms. Death tells Belane that Celine’s been hanging around Red’s bookstore . . . asking about Faulkner, McCullers [and] Charles Manson." Bukowski’s Celine is a paranoid boor and gets the novel’s best lines: on Thomas Mann, “This fellow has a problem . . . he considers boredom an Art”; on the New Yorker, "One problem there . . . Celine meets his maker soon after, again, leaving Belane free to pursue other related cases, which include space-alien bombshells, whores, bars, and red sparrows. As might be expected, Bukowski’s “pulp” women are
As the novel muses upon death, salient and somewhat predictable reflections on Identity appear, but they are neither winded nor sour with age. Bukowski’s lines are “Sartre” filtered through a pulp vein: “Was Celine Celine or was he somebody else? Sometimes I felt that I didn’t even know who 1 was. All right, I’m Nicky Belane. But check this. Somebody could yell out ‘Hey, . . . Harry Martel!’ and I’d most likely answer, ‘Yeah, what is it?’ I mean, I could be anybody, what does it matter?”
“I can fast, I can think , I can wait.”
Siddharta
Celine with Mann
A one act play
Act 1
“This fellow has a problem . . . he considers boredom an Art”