Tuesday, October 27, 2015

...Pride and Prejudice and Zombies...with unrelated Pride and Prejudice quotes...


Oh happy play!  If you could but spot the difference between Austen and Grahame-Smith.  Rely upon your wits and see!

"Angry people are not always wise."


"Your balls, Mr. Darcy?"  "They belong to you, Miss Bennett."

"I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading!  How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!  When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library."

"Elizabeth sheathed her sword, knelt behind him, and strangled him to death with his own large bowel."

http://tinyurl.com/ngjz4k5 
"There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well.  The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense."

"Elizabeth lifted her skirt, disregarding modesty, and delivered a swift kick to the creature's head."

"My good opinion once lost is lost forever."

"I dare say she means to keep you from his attentions.  Your honour demands she be slain."

"Our scars make us know that our past was for real."

....

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Shall we look to the skies with closed eyes? (Jamaica)


Redemption Song Statue, Kingston
America
BY CLAUDE MCKAY
Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate,
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

- from McKay's (1889~1948) Liberator (1921).  He was a Jamaican-American poet.

"The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you.  You just got to find the ones worth suffering for." - Bob Marley



CHILD DUB POET
It rough but we don’t complain (fuss)
Life down in Jamaica (yard) is tough, it’s rough, but we don’t complain (fuss)
Days upon days the children (pickney) don’t eat, there out on the street, some of them are sleeping on the cold concrete.
Life down in Jamaica (yard) is tough, it’s rough, but we don’t complain (fuss)
Naked Body and empty stomach, deep collar bones and enlarged stomachs, depression show on their faces.
My JAH, what a disgrace.

Sunday, October 11, 2015

e.e. cummings ~ 27 'the boys' ~ [langue sexual!]

I find interesting in many a quarter.  From the Anaheim Library, I selected 'Another E.E. Cummings'.  And, as I wont, I find anything that may be left behind those that read the book before.  In this case, there was a dog ear (I don't do this myself, mind you) on page 29 (73).  And on pages 196, 147, 136, 123, 122, 73, 21, 15, 4.  This person wanted much of the naughty to return too - cheeky.  It is 4, 73 and 29 that interest me as well.

The book, it is a bawdy time - I wish it were executed differently.  The book itself should be as brilliantly dirty as the mind of cummings.  Make it like you see this in the corner of a bathroom stall and notwanting to pick the filth from its home.  There is nothing wrong from me with offense.  I desire its rejection.
cummings sketch

#4 (6) ~ 'she, straddling my lap'
Start at the end and work backward:
"until....unvisibly love's furthest secrets rhyme"
"the hungry Visitor steers to love's lips"
"swoons sternly my huge Guest!"

#27 (73) ~ 'the dirty colours'
More linear:
"my seeing blood, her heart's chatter
riveted a weeping skyscraper
in me
and the Y her legs panting as they press
proffers its omelet of fluffy lust)
at six exactly
the alarm tore
two slits in her cheeks."

#29 (29) ~ 'the boys i mean are not refined'
A home:
"they do not give a fuck for luck"
"they do not give a shit for wit"
"who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite"
"they do not give a fart for art"

http://hellopoetry.com/e-e-cummings/



-------
Naughty you'll with the tip of your index lightly indicating lower lip
That's where you say, I know
(but that's not what you really want, I know)
You see the intent written in taunt muscle that belies nothing than what it is
Primal is not the word, because it is not dull stupid energy
Serious like you've never seen
You know and it strikes your propriety
(you didn't know you still had it, I know)
Ferocity written in saliva on every ------ square inch
I won't stop because I don't know how when I'm here
My mind is tomorrow night and next week and three months hence
Position, place, time
Hair up, hair down, clothes on, clothes off
In the elevator, in the bathroom stall, the stairwell, Sunset Beach
Running like its track, extending every sinew at the end
Heart beating out of my ------- chest
This some serious ----
There's that brittle flash
The salient sound
Exhalation.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

...the 'face' of James Bond of Ian Fleming's description...


Ian Fleming's description of Bond, at least through the veil of his characters, he appears to be a "cold and ruthless" Hoagy Carmichael, with a scar upon his right cheek.  An interesting turn of popular culture, Carmichael was a star of music and film.  His song credits include Stardust, Georgia on my Mind, Up a Lazy River, Lazybones, and Heart and Soul.  The long angular face of Carmichael graced countless record players in the late 30s and through the 50s.

In Fleming's Moonraker, the character Gala Brand thinks that Mr. Bond is "certainly good-looking....Rather like Hoagy Carmichael in a way. That black hair falling down over the right eyebrow. Much the same bones. But there was something a bit cruel in the mouth, and the eyes were cold."

Bond is consistently six feet (or taller), athletically below 170 pounds.  He also has a faint scar on the back of one hand, in memorial of his run-in with SMERSH, a counter SAS unit from Russia.

SMERSH is a contraction of two Russian words, SMERt SHpionam, or 'death to spies'.

Wildly, the SMERSH agent that carved the initials into Bond actually stopped Le Chiffre from killing the British spy and let Bond go.

Saturday, October 3, 2015

...the Captain Upon the Unending Razor's Shore...


The Captain of the Stella Maris lost track of time weeks before.  The black shore the Maris had left him extended endlessly onward.  The very edge of the world, it was the threshold between earth and ether.  The black stone was pitted.  Its edge razor sharp.  The under soles of his boots were torn through in a matter of days.  He had to rely on the forgiving nature of his shirt, tied around his feet, to traverse the obsidian.

The nature of the sky changed little.  It was a cast of flat cloud, with no undulation in texture or contrast.  The light behind it ranged from a usual bright and only another cast slightly less so.  The Captain could only rest when extreme exhaustion settled him cold.  Sleep only lasted until he awoke by the crisp cutting while moving in his rest.

The lack of day and night made time irrelevant.  The lack of sleep became maddening.  After a time, he forgot himself and became more like an automaton.  Moving forward only by the initial instruction to find this shore's edge.  There was a star's light somewhere beyond the horizon on black and grey.  Even this, he forgot.

After many days a sharp pain from his side, from lack of drink, struck him awake.

His clothes had worn themselves away.  His kit was lost.  He did not remember where.  His body was cut in dozens of places.  His beard met his chest.

Why am I here?  He had forgotten.  He sat upon his haunches and wept.  His eyes had no tears, they burned with salt.  He looked to the heavens.  The heavens spoke to him.  It spoke to him in colors.  It said to him in gold.  It called to him in emerald fires.

Upon the ground he saw a thread that disappeared as he shifted his sight.  He put both hands down, one on either side of the thread.  He slowly pulled his hands together but came up empty.  The Captain breathed and tried again.  He came up empty again.  If there were a stranger about, they would be chilled by the lunacy of his laughter.

This time he focused his eyes, and not his hands, on the endeavor.  Once the line of gold was bright in his view he did not shift, but slowly moved his hands unto it.  It was grasped!

He kept both hands upon it, lest it fall from and lost forever.  He pulled it taunt and saw that it extended for some leagues ahead.  He stood and pulled it tighter.  With it, the rudderless landscape now had direction, he felt the thread was East.

He walked forward with it, wrapping it around his palm as he strode forward.  A golden thread saving his life.  A light wind, blessedly cool and new, flowed over his body and his senses came to him again.  He remembered the destination, he remembered the star.  The gold thread became a cocoon around his open palm, growing with each league.

On the horizon he saw the dappled tops of a massive forest.  It appeared blue.

He wept at the sight and help the gold cocoon to his bosom, as if it were a baby.
John Melhuish Strudwick